Volume 6, Chapter 3 – Margo’s Rise. The Search
Margo lay on the small bed, staring at the ceiling, her legs dangling off the edge, touching the floor. From the other room came her parents' voices and arguing, but Margo didn't listen to them, completely lost in thoughts about her future.
The ceiling with cracked plaster created strange patterns that, for Margo, turned into whatever she wanted to see. Light from the window struggled heavily through thick curtains, briefly peeking at her.
On the scratched, time-worn table lay a rifle and a sand-colored pistol, absorbing warmth and releasing cold into the room.
Measured breathing lifted and lowered Margo's chest, trying to inhale a plan of further action — but only ordinary oxygen entered her lungs, without a hint of a plan.
A knock at the door.
"Margosha," — Mother entered without waiting for an answer. "— Did you really quit for good?"
Margo sighed.
"Yes."
"But why? And how's that? It was a good job — what will you do? What's next? Maybe you've already found yourself a new job?"
"No."
"Well how can that be..." — Mother sat on the edge of the bed. "— You need a job. It'll all work out."
Margo propped herself up on her elbows.
"It'll work out?" — Margo raised one eyebrow. "— Did Sally tell you something? Everything she said is nonsense — they're stuck in the past."
"You argued — who doesn't? — Mother continued. "— You'll sulk for a couple of days and go back."
"No," — Margo jumped off the bed and quickly pulled the curtains, letting light into the room. "— I'll return there either on horseback or feet-first."
"Margo!" — Mother stood up. "— Don't talk like that."
"Mom!"
"Hey, Louis," — Father entered the room. "— What are you babying her for? She's not a child — she knows what to do."
"Thanks," — Margo smiled.
Mother started arguing with Father about who was right — while Margo took a knitted bag and tossed in the rifle, the pistol, and a magazine each. She carefully walked around her parents and entered the small storage room, where she pulled two pouches of gold coins from under a floorboard.
"I'll be late," — she said and slammed the house door, stepping onto the empty street, where small houses of various shapes and materials lined the entire length of the dirt road. The sun warmed the back of her head, and there were no ideas in her head — but there was faith in herself and visions of how she wanted to look in that very "unknown future."
She walked along the dusty street, studying the poor houses on both sides, heading into the future. Leaving the province, she found herself on a narrow stone road where only one carriage could pass, with pockets for passing placed along its entire length. No one guarded this road, and no soul was visible to the horizon. Emptiness and heat from the stone that rose in heavy vapors upward, creating strange mirages of light refraction.
Margo walked down the center of the empty road, turning back again and again, watching her home gradually recede beyond the horizon, leaving only emptiness on all sides of the world. Step by step, her face became covered with a crust of sweat and dust, and her hair no longer followed her with such grace. Without stopping, she pulled the pistol from her bag and started twirling it in her hands with strong anxiety and fear, praying to Archon LiuHia not to drop it.
The smooth, cold metal felt pleasant in her hands, and its weight felt exactly as it should be — heavy and important. This pistol looked so elegant that it captured all of Margo's attention: those smooth lines, the pleasant grip, the straight, round hole. And this could create deafening sounds and even send metal into walls.
"This is definitely the future," — she said confidently, trying to hold the pistol in different ways.
Not understanding how close she was to a bullet flying into her, she tried holding the pistol by the barrel, aiming it at herself, tried grabbing the slide — but the most comfortable was the grip. Yet her index finger couldn't find its place until it accidentally rested on the trigger. Her long fingers fully wrapped around the small pistol, and holding it became comfortable — and the stuffiness of the day faded into the background while Margo tried different grips and mastered the weight of this little metal thing.
A seed of an idea appeared in her head.
The pistol is the future — but which future is for her to decide. Because if the DS has hundreds or thousands of these, she's a speck in the sea who doesn't even know how it works. And the first thing she wanted to do was find an engineer. Unfortunately — Margo lowered her head with a sigh — the only engineer she knew naively believed "magic is the Grail," and she needed to find a new one...
Margo raised her head and took a full chest of air, peering into the horizon. Carefully returning the pistol to its place so as not to damage it, she continued her journey along the empty road.
—
After weeks of wandering from one village to another, from province to province. Margo was losing faith, and the desire to give up grew — already sprouting like a weed around the small, defenseless seed of an idea. Every province was the same "home," where no one could help her with her desire. Local blacksmiths and engineers saw no potential or meaning in this metal trinket.
Margo started feeling like the only sane person in this skeptical world, which had two stones for eyes and only one wrinkle in its brain:
"Magic is the future," — she nervously mimicked all the "stupid" engineers.
Her whole appearance already resembled a homeless person rather than someone with grand plans. Her hair was tangled, gathering into hard, stone-like knots, and her face no longer gave off that elegant gleam of white skin — but revealed a tired laborer from the mines.
"Stupid!" — she paced across the rough terrain with anger and exhaustion, kicking everything under her feet. "— How do you reach someone who's drowning?" — she raised her desperate gaze to the sky and stopped.
Her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto freshly planted wheat that was trying to break through to the sun.
"LiuHia... What have you prepared for me?" — she lowered her head. "— Am I a slave or an innovator?"
Silence.
Only endless fields and rare forest strips, swaying serenely in the wind.
