Chapter 870 - 869: A Quiet Night for Alex, and an Eventful Morning for Dean."

Outside it was a deep, serene night. The full moon flooded the sleeping streets of Kalm with silvery light, where the rare lampposts cast soft circles on the cobblestones. Time inexorably approached dawn; the city had completely submerged into silence, while on the open terrace of the hotel soft voices continued to sound.

Wrapped in warmth and comfort, Alex and Tifa chatted about everything under the sun, trying to drive away the clinging cold and the prolonged insomnia. And yet at some point the inevitable happened. Having spent several hours side by side in this fragile silence, Tifa finally decided to ask the question that had lain like a stone on her heart since the evening: what was wrong with Claudia's memories? Where had she disappeared for those cursed five years?

Looking at Tifa, Alex read in her widened eyes pure, unclouded anxiety for her friend's reason. Fortunately, he was prepared for this conversation—deep down Alex himself had intended to raise this topic in order to once and for all free Tifa from the guesses that were tormenting her.

Taking a smooth drag on the thin cigar, Alex began an unhurried narrative, clothing the nightmarish truth in the most smoothed, understandable form for human perception. The moment he began to speak, Tifa froze, beginning to carefully listen to every word.

With each new fact her face inexorably grew pale, and the colors seemed to be washed out of her features. When Alex finished, Tifa let out a long, broken sigh of complete hopelessness and deep sadness that she simply could not hold in her chest.

Now everything fell into place. Now it became crystal clear why every time she tried to draw out of Claudia memories of their shared childhood and the tragedy in Nibelheim, the latter invariably broke into confusion, raved, or completely forgot obvious things. The weight of realization pressed her to the ground: how severely Claudia's mind had been broken. Slowly covering her face with her palms, Tifa hunched on his shoulder, allowing a bitter wave of sadness to cover her completely.

"Tell me… is there any way at all to help Claudia sort out her memory? Or are we already powerless? Since you are… well, an Ancient, don't you have any answers at all?" Tifa asked in a voice breaking from anxiety, gripping the sleeve of Alex's shirt with a death grip in search of at least some support.

"We are already helping her, silly. Haven't you noticed yourself?" Alex said with a soft smile and warmly placed his free hand on Tifa's cheek, smoothing with his thumb the tense crease between her brows.

"How are we helping?" Tifa blinked in confusion, instinctively pressing her hot cheek more tightly against his palm.

"Her memories are gradually untangling. Right now she has a monstrous mishmash of false installations and real fragments in her head that she takes for pure coin," Alex explained calmly, beginning with both hands to unhurriedly and carefully knead her cheekbones that had turned to stone from stress.

"If you think about it… you're right. Before, the moment I even mentioned the past, she immediately closed off or waved it away. And now more and more often she herself recalls our childhood. So we just need to… carefully help her reconstruct the truth?" Tifa quieted, thoughtfully drawing out, feeling how under his confident movements the facial muscles began to relax.

"See, you've figured everything out perfectly yourself. Only not a word about this to her. Extra shocks are the last thing her mind needs right now; who knows what other tricks a defensive reaction might pull," Alex nodded approvingly, lightly squeezing her cheeks in a playful gesture.

"So those wild headaches… they were because her memories were trying to break through the veil?" Tifa whispered with a heavy sigh, looking into his eyes.

"That I don't know for certain, but her consciousness is unlikely to be having an easy time right now. And now, since all the most terrible questions have received their answers, it's time for you to get some sleep," Alex answered quietly, smoothly lowering his hand onto Tifa's trembling back and soothingly stroking along her spine.

After remaining silent for a couple of seconds, Tifa wrapped her arms more tightly around his waist, pressing her forehead against the dense fabric of the shirt and not even trying to pull away. At that moment she had absolutely no desire to return to the room with the other girls. She was simply afraid that, upon seeing the sleeping Claudia, it would be even harder for her to hold back the surging emotions. And perhaps she would even say what Alex had asked her not to say.

