1.
“‘How do you adapt the rules to work as a solo or two-person game? I have a session next week which will just be me and perhaps a friend. Even the game master is out but told us to go on if we managed.’”
The steady voice paused after reading the paid chat message appearing on the screen. Then it continued: “How can such a thing happen? Am I supposed to pity you or weep for you? This sounds like your entire group abandoned your game and you weren’t notified. Don’t let these sorts of people affect your enjoyment.”
The hands caught on the handcam shuffled the deck of cards. The hands were pale with no protruding blood vessels. There was barely even a shift into blue and green at the highest clusters at the base of the thumb and the lines on the wrists weren’t visible in natural light. The nails were manicured and cuticles kept tidy.
The hands put down the deck of cards, set to the side, and one disappeared out of view. Soon the hand returned to the screen with a book in hand.
“This is a very good resource for games like this. It’s not useful to buy for merely one session, so let me guide you with the core function you can use.”
There was yet another pause before the voice said with anticipation, “Get your pen and paper, friend. Let’s play this game solo. Or in this case… duo.”
“— whack.”
The laptop suddenly was flipped close and the youth by the table placed his face in his palm with a whispered groan.
“So cringe,” he mumbled before he reached for the iced tea on the table.
He really hated editing this sort of video, but he had spent too much time this week to film anything decent. He just had to leave it to the raw footage that he already had, to make something decent for subscribers to watch. Or get new subscribers hooked to. The VODs from when he played this game live a few months back were still up, so it really could be no more than a few things that were especially good. A useful compilation of hacking the game rules to bring it from four or five players minimum to one or two at most.
The tea slurped as he drank the beverage through the straw, staring at the stickers that covered the laptop.
“You can’t keep staying here,” he then heard. He looked up to find a waiter with arms crossed in front of his chest. “Only customers can use the internet here.”
“I’m a proper customer. I bought tea. It even wasn’t good enough. There’s not actual ice in it.”
“You’ve been drinking this one cup for three hours. That’s not being a customer. That’s leeching.”
“All right, get me a second one. With ice this time.”
“Yours had ice too… three hours ago. Now get out. We’re closing.”
“No, you’re not. There’s still over half an hour left.”
“That’s essentially closing time. Get out. It’s late.”
“Well, you should be happy I’m here. There hasn’t been a single customer around for hours. It would look like you’re going out of business.”
“That’s because it’s half-past one in the morning. Pack up and get out. I want to go home.”
“No, I wanna buy tea. You’re still open.”
“No one ever comes at this hour. Except a squatter, like you. You should go somewhere else.”
“No other place is open at this hour on a Wednesday.”
“There are fast food chains.”
“They don’t have free access campus Wi-Fi. I need to go through the Campus or else I need to pay to use the video editing.”
“You’re not even a student, are you?”
“I have access if I go through the Wi-Fi.”
“…That’s not the same thing.”
“Anyway, get me more tea. Having another sale at this hour ain’t bad, is it? Better than looking closed on the sales chart.”
The waiter grumbled as he return to the counter to make another iced tea.
2.
The bell attached to the door rang as it opened and both squatter and waiter looked up.
The man who stepped into the café was likely in his early middle-aged years with a bit of greying at the temples and a few streaks of white among the loose strands of hair in his face. He didn’t look like the regular visitor who’d arrive as the time was nearing two at night — even with the tie loose, the top buttons open and the suit jacket unbuttoned, the man was clearly looking polished, with the leather oxford shoes adding to this visual.
He swayed slightly, but his words weren’t slurred, as he asked, “May I use the restroom?”
“Only customers allowed,” the waiter replied.
“Oh, I see.” The man was silent for a beat, tilting his head slightly. As he began puling out his wallet, asked with complete sincerity, “How do I become a customer?”
“Buy me a cup of iced tea.”
The swaying man turned to the squatter sitting by a small table with a shut sticker-covered laptop on top. The young man sipped loudly from the cup. When the squatter leaned more heavily against the table, the chair and table both squeaked.
The newcomer stared, then replied, “All right,” with a nod.
The waiter quickly said, “No, no no no! You buy something for yourself. Like coffee. Or maybe some water.”
“I need to use the restroom. I don’t think I need to drink anything more before that.”
“Drink it after you use the restroom,” the waiter offered as a solution.
