August woke up at 4 AM with the kind of nervous energy that made sitting still physically impossible. Today was the day. Operation Find Arthur and Have a Meaningful Conversation About His Life Choices was officially underway.
He'd packed his gear the night before—twice, actually, because the first attempt had resulted in a backpack that weighed approximately as much as a small building. The second attempt was only marginally better, but at least he could lift it without questioning his life choices.
"This is it," he told his reflection in the cracked mirror above Marta's washstand. "Today I become an adventurer. A real one. With maps and everything."
His reflection looked skeptical, but August chose to interpret that as lighting issues.
He crept downstairs, trying not to wake the other boarders. Marta was already in the kitchen, because of course she was. The woman probably didn't sleep so much as enter a state of reduced vigilance.
"Early start today?" she asked without looking up from her coffee.
"I'm, uh, taking a few days off from the message running. Personal project."
"Uh-huh." Marta fixed him with a look that suggested she knew exactly what kind of personal project involved emergency beacons and reality anchors. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that bag of expensive equipment you've been hiding under your bed, would it?"
August paused in the act of reaching for his pack. "You knew about that?"
"Son, I've been running this place for twenty years. I know when my tenants are planning something stupid." Marta pulled out a wrapped bundle from behind the stove. "Food for the road. Try not to die on an empty stomach."
"Thanks, Marta. Really." August tucked the bundle into his pack. "If I don't come back—"
"You'll come back. You're too stubborn to die properly." Marta handed him a cup of coffee. "But if you don't, I'm keeping your deposit."
August grinned. "Fair enough."
The pre-dawn streets of Edgeharbor were surprisingly active. Shift workers heading home, early merchants setting up stalls, and the occasional patrol making sure nothing interesting had tried to eat the city overnight. August made his way through the Lower Market toward the southeastern gate, feeling like he was starring in his own adventure story.
Which, technically, he was.
The gate guards were different from the day shift—younger, more alert, with the kind of nervous energy that suggested they were still excited about their jobs rather than resigned to them.
"Heading out early," one of them observed as August approached.
"Personal expedition," August said, presenting his identification and the travel permit Maya had helped him obtain. "Three-day survey trip to the buffer zones."
The guard checked his papers. "Buffer zones, huh? First time?"
"Yeah, but I've got all the recommended equipment." August patted his pack, which clinked and hummed with various technological items he mostly didn't understand.
"Good luck," the second guard said, opening the smaller pedestrian gate. "Stay on the marked trails, don't go past the fifty-kilometer perimeter, and if you see anything weird, come back immediately."
"Define weird," August said.
"If you have to ask, it's probably weird."
"That's remarkably unhelpful advice."
"Best kind," the guard grinned. "Safe travels."
August stepped through the gate and onto the road that led away from Edgeharbor. Behind him, the city rose in its impossible spirals and bridges, a monument to human stubbornness in the face of an actively hostile universe. Ahead of him stretched the southeastern approach road, winding through terrain that gradually shifted from merely unusual to actively questionable.
He pulled out Maya's map and checked his route. First checkpoint was a waystation about ten kilometers out—a small fortified building where travelers could rest and resupply. From there, the real adventure would begin.
"Okay, August," he said to himself, because talking to himself had become his primary form of companionship. "Time to be a hero. Or at least a competent tourist."
The morning air was crisp and carried scents that didn't quite make sense—flowers that smelled like rain, earth that smelled like starlight, and an underlying metallic tang that suggested the local atmosphere had opinions about chemistry. August's Foundation monitor displayed a steady blue pulse, indicating normal activity levels.
So far, so good.
The road was well-maintained for the first few kilometers, clearly designed to accommodate regular traffic between the city and the nearest settlements. August passed a few merchant caravans heading toward Edgeharbor, their guards giving him curious looks but not stopping to chat.
Around the eight-kilometer mark, the road began to change. The pavement became less reliable, the protective wards spaced further apart, and the landscape started developing that subtle wrongness that Maya had warned him about. Trees grew in spirals. Rocks sat in formations that hurt to look at directly. The shadows fell in directions that didn't quite match the sun's position.