Margo lay on the ground, feeling satisfaction — her legs were sore, and her body felt chills, her breathing heavy. Thoughts ran from one extreme to another. From "screw it all and accept the world" to "go to the end and drop dead." She wanted all of this to end — for the moment to come when everything would go as she wanted.
For everything to go according to plan and not to wander this world in search of a miracle that didn't even deign to answer the only question that had weighed on Margo her whole journey: "Am I a slave or an innovator?"
"Who am I?" — she whispered softly into the ear of a small wheat sprout that was still green and only just grasping the meaning of this world.
Margo heard no answer from the sprouts and lay down beside them. Contemplating the blue sky, she — like a couple of weeks ago — tried to find strange images in the cracked plaster, but now they were...
"Just clouds..." — she became disappointed in her own imagination.
The most ordinary, classic, typical clouds... No zest, no uniqueness — all white, all floating in one direction, like...
"A herd..."
Margo pulled the pistol from her knitted bag and looked at it. The cold metal mercilessly absorbed the sunlight. The heavy weight of the future ripening in her head crashed against the ordinary folk belief in the past.
"How can they all not understand..." — she twirled the pistol in her hand, which beautifully cast light in different directions, and sunbeams ran across the sprouts.
And the idea broke through the soil.
"I need to show them not the weapon. I don't need to convince the herd that it's stupid — I need the herd to help me do this," — she looked at the pistol. "— To do this again and again, and again, and again — leaving them their faith in their magic and might."
Margo rose on her tired legs and headed into the unknown with an already clear plan: to deceive an engineer and make him do what he loves to do — magical artifacts.
"So be it!" — she exhaled, picking up a stick from the ground and leaning on it. "— They'll understand everything. Not right away, not today, not tomorrow..." — inhale. "— But when they do, I'll already be in the front ranks."
Margo moved slowly but confidently beyond the horizon until she completely disappeared, leaving only footprints from her boots and the stick that wove in different directions.
The field fell silent — and only one sprout twitched, as if it had just now heard Margo's whisper.
—
A week later, Margo had visited several large cities of Firkun. But her weak lying skill instantly betrayed her uncertainty — and the unreliable client that experienced masters didn't want to work with. Margo had managed to clean herself up in the first city and looked attractive enough as a woman — but not as a client.
And, reaching yet another city, she sat tired at a tavern bar, thinking about how to overcome her problem. How to deceive someone who deceives everyone? How to slip an object under the guise of another object?
"Hard..." — she sighed, sprawling across the bar.
"Rough day?" — the Bartender smiled, pouring beer from a barrel to a client at the other end of the bar.
"A month..." — Margo hissed quietly.
The Bartender finished with the client and filled a full faceted glass of beer, slowly pushing it toward Margo.
Margo slowly watched the glass move from under her arm.
"I don't drink."
"Sensible," — the Bartender answered with a smile, moving the beer away and pouring water.
Margo carefully slid the glass toward herself without raising her head.
"You're not from Magama?" — he asked.
"Magama, Barkun, Zhihon — all these cities have blended into one mush," — Margo said, taking a deep gulp of water. "— So both yes and no."
"Amusing how you formulated 'vagrancy,'" — the Bartender praised, placing a new glass of water on the bar. "— Subtle and elegant — fitting for a woman like you."
"Amusing how deftly you're trying to fuck me over," — Margo parried, finishing the water.
"Purely politeness and maintaining dialogue," — he disowned and quickly shook his head, giving off a shining smile. "— But you'll have to pay for the water," — he suddenly frowned, leaning on the bar.
"Huh?" — Margo raised a surprised gaze.
"Joke," — the Bartender let out a short chuckle. "— Because nothing invigorates like emotional swings."
Margo thought for a second, watching the water sway in the glass.
"Would you like to... work?" — she asked quietly.
"I'm already at work," — the Bartender parried, spreading his arms to the sides, trying to encompass his entire workplace.
(There it is!) Margo's gaze caught on the Bartender. (If she can't lie, let someone who can do it.)
"I'm serious," — Margo raised her head and straightened in the chair, her eyes lighting up with potential — because who, if not a bartender, can find common ground with the most uncommunicative person?
The Bartender's expression changed, and the chuckle slowly died as he analyzed her offer.
"What's the benefit? I've been offered work hundreds of times," — the Bartender answered calmly. "— Right now it looks like you're trying to fuck me over," — the Bartender smiled.
Margo blushed, and the Bartender stepped back, waiting for her to recover.
"I'm looking for," — inhale, "— a person who knows how to... Negotiate."
"Sounds like something illegal," — the Bartender smiled.
"No!" — Margo quickly shook her head. "— Just talking to people. Not dangerous! Honest."
"Really honest-honest?" — the Bartender smiled, approaching Margo.
"I'm not a child to be spoken to like that," — Margo blushed and looked away.
"What's the pay? Permanent job?" — the Bartender didn't move away from her.
Margo looked into her knitted bag, pulling out a pouch of gold — which was instantly intercepted by the Bartender.
"Hey!" — Margo protested strongly, trying to get her money back.
"Don't take out gold if you can't stand up for it," — the Bartender smiled, jingling the pouch of gold while Margo tried to grab it and get it back.
Margo was starting to boil from the unsuccessful attempts to get the gold back. But all attempts were futile, and the Bartender's laughter rang across the whole tavern along with the clinking of gold coins.