“I don’t need it. I only need the restroom.”
The waiter rubbed the space between his eyes.
“Let him do his business and buy something afterwards,” the squatter suggested. “The optics look better for you that way and your boss isn’t going to drop by at two in the morning to check if you follow protocol.”
“Fine, whatever. The restroom is over there. Be quick about it. We’re closing soon.”
The drunken man nodded with great importance. “All right.”
The squatter watched as the drunken man nearly stumbled over his own feet. The man looked behind him in confusion, as if uncertain if the floor was actually not level (it was not, but that wasn’t something most people would notice), then turned to the squatter.
The squatter loudly sipped on his tea as he was mindlessly gazed upon, only to then receive a smile and a sheepish laugh before the man continued on his way to the restroom.
What was that about???
3.
Who would have thought the process of ordering could take more than a couple of minutes?
Well, everyone had encountered that one customer who spent five minutes chatting before every item ordered. But that still took just a few minutes of ordering. The rest was just padding.
However, this was not it.
After the drunk man came out of the restroom (the third time — the first time he exited, he seemed to have realised he forgot to dry his hands, and the second time he still hadn’t dried his hands and came out to ask where the towels were), he was standing by the counter, asking about every item on the drinks menu.
“Sir, that is coffee with milk.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“That is also coffee with milk. Just a larger one.”
“Oh, fascinating. And this?”
“That is coffee with more milk.”
“What’s the difference between with milk and with more milk?”
“One has less coffee.”
“Interesting. And this?”
“Sir, that’s just the large cup of the more milk-less coffee drink.”
The squatter watched this with great amusement. He opened the lid of his cup and slipped a melting ice cube into his mouth. The cube crunched as he bit down.
“What is this?”
“Tea, sir.”
“Really? Why have you written ‘tea’ this way? Can’t you spell?” Before the waiter could respond, the drunken man had found a pen and pulled out some sort of small paper rectangle. “Let me teach you, son. You can correct the menu later.”
“It’s chai, sir.”
“No, clearly it’s tea. You said so. I’ll show you the proper spelling.”
“…” The waiter gave the squatter a helpless look, as if blaming this one customer who hadn’t gone home yet, so he hadn’t been able to close-up early.
A second ice cube crunched under the pressure of a set of human teeth being pressed together. The squatter propped his chin against his palm, unable not to laugh a little.
Late night drunks were apparently hilarious.
4.
A few minutes later, the squatter ran out of ice cubes, so he brought the cup to the counter. “Give me another cup of tea, Peter.”
“Oh, sod off, leech.”
Despite clearly internally calling the squatter worse things than a leech, the waiter took the cup to refill it.
“Do you like coffee?” the squatter asked the drunk man.
“I drink it for work.”
“What about tea?”
“I drink it for meals.”
The squatter was amused. That was not what he was asking after all. But he went with it anyway and continued, “How do you feel about alcohol?”
“I drink it socially.”
“And what about water?”
“My cells need it.”
The young man laughed and turned to the waiter who handed him the cup. “Did you hear that?”
“Pay up, pack up and get lost,” Peter responded as he tapped in the order. “We’re closing.”
The squatter sipped on the straw and turned around to get his phone to pay.
He had only walked two steps when he heard the beep of a transaction. He turned to see Peter stand there baffled and the drunk man retrieving his hand after clearly having paid.
“…”
Then the waiter turned to glare at the squatter. “Look at what you’ve done!”
“Dude, I didn’t do anything!” the squatter replied defensively. “I was going to pay, man.”
The drunk looked between the two. “Did I do something wrong? Was I not supposed to pay for something?”
“…Yes, you were, sir, since you used the bathroom.”
“Then all is well.” The drunk seemed very satisfied.
Peter seemed too tired to care anymore and let the drunk behind to head out.
“Give me a bottle of water,” the squatter said as he watched the swaying man nearly stumble again.
“I already gave you your damn ice chai, leech.”
“Not for me.” He motioned for the waiter to be quick about it. As he grabbed the mineral water, he added. “His cells need water.”
The squatter grabbed his things on the way out, hurrying after the drunkard, who might just get willingly robbed if someone asked him to hand over all of his valuables.
He heard Peter cry out, “Hey! You didn’t pay for that!”
Whatever, he could pay tomorrow.
