Manifest Fantasy

Chapter 22: Culture Shock

Author's Note:

'Needs must' is an archaic saying. The modern translation would basically be 'it is what it is.'

'Was wont to use' = was used to / was accustomed to or something along the lines

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Armstrong Base, Grenden Plains

Sera stirred from her slumber, eyes fluttering open in the comfortable darkness of her room. For once, she felt properly rested. Now, what ungodly hour might it be? She squinted at the glowing figures upon the nightstand. 0543. At least her inner clock hadn't gone daft in this realm of machines and electricity. One less matter to relearn in this magic-barren base, if she didn't count their strange 24-hour time.

She stretched, grudgingly admitting that the bed was... not wholly disagreeable. Not a patch on her feather-down mattress back home, to be sure, but leagues better than the flea-ridden sacks some taverns dared call beds. These Americans might lack sorcery, but it was clear they knew the craft of a decent mattress.

With a sigh that was half vexation, half anticipation, Sera hauled herself from her repose. Time to face another day of bewildering Earth customs and contraptions. Joy of joys.

Sera rushed through her morning routine, unable to help a small thrill at the unfailing hot water. Still a marvel, that was. No enchantments here, just reliable... what had the Americans called it? Plumbing. Hah. As if mere pipes and valves, bereft of any whisper of magic, could hope to match their systems back home. Still, Sera had to admit, it was a relief not to fret over an errant surge of magic turning her morning wash into a scalding ordeal. Perhaps there was something to be said for their mundane methods after all.

Clean and marginally more awake, Sera eyed the neatly folded pile of olive drab awaiting her. Fashion fit for a mud farmer, mayhap, but needs must. She lifted the shirt, testing the strange fabric. The quality and softness came as a surprise. "Well," she muttered. "At least it is not burlap."

It was easy to put on, practical if anything. Yet, as she looked in the mirror, it was painfully more obvious how... ugly it was. Heavens above, what manner of joyless tailor dreamt up this excuse for a uniform? She twisted around, catching all the angles. It did fit her figure well, but the colors! How awful they were.

Still, she'd be a fool to ignore the cleverness behind the design. Under the cover of leaves and at a distance, they'd be as invisible as a Nobian assassin – a vital trait, especially in the face of weapons like the Americans' guns. Perhaps there was wisdom in blending with dirt and shadow when even the most hardened adamantium might as well be parchment.

Sera ran her enchanted brush through her hair, frowning slightly. The strokes smoothed her locks as always, but the ambient magic... why, it was like wading through treacle. Thick, heavy, near overwhelming.

How could these Americans not notice? Aye, they lacked the gift to control mana, but surely they must feel something. Like a man born deaf thrust into the heart of a raging tempest - he'd not hear the thunder, true, but he'd feel it rattling his very bones. Did these Earth folk even know what manner of power they'd built their base upon, or did they just see through those 'EMF meters' of theirs?

Sera scooped up her materials and paused at the door, hand hovering over the handle. She felt like a dwarf in an elven city. What fresh nonsense would this day bring? Another morn of stumbling through American customs like a novice adventurer on her first quest, no doubt. At least she'd faced worse. Probably.