But the most difficult thing was the realization of what horrors Claudia had gone through, that her memories had become so tangled that her own mind refused to recall them and blocked almost everything—even their childhood. Lowering his gaze downward, Alex hugged Tifa more tightly, helping her calm down, softly stroking her back.

"You… you don't mind if I stay here until morning? Just…" Tifa exhaled quietly, pressing her forehead against Alex's chest and trying to choose the right words so she could stay next to him.

"Of course, stay. Only I beg you, tell me you won't snore as loudly as Barret and Dean," Alex answered with a kind chuckle, resting his chin on Tifa's dark crown.

"Idiot…" Tifa laughed quietly through tears, playfully and weakly punching Alex's chest with a little fist for such an inappropriate joke, after which she finally dissolved into the long-awaited peace.

Feeling those weak, almost weightless blows, Alex laughed quietly. Leaning his back against the soft upholstery of the deck chair, he carefully pressed Tifa's head to his chest, allowing her to settle as comfortably as possible.

Burying her nose in his neck and finally receiving exhaustive answers to all questions—including the main one, how exactly Claudia could be helped—Tifa felt how the multi-day burden of anxieties evaporated. Exhausted by nervous overload and experiences, she did not even notice how her eyelids became leaden and her breathing evened out and slowed. Sleep overcame her right in Alex's arms.

Catching that serene rhythm of breathing, Alex smiled affectionately. Trying not to disturb Tifa's light sleep, he carefully stretched his arm back and with the tips of his fingers caught the edge of his black coat hanging on the carved railing. Silently throwing his black coat over her shoulders, he securely wrapped the Tifa who had fallen asleep on his chest.

Despite the fact that outside the windows the beginning of summer was already in full swing, the nights in the vicinity of Kalm still remained a little cool and windy. Through the veil of sleep feeling the pleasant warmth of the fabric that had wrapped her, Tifa smiled blissfully, instinctively buried her lips in the warm skin of his neck, and slightly pulled her bent legs closer to herself.

Continuing to steadily and soothingly stroke her back, Alex lightly waved his index finger—and the weighty volume of the "Malleus Maleficarum" dissolved without a trace, returning to the inventory. He no longer wanted to return to this tedious reference book on witch hunting.

Instead, from the spatial pocket immediately materialized the first book from the famous detective series by Alan Wake about Alex Casey—the very one he had never gotten around to. Opening the first page, Alex slightly moved a finger of his second hand, drawing an empty glass through the air, which immediately filled with amber bourbon. More comfortably intercepting Tifa and taking a small sip, Alex raised his eyes to the huge silvery moon flooding the quiet terrace with soft light.

"And still… the night turned out surprisingly not bad," Alex muttered quietly with a barely noticeable, sincere smirk, after which he returned to reading under the measured snoring of the Tifa pressed against him.

Immersing himself in the reading, Alex from the very first pages clearly understood why Alan Wake's books had in their time thundered across the entire market and deservedly carried the status of bestsellers until the very fatal disappearance of the author in Bright Falls. Swallowing the first chapter, he even for a moment regretted that he had not touched this series earlier, limiting himself only to the dark texts written by Wake in captivity of the Dark Place.

Slightly sighing, Alex affectionately rubbed his cheek against the dark crown of the dozing Tifa and, taking a small sip of amber bourbon, returned to the lines. With each new page it became clearer why Wednesday took precisely this style as a reference when she labored over her own gothic novel.

Thinking about his dark wife, whose love was stably expressed through sophisticated threats and deadly traps, Alex felt a sincere interest: had Wednesday finally finished the ending? After all, right before their departure from the Bunker she had irritably complained that she was stuck on the last chapters and could not tie the ends together in any way.

Parallel to these reflections Alex pulled a smartphone from his pocket, jotting a short message with a question about the fate of the manuscript. Ahead of them awaited a long, exhausting journey across the boundless expanses of Gaia, and good literature would clearly not hurt to while away the nights on the road.