"Definitely not Kansas anymore," August muttered, consulting his compass. The needle was spinning lazily, apparently confused about which direction constituted north.
He pulled out the temporal stabilizer Maya had given him. The device indicated that time was flowing at approximately normal speed, though with occasional fluctuations that made August's teeth ache.
"Okay, mild reality distortion," he said, making a note in his journal. "Manageable. Probably just local interference from… something."
The waystation appeared around a bend in the road like a small fortress of sanity amid increasingly questionable terrain. It was a squat, practical building with thick walls and windows that glowed with protective wards. Smoke rose from a chimney, suggesting someone was home.
August knocked on the heavy wooden door.
"Come in," called a voice from inside. "Door's open."
The interior was warm, cozy, and filled with the smell of cooking food. A middle-aged man with graying hair and remarkably calm eyes sat by the fire, stirring something in a large pot.
"Traveler heading southeast?" the man asked without looking up.
"How did you know?"
"Only reason anyone stops here. I'm Marcus, station keeper for this stretch of the buffer zone." Marcus finally looked at August, taking in his nervous energy and overladen pack. "First time out?"
"That obvious?"
"You're carrying about three times more equipment than you need, and you look like you're expecting something exciting to happen." Marcus ladled stew into a bowl and handed it to August. "Eat. You'll need the energy."
August accepted the bowl gratefully. The stew was simple but good, with vegetables he recognized and meat he decided not to ask about.
"How far are you planning to go?" Marcus asked.
"About sixty kilometers southeast. Into the deep buffer zones."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Official business?"
"Personal. I'm looking for someone."
"Ah." Marcus nodded knowingly. "Let me guess—someone who went into the zones and didn't come back?"
"Something like that."
"Word of advice: people who don't come back from the zones usually have good reasons for staying out there. Might be they found what they were looking for. Might be they became something that can't come back." Marcus refilled August's bowl. "Either way, not your problem."
"What if it is my problem?"
"Then you're probably going to become not your problem either." Marcus smiled, but it wasn't particularly reassuring. "How's your Foundation holding up?"
August checked his monitor. Still steady blue. "Fine, I think. Adaptive immunity. Supposed to protect me from repeated harm."
"That's useful. Zone work has a way of finding creative new ways to hurt people." Marcus stood and walked to a cabinet filled with supplies. "Take these."
He handed August a small bag of crystalline tablets. "Emergency rations. Each one provides a full day's nutrition and energy. More importantly, they're reality-stable. Won't change composition even if local physics decides food shouldn't exist."
"Thanks," August said, tucking the tablets into his pack. "Any other advice?"
"Trust your equipment over your senses. Don't try to logic your way through situations that defy logic. And if you find whoever you're looking for…" Marcus paused. "Make sure they're still who you think they are before you get too close."
August finished his stew and prepared to leave. "What's the next landmark?"
"About twenty kilometers southeast, you'll hit the ruins of Millhaven. Used to be a small town, before the reality storm hit it three years ago. Good place to camp for the night, assuming the buildings are still where you left them."
"Buildings move?"
"Sometimes. Reality storms have a way of rearranging things." Marcus walked August to the door. "Stay safe out there. And remember—just because you can survive something doesn't mean you should try."
August stepped back onto the road, his pack slightly heavier with supplies and his head considerably heavier with warnings. The landscape beyond the waystation was noticeably more unstable—colors that shifted when he wasn't looking directly at them, sounds that came from no visible source, and an overall sense that the world was holding its breath.
"Well," August said to the questionable reality around him, "this is definitely an adventure. Points for authenticity, universe."
He checked his map, confirmed his heading with the increasingly confused compass, and started walking toward whatever remained of Millhaven. Behind him, the waystation faded into the morning mist. Ahead of him, the zones waited with the patience of something that had all the time in several different versions of the world.
August whistled as he walked, because if you were going to head into potentially lethal unknown territory, you might as well do it with style.