5.
“It’s late,” the drunk man said as he recapped the bottle.
“Well, yes,” the squatter said with a snort. “Do you live nearby?”
The drunk tilted his head, as if he couldn’t understand the question.
“As in, do you usually need transportation to get home? Bus? Cab, maybe? Or perhaps you usually drive?”
The squatter looked around. There was not a single car in sight, never mind a cab. People weren’t usually out at this hour.
The drunk nodded with great earnestness. “I can take the bus.”
“Really? The bus at this hour is very shady, I’m sure. Do you have a transit card?” He reconsidered it for a moment and changed his question: “Do you know where to even buy a ticket?”
The drunk put his hands in his pockets. He took his wallet out and held it to the squatter.
“What is this?”
“You can buy my ticket for me.”
The squatter looked around and found a corner shop open twenty-four seven. He grabbed the surprisingly polished, yet unpolished drunken man by the arms and pulled him along. At the counter was a clerk shuffling around things. She stopped the moment the two men entered, one young, one middle-aged.
By the magazine stands was an elderly woman the squatter questioned the nature of, considering the time of day. One could never be too careful with the people acting strange.
With a suspicious glance, he brought the drunken man to the clerk. “Here you can buy tickets and transit cards,” he explained.
“I need a ticket to a bus,” the drunken man explained to the clerk cordially.
“Do you have a transit card? A ticket will expire after an hour. The next bus isn’t in another three hours. To be able to board the next bus, I can refill the transit card.”
The drunk turned to the squatter as if he held the answer. He then asked, “Is the next bus really in another three hours?”
“Why are you confirming with me? I live at a walking distance from here. I don’t need to know the night schedule for public transport.”
The drunk man retracted the gaze and then asked sincerely, “What does a transit card look like?”
The squatter rubbed his forehead. “You know what? Give us a bag of gummy bears or something and we’ll just call a cab instead.”
The clerk smiled. “Of course! Want anything else? Coffee? Tea? Soda?”
The drunk looked at the cup of iced tea in the squatter’s hand. “Do we pay for that?”
…This isn’t sold here,” the squatter said with amusement as he skillfully snatched the drunk man’s wallet and grabbed a bill from it to pay for the candy. He then brought the straw to his lips and took a long sip.
6.
The squatter sat the drunk man down by a bus stop. It was the only place with a seating arrangement nearby, after all.
He opened the bag of gummy bears and began eating them. The drunk studied the act intensely.
“You want one?” The squatter held the plastic bag toward the seated drunk. With one seated and one standing, the squatter was finally not required to tilt his head back to look up at the man. “You paid for it, so you can have one or two. That’s fine.”
The drunk stared at the bag before shaking his head. “You have very beautiful hands.”
Or maybe he was staring at the hands holding the bag?
“I’ve read somewhere that the ideal hands for modelling are similar to mine. You know, lacking a visual vascular system and the like. Never tried that theory out, though.”
“You would be a perfect hand model, I’m sure.”
The squatter chuckled. “Thanks, man.”
He plopped another gummy bear into his mouth. He pockets his gummy bears before he fishes out his phone to call for a cab.
“Do you have a phone? I’ve run out of data and haven’t refilled the account to be able to call anywhere without Wi-Fi.”
The drunk man started patting his pockets. First the jacket. Then pants. Then his chest — presumably he had an inner pocket. He repeated this twice more, then replied. “I can’t find it.”
“No shit,” the squatter said.
“It would be very inconvenient if I lost it.”
“Sure would.”
“Where is it?”
“Dude, I don’t know. You’ll have to figure that out after you’ve sobered up a little.”
“I’m not un-sober.”
The squatter found this an amusing claim. He motioned for the drunk to remain seated, then checked his phone. He sipped his iced tea as he tried to find an open Wi-Fi to use because some idiot forgot to password it.
7.
Having leeched off some poor sod’s open Wi-Fi, the squatter soon returned. He studied the drunk man, whose brown eyes were following something in the air that the squatter couldn’t process.
The man ran his hand through his hair, but instead of messing up the styling, it seemed to confirm it, settling to make him look more polished.
After a while, the middle-aged man turned to the younger one. He tilted his head a bit to the side.
The squatter interpreted this as an opportunity to ask a question. “Why are you out so late at night?”