However, the moment he sent the message, instead of a text reply Alex received a missive in a completely different way. Near the deck chair the air suddenly rippled with purple, opening a miniature spatial rift.

From the portal on tiptoe tumbled the yellow minion Ben, balancing with an impressive stack of written sheets above his head. Noticing the bustle in time, Alex raised a cautioning finger, calling the newcomer to silence.

"Quiet, Ben. Your new mommy-boss is sleeping," Alex cut short his impulse in a whisper, indicating with a nod the Tifa settled on his chest.

"Sh-sh-sh… Boss… Mommy-Boss, bi-do! Book-baby! Matoka! And you, you sign right here!" Ben nodded conspiratorially, with a dull clap plopping the weighty stack of manuscript onto the small table and shoving an electronic tablet with a stylus under Alex's nose.

"Since when has so much bureaucracy proliferated in our guild? And since when am I supposed to sign here at all?" Alex inquired, skeptically raising an eyebrow, but still intercepted the tablet.

"We no la-pa-da! Mommy-Boss order! We bi-do… Thank you, Boss! Poopaye-poopaye, Boss!" Ben rattled off, comically waving his short arms and depicting frantic activity, instantly snatching the signed tablet back.

"And thank you for the delivery, Ben. Be careful on the way home," Alex shook his head with a warm smirk, lightly waving goodbye to the minion while the latter prepared to dive back into the open portal.

Hearing the farewell words, Ben was already preparing to dive back into the portal, but at the last moment spun on his heels and, raising his arms above his head, formed from them a crooked but incredibly adorable heart. Watching how Ben enthusiastically rocked from side to side, Alex bit his cheek with all his strength, trying to suppress the laughter bursting out.

However, what happened in the next moment nearly cost him ribs broken from tension. The moment Ben victoriously winked, from the depths of the spatial rift a plastic arm with a children's toy hammer suddenly thrust out and with all its might dealt him a weighty cuff on the nape. From the ringing blow the minion instantly lost the last remnants of reason and collapsed flat onto the terrace boards.

Not a second passed before a foursome of minion-medics with funny red flashing lights amusingly spinning on their yellow crowns jumped out of the same portal with the wail of sirens. Acting with the grace of a professional ambulance brigade, they surrounded Ben's unconscious body, busily felt for his pulse, after which—without any reverence or respect for medical ethics—they simply scooped him up by the arms and legs and flung him back into the rift exactly like a sack of potatoes.

The orderlies immediately grabbed the stretcher and in single file tumbled after the patient. Alex lowered his head, burying his free shoulder into the back of the deck chair, and with all his strength clamped his mouth with his palm.

His shoulders under the black coat were shaking: he was literally choking from soundless laughter, afraid to make even a sound so as not to disturb the Tifa peacefully snoring on his chest. Taking several deep, trembling breaths of night air, he finally got a hold of himself. Denying the usefulness of the minions was foolish, but the coefficient of the chaos they produced stably tended toward infinity.

Having confirmed that the fit of laughter had receded, Alex transferred his gaze to the impressive pack of sheets written in Wednesday's small, dense handwriting. But the moment he stretched his hand toward the manuscript, the phone screen in his pocket briefly chimed as a new notification from Wednesday arrived. Running his eyes over the short but exhaustive in its meaning message, Alex wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose and again stared at the waste paper.

"And how, in the name of everything holy, does she imagine writing a review? She'll stab me in the chest with her own knife if I try to cross out even one paragraph of tedious moralizing…" Alex grumbled quietly under his breath, doubtfully flipping through the first pages of the dense stack of sheets.

