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Apo bites into a carrot.
The taste is bland, and whatever firmness it once held has clearly declined since its picking. She doesn’t spit it out, though. She needs the calories.
If they check their map, which doesn’t actually have the location of Oakhurst clearly labeled but instead a smattering of brown and grey lines assumed to be the town by their superiors, they've got a while to go.
She finishes off her food and leaves the stem on the ground for some small woodland creature to find, and stands back to her feet, brushing the dirt from her military coat. It’s thick and warm, which would be perfect for the outposts near the mountains, but is increasingly unsuited for the weather the further east Apo walks. When she reaches Oakhurst, she swears she’s going to shove the thing in a chest and forget about it until it’s time for her to come home. As she travels towards the rising sun, she finds herself actually beginning to sweat, and opens the front of her coat to compensate.
The road to Oakhurst is a road only by the loosest definition. It intersects with other, far better maintained ones, as most paths do, but there are times when the way thins to nothing more than a narrow stretch of mossy cobblestone. Apo is sure they’ve lost the path before, and deviated on purpose plenty of times. Like they’re about to do right now, for example.
She studies her map again, which displays a tiny picture of a mountain right next to the road to Oakhurst. She looks ahead of her, where there is, indeed, a small mountain. Next to it, instead of shrubland with a path cut through it, is a ravine. “I swear this map is a hundred years out of date,” Apo grumbles. She starts towards the mountain, planning to circle it and get back on track later.
At least there’s rocks. This side of the mountain is peppered with exposed stone and andesite, and if they crane their head up, maybe a little granite as well. Apo keeps their eyes on the mountain, appreciating the patterns in the geology. They only look away once they hear the sounds of conversation.
Apparently, an entire settlement has sprung up in the interim between the map’s creation and now. She watches townsfolk as they fish in a pond and buy wares at a small market. Apo had never expected for there to be people this far out. Maybe she’ll be able to visit from Oakhurst.
They walk through the town center slowly, taking in the sight and sound of so many other humans in one place. Children run past them on the street carrying with fistfuls of honey candy, and when Apo takes a breath, they can smell meat cooking. It's good. Seeing people again after so long alone on the road is rejuvenating, though they're looking forward to the peace and quiet that spending their conscription time in Oakhurst will provide, if not the isolation. They decide to buy a meal from one of the vendors in the market and sit down to eat it.
Her wallet and heart lighter, Apo leaves the town and continues following the edge of the mountain, but she doesn’t make it very far. “You there! Soldier!” A voice calls out from behind her. Apo spins on her heel, shoulders straightening automatically at the title. She scowls to herself and relaxes them.
The source of the voice is a vividly dressed woman with baby pink hair and the most tourist trap-looking set up imaginable (skulk in a jar, skeleton skulls, a singular candle) is waving Apo over. They follow her lead, more out of interest than anything else. As soon as Apo gets within reasonable conversation distance, the (old? young? middle-aged? They can't tell for the life of them) woman leans over the table where all her knick-knacks are, clasping her hands together with some misbegotten sense of ritual. "So? Having fun on your little solo mission?" She pauses, as if she's expecting them to react to the fact that she has clearly deductible information. Apo's wearing a uniform, carrying a standard-issue revolver, and they're alone. When Apo doesn't do anything but blink, she continues. "Are you worried about the outcome? I've something for that, you know. Four emeralds, or two emeralds and one of your bullets, and I'll do a reading for you."
As she expected, the fortune teller pulls out a stack of cards, shuffling them with a practiced fluidity that's honestly a little impressive. "Why do you want a bullet?" Apo asks. She pulls four emeralds out of her inventory and places them on the table anyways. All the prediction games are really good for is making people feel better about themselves and being pretty, and yeah. She does want to see some pretty tarot cards and be told that her time in Oakhurst will go smoothly as long as she 'listens to the song of the Universe' or whatever.
"I like collecting odds and ends." The fortune teller lays out the cards on the table. She adds, "maybe I'll need a bullet one day. Pick one card, for your past."
Apo picks a card in the corner of the little pattern the woman's made. They flip it around to see an image of a lightning bolt striking the ocean from a dark sky, and hand it over. "Here."
The fortune teller plucks it from her fingers. "The Fifth Light. You come here from a moment of choice, of potential directed decisively and absolutely. Was joining the military a spur of the moment choice for you? Wanted a career, perhaps?"
They can't hide their smile. "Mmm," Apo answers, which doesn't confirm or deny anything.
"Alright now," the fortune teller says, reshuffling the cards and spreading them out in a fan. "Take the center, for the heart of the story that the Universe plans to tell."
Apo takes the centermost card. It's got a picture of a skull on the underside, surrounded by black roses. She shows it to the fortune teller, who nods solemly. "Withering," she pronounces, "a great loss will befall you if you aren't careful, though it may lead to the start of something new. Keep your wits about you on the road, miss soldier. Again."
Apo takes another card from the fan after they've been shuffled. It's the Withering again. The fortune teller calls it a fluke and tells them to try again, so they do. They draw the Withering a third time, and a fourth, and a fifth. Apo stops counting after that.
It's disquieting sure, but she's still expecting for the fortune teller to throw in a line about giving her more money to change the future or something similar. Instead, the fortune teller grows more manic with each attempt, until she finally takes the card back from Apo and keeps it. “This has never happened to before,” she mumbles.
“Well,” Apo replies, having decided that the fortune teller was definitely messing with the cards, “if it’s not working, can I have my money back?”
“Actually, you know what? It’s half off, just for you. Buy yourself something nice.” The fortune teller waves absent-mindedly.
Apo takes her two emeralds back and wanders away. Her chest feels cold, so she buttons her coat back up, but it doesn’t help. “Cards can’t predict the future,” she chides. “It’s not real.” And it’s not. The first card didn’t mean anything, really, so neither can any of the others. Drawing the same card from a deck of 52, over and over is…implausible, not impossible. Maybe she’s just the one in a million.
Still, they stop by the blacksmith’s before they leave town, and pick up more bullets for their gun. Knowing they have the extra ammunition settles Apo’s nerves as they walk away into the evening fog.
Oakhurst is going to be nothing. It will be a boring stretch of time in between her and home, dedicated to building up infrastructure and shooing away interlopers. And if that isn’t the case, well, there’s not much a bullet can’t deal with, is there?