The drunk adjusted his collar. “The theatre was busy.”
“Right.” The squatter smiled. “The theatre was busy. Got it.”
The man offered an earnest nod.
“So, how come you’ve had a few?”
“Had a few?”
“Liquor. You drank some, no?”
“Oh… Yes, indeed, I did. You’re quite right.”
The squatter nearly laughed.
The drunk added, “They offered me a few drinks. It’s standard practice.”
“Right.”
Theatre must be a euphemism or something.
“What did you drink?” the squatter asked. “Wine, beer, tequila, vodka, sake?”
“Mead.”
This answer was so unexpected the squatter missed his mouth as he was tossing the gummy bear toward his parted lips. He failed to catch as he laughed. “Mead? Of all things??”
The drunk man stood up, squatted and slowly picked up the gummy bear. He stood up once more, walked to the squatter and stopped right in front of him. There was hardly no space between them as the drunk handed the candy to the younger man. His voice was deep and steady as he reiterated the word, “Mead.”
The laughter died and the squatter looked up at the older man. When he didn’t take the candy, the drunk forcibly placed it in the squatter’s hand before he went back to his seat.
By the time the squatter had gathered himself, the cab had arrived, and the drunk was getting in with just a polite, “I’m very grateful,” to the squatter.
The squatter watched as the car door was shut and the silver cab started driving. It had barely moved before it stopped and the drunk opened the passenger door again to turn to the squatter. He stared for a long while before saying, “Never mind.”
“Oh, okay?” the squatter said, amused
The door closed again and the cab left.
The squatter nearly put the candy that fell onto the ground into his mouth before remembering why he held it. He tossed it out and headed home.
He had to go home and write a review, even if he got nothing uploaded on the video platform this week. Rent wouldn’t pay for itself, after all.
8.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said as a low tier paid message appeared on his screen. “I can’t help that I didn’t have any content to record this week, though. Chat, give me a sponsor or something. Wouldn’t that be something? I get the games for free; you get your handcam content.”
Someone sent a paid message at the lowest tier: “no sponsor!”
The few repeated the sentiment in various ways in the regular chat messages.
The sole moderator of his content wrote: esteemed paladin, your patron has spoken: no sponsors
The streamer sighed softly and grabbed a deck of cards. “You are eating, while I’m barely making rent. Unfair, friends.”
He got protests after protests to his claim as he shuffled the deck of cards.
Having had his moment of complaint, he highlighted a comment from chat that said: if you didn’t do any content, at least give us a proper excuse. don’t squeeze us on our hard-earned money without putting in the hard work
“Okay, so listen, I actually have a real excuse,” he said as he put down the deck of cards and grabbed the printout of rules for the game he was playing this stream. “I was doing really well but something happened last night. But the tavern was closing up and the barkeep unpleasant and trying to kick me out,” he began telling the viewers. “I had to keep buying new drinks to keep the barkeep happy, even if I didn’t have time to finish the last one I ordered. As I was there, a villager appeared, okay? Just your regular drunk NPC, and he couldn’t tell mead from the ale right… Once I could go back to my quest, the tavern was closed so I had to get to my home village to get some rest before I continued on the quest. That’s why I got nothing else done.”
He picked out some dice, and fell silent as he prepared the tabletop to run his solo one-shot. He didn’t say anything as he read through the rules to set up the beginning of the game, ignoring the live chat of the viewers.
When he looked up after a few minutes of silence, a high-tier message was floating across his screen: Don’t stop sharing. Tell us what happened to the drunk NPC. We want to know, what kind of NPC was it.
“Well… I helped him home, I guess. Okay, so listen to this…” he began but his voice died when he saw the notification that someone had just gifted a hundred paid high-tier subscriptions. On his channel? To his content??
That must have been a mis-click.
A second notification flashed on the screen for another hundred.
What the fuck????
Author’s Note
I have written this one and off for about a week. Just this one chapter. I thought of the idea of writing a story about a content creator who meets a [redacted] person and [redacted]. That’s how Tomi, the protagonist of When I, the Roguish Paladin, Found Myself with a Whale Patron came to exist. Tomi’s streamer name is The Solitary Paladin, but I think we can all agree he acts a bit more like a rogue would… except he does it IRL.
I’ve decided to number the sections. I just felt that this format suited this story the best.