Prudently deciding that the analysis of the multi-page literary masterpiece was better postponed until calmer times, Alex quietly snapped his fingers. The air around the manuscript barely noticeably trembled, and the stack of written sheets instantly acquired a weighty hardcover of black leather decorated with bright-red embossed letters that seemed alive—as if thin drops of fresh blood had just trickled over them. Mentally putting a checkmark, Alex sent the folio into the spatial pocket and immediately tapped on the phone screen, promising Wednesday to take up the review at the first opportunity. Instead of a text reply from Wednesday came the already familiar "photo-emoji"—a shot of a perfect raven's blade of black steel clamped in her pale, elegant hand.

Quietly sighing at such a specific manifestation of care, Alex sent back a neat heart and an assurance that everything would be done in the best possible way. The next message brought a photo of Thing cheerfully raising a thumb upward. Smirking to himself at this amusing manner of communication, Alex tossed the smartphone aside, returning to the adventures of Alex Casey.

He had no intention of abandoning the story halfway—the first part had captivated him so much that stopping at dawn would simply be a crime. Lighting another thin cigar, he with his free hand softly ran along the back of the dozing Tifa and again slid his eyes along the lines.

Time flowed unnoticed. Absolute silence reigned on the terrace, broken only by the measured snoring of the sleeping girl and the rustle of turned pages. In the ashtray on the small table hills of ash and butts quickly grew—Alex had gone so deeply into the plot that without long reflection he immediately opened the second book of the series.

Several hours later the first timid rays of the morning sun appeared above the jagged roofs of Kalm. Casting a fleeting glance at the dawn, Alex lazily snapped his fingers, creating above the deck chair a dense shadow umbrella protecting the sleeping girl from the bright light. All this time Tifa had not stirred once—she continued to sleep serenely on his chest, burying her nose in the curve of his neck.

"How much time has piled up already?.. It's still only five in the morning… Fine, the others are still sleeping soundly, there's time," Alex muttered quietly, adjusting the thin-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose after a quick glance at the glowing screen.

"Mm… what are you talking about?" Tifa mumbled in a sleepy, hoarse-from-drowsiness voice, lightly rubbing her cheek against his skin.

"It's still too early, go back to sleep," Alex answered in an extremely soft, enveloping tone, soothingly running his palm over Tifa's dark hair.

"M-m-m…" Tifa hummed blissfully in response and, instinctively intertwining her legs with his, sank back into sweet sleep.

Slightly shifting in her sleep, Tifa wrapped her arms more tightly around Alex's waist and again sank into deep, serene drowsiness. Usually she always got up first, but this time with a clear conscience she allowed herself to sleep as long as possible—not only in order to restore the spent strength, but also because lying in Alex's arms was incredibly, almost hypnotically comfortable.

Time inexorably moved forward. Another couple of hours passed, and below, on the streets of Kalm, the habitual city life was already in full swing. Turning another page of the novel, Alex slightly twitched his nose—a heady, warm trail of fresh baking and freshly brewed coffee had reached the roof.

Sniffing the morning aroma, he suddenly felt a colossal desire to drink a cup of scalding beverage along with a just-baked crispy bun. And he was not the only one who caught this alluring scent. On the second floor of the hotel Dean, who slept closest to the window, sharply opened his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he stared at the half-open sash and, without thinking long, jerked up from the bed. Approaching the window, he flung it wide open and leaned out, drawing in the air with his nose exactly like an experienced bloodhound on the hunt. The source of this gastronomic temptation was found instantly—a small cozy bakery was located a little higher up the street, right behind the stone staircase.

Taking another greedy breath, Dean lightly stroked his stomach and narrowed his eyes. And even though thanks to his power he no longer experienced the banal feeling of hunger, refusing something that smelled so mind-blowingly was beyond his strength.

While Dean was indulging in sweet dreams of breakfast, Tonberry Steve lying on his bed suddenly blinked. Looking around, Steve noticed Dean frozen at the window, unhurriedly rose, calmly jumped down to the floor, and approached closer, demandingly tugging on his pant leg. Feeling the tug, Dean lowered his gaze and met Steve's habitual, absolutely impassive look.

"How do smart people say it? A good morning should start with hot coffee and a tasty bun. Come on, Steve. Time for us to snack on something special. This morning started fucking awesome!" Dean drawled with a wide smirk, scooping Steve up with one hand and with the other grabbing the jacket from the chair.

Throwing on the jacket, Dean first of all plunged his fingers into the pocket, fished out a worn leather wallet, and quickly counted the jingling gil inside. Having confirmed that there would be more than enough funds for the morning gastronomic raid, he confidently seated Tonberry Steve on his shoulders, finally tuning himself for the search for hot coffee and fresh baking.

Heading toward the exit, he cast a glance at Alex's empty bunk, but only carelessly shrugged his shoulders. Wherever their restless comrade had disappeared early in the morning, there was definitely no need to worry about him—Dean already guessed that Alex was most likely simply wandering somewhere around the vicinity of Kalm.

Leaving in the room the still peacefully snoring Barret and Red XIII, Dean quietly closed the door behind him and unhurriedly walked toward the stairs. Below, in the spacious lobby, Broden was already bustling full tilt, busy with morning records and checking out guests.

Exchanging a short friendly nod with the hotel owner, Dean slipped out onto the street with one single, crystal-clear goal—to reach the coveted bakery as soon as possible. Finding himself in the fresh air, he was pleasantly surprised by how lively and colorful Kalm looked early in the morning.

In the rays of the rising sun the sleepy provincial atmosphere had transformed beyond recognition. Passing the central square, Dean lingered his gaze on a massive monumental construction of dark metal interwoven with thick pipes and surrounded by a small fountain with cool water.

The previous evening, tired after the road, they with the squad had not even tried to look around properly, except for a fleeting examination of the surroundings on the way to the hotel, missing all this beauty. Admiring the industrial art object, Dean pulled out his smartphone, taking a couple of simple shots for the memory and a funny selfie with Steve against the background of the structure.

"I have no idea what this hunk of junk is, but it looks impressive. Fortunately at least it's not a monument to some local god, and for that thank you," Dean chuckled, flipping through the fresh shots on the screen and sending them into the folder with adventures.

"This is a technological node of the mako reservoir. The main pipeline from Midgar itself stretches through our town, actually connecting us with the capital," a polite voice of a local resident who had noticed the tourist sounded behind his back.

"Is that so… So right under your asses a giant energy cable is laid, and you put up a monument in its honor. Fucking progressive," Dean drawled, slightly rolling his eyes toward the townsman and smoothly putting the phone back into his pocket.

From such a strange and sarcastic answer the resident of Kalm for a moment lost the power of speech, freezing with an open mouth. Dean merely swept the stunned townsman with a lazy, indifferent look and unhurriedly stepped further. The history of this town concerned him little: he clearly felt that their group would not be here long, and therefore there was no sense in spending time studying local attractions.

And yet Dean could not help but admit that Kalm looked many times better and cozier than Midgar with its eternal smog and oppressive concrete. Heading toward the bakery, he involuntarily recalled his old attempts to quit hunting, settle in a similar quiet town, and start a normal family.

But having tried once and in the end spoiling everything, Dean finally realized: such a life was simply not for him. Quietly clicking his tongue and driving away unnecessary memories, he climbed the stone steps to the upper street. Walking past the local shops, Dean out of curiosity peeked into the windows. For a couple of seconds he lingered at the entrance to the armory and with a smirk examined the stands with swords and rifles.

Dean saw nothing surprising, for in his native world in an ordinary store one could buy a firearm no more difficult. Overcoming the last stair flight, Dean rushed straight toward the alluring scent. A couple of minutes later he was already victoriously exiting the bakery, holding in his hands two cups of scalding coffee for himself and Steve, as well as a weighty paper bag with fresh baking.

With a satisfied smile Dean selected a small table by the stone parapet from which an excellent view of the awakening central square opened. Sitting down on the chair, he with a habitual movement pushed aside a board for "Queen's Blood" left by someone and seated Steve right on the table.

Taking a greedy sip of hot coffee, Dean fished from the bag a ruddy bun with fruit filling. He had already raised it to his mouth, anticipating the ideal first bite, when suddenly someone's shadow fell on the table.

Irritably pursing his lips, Dean turned his head and locked eyes with a guy of about twenty holding a deck of cards in his hands. Dean had already drawn air into his chest to inquire in his favorite rude manner what the hell the guy needed and to explain clearly that standing between him and his breakfast was a deadly idea.

"I see you have a 'Queen's Blood' board here. Want to play one game?" the guy inquired with a challenging smirk, twirling the deck and poking a finger at the markings on the table.

"Damn, kid, I was just about to have a normal breakfast… Fine, to hell with you. Drop your ass on the chair. Only don't cry later when you wander out of here in just your underwear and with empty pockets," Dean exhaled with a heavy, drawn-out sigh, but immediately bared his teeth predatorily.

"Heh, we'll see who cries. I'm actually one of the best players in Kalm. Remember the name Ned, old man. Today I'm going to clean you out to the last," the guy parried self-confidently, deftly reforming the cards into a fan and sitting down on the opposite chair.

"Call me Dean. And you'd better quit with that cheap pathos, Ned. Or with such arrogance you'll quickly turn into 'Crybaby Ned,'" Dean answered with a smirk, fishing from the inner pocket of his jacket his already repeatedly tested-in-game deck.

"We'll still see who's the crybaby. Are you ready to lose, Dean?" Ned narrowed his eyes, with a precise movement unfolding the game board in the center.

"Let's go. I hope to deal with you before my coffee gets cold," Dean threw carelessly, laying the cards into the special receiver of the board.

Looking at the self-confident little guy in front of him, Dean only bared his teeth predatorily. To assemble this deck he had in his time cleaned out the souvenir shop in Midgar completely, buying up all the boxes and single boosters to the last, and then spent dozens of hours on opening and testing the cards. And, most importantly, this ideal combination had been helped by Alex, who aptly named their joint creation "the power of pure capital."

Taking a lazy sip of the cooling coffee, Dean drew the starting cards, cast an evaluating glance at them, and with a couple of quick finger movements shuffled the deck, replacing several elements. Putting on the most benevolent face, he courteously offered Ned to go first.

Ned did not need long persuasion. Super-confident in his victory, he from the start laid the first card on the table. Gradually the playing field filled with various fighters and symbols. But when the game approached its logical conclusion, only a relaxed, nonchalant smile played on Dean's face—he leaned back against the chair, propping his cheek with his fist and unhurriedly twirling the cup in his fingers.

Ned's face, however, whitened so much that it matched the color of the tablecloth. He stared at Dean's final score, flatly refusing to believe his own eyes. The guy furiously rubbed his eyes with his hands, blinked once, twice, thrice—but the figure did not change. No matter how much he denied the obvious, the game score had exceeded two hundred. This was not a hallucination, but an absolute, total rout without a single hope of salvation.

"This… this simply can't be! How?! Why do you have so many points?!" the shocked Ned forced out, stammering and silently moving his lips.

"I already spelled it out for you, boy. I was already grinding cards when you were still walking under the table. And now hand over my honestly won card. I don't think you want to check in practice what happens to those who try to screw me," Dean shrugged carelessly, deftly sweeping the cards from the table and putting the deck into the inner pocket of his jacket.

"Fine… here. But know… I'm actually only the third strongest player in this town. There are still two more in Kalm who take me out with one left hand," Ned said through gritted teeth, holding back the approaching tears of resentment, and with a trembling finger pulled a trophy from his treasured deck, holding the card out toward Dean.

"Much obliged, kid. Whoa, you say two more? Interesting. Lead me to them. Let's see how cool they are," Dean smirked, literally snatching the card from Ned's fingers, calmly rising from the chair and grabbing his coffee together with Tonberry Steve.

"Eh… let's go. Nothing left to lose anyway…" Ned mumbled dejectedly, hunching and with difficulty rising from the chair.

Looking at the grief-stricken Ned, Dean patronizingly patted him on the shoulder, completely forgetting that in such a situation a friendly gesture from the winner would work with exact opposite accuracy. And indeed: Ned hunched even more, desperately mourning the collectible card that he had once obtained with a fight.

Barely holding back the approaching tears of resentment, Ned dejectedly trudged forward, trying to console himself with only one thought—perhaps the holder of second place in the town's "Queen's Blood" ranking would manage to win back for their common shame.

Dean only philosophically shrugged his shoulders, observing the mournful procession of his guide. He was not used to seeing such expressions on the faces of those he left with nothing at the card table.

In principle he could have cheered the little guy up by reminding him that at least he was not trudging home in just his underwear, but still decided to keep this ethical commentary to himself. The walk in the company of the dejected local resident turned out surprisingly pleasant for Dean.

He unhurriedly walked after Ned, turning his head from side to side and with curiosity peeking into the shop windows—after all, this could proudly be labeled "reconnaissance of useful infrastructure."

Passing over a small stone bridge, he froze for a second and leaned over the railing, examining the clean, transparent stream murmuring below. Once again evaluating how picturesque and cozy Kalm looked under the morning sun, Dean smiled slightly and picked up the pace, catching up with Ned who had managed to go ahead.

Climbing the creaking wooden steps to the establishment closed for the morning, Dean looked around—and froze. Right in front of him, at a small table with a laid-out board for "Queen's Blood," sat… an eleven-year-old little girl, carelessly rocking a plush toy. Dean slowly turned his head and bestowed upon Ned a look in which a single but extremely capacious question was readable: "What the fuck?!"

"Hi, Nene… Are you free?" Ned mumbled in a dejected, completely killed tone, shuffling closer to the table.

"Oh-ho-ho! Just look who came crawling! Crybaby Ned himself! Come to win back your teary card, have you?!" Nene immediately raised the plush beast in front of herself and began speaking, changing her voice to a comically sly gremlin squeak.

"No, not me. He wants to play with you," Ned exhaled with a heavy, martyr-like sigh, indicating with a nod the Dean frozen nearby.

"Ooh-hoo! What people! Have the rumors of the great and terrible Nene already reached all the way to Midgar?! Everyone in this town knows: my deck knocks the ground out from under feet and makes brains boil! Are you ready to meet a true master?!" Nene peeped enthusiastically, amusingly moving the paws of the toy right in front of her face.

"Seriously? You lost to her? Kid, you should be ashamed for the rest of your days," Dean chuckled, bestowing upon Ned a look full of sincere mockery and pointing a finger at Nene.

"Less words, handsome uncle! Are you ready for little Nene to kick your ass?!" the gremlin squeak of the toy soared right up to Dean's nose.

"Fine… I surrender to your pressure. Only let's agree right away: when I thrash you, you won't run complaining to mommy and daddy," Dean drawled with a sigh. Taking out his tested deck from the inner pocket, he nonchalantly settled onto the free chair.

"Nene never loses! Nene has the best deck in all of Kalm!" the girl declared with a proud air, seating the plush beast on the edge of the table and with a victorious clang slamming the stack of cards onto the game board.

To be continued...

(I simply couldn't pass up the chance to see Dean begin his ascent to becoming the best Queen's Blood player around. Morning has broken in the town of Kalm, which means there are a few events to take part in before leaving for the open expanse of the Grasslands—where, in turn, there will be even more to do before heading off toward Junon. What kind of events? Hmm, I'm not entirely sure yet. But one thing's for certain: Dean is getting himself a Chocobo—oh, you bet he is. Maybe a little sightseeing, a look at the local wildlife, and a taste of the local poisonous flora... Heh, heh. Right, time for me to get some rest. Peace, love, and a reminder that when it comes to card games, Dean shows no mercy to anyone—not even children.)

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