The Hunter's Guide to Monsters

After that dreadful thought, Eli couldn't think of anything else.

He laughed, sounding like he was in drunken hysterics.

He'd lived again, only to be fated to die?

He'd seen Earth again, only to lose it?

So funny.

It was so hilarious.

Eli laughed for a long time, couldn't stop. A response to fear, to anxiety, to the incredulity of his current situation.

He choked on tears, his lungs burned from lack of air and his stomach ached from the laughter.

When the storm was over, he lay on his bed, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. A restlessness settled in his bones. He got up and washed his face in the bathroom, shoved his glasses on.

His reflection stared back, face dripping water, eyes visibly red at the rims even behind the oldfashioned glasses. Dark hair, brown eyes. If he remembered correctly, 81 kilograms on a 176 cm tall frame. He got on the weighing scale and scoffed faintly at the numbers – yep, he remembered the strangest things.

He put on clothes, pulling them absently from the closet with no care what they actually were, and slammed out the door.

It was late morning on a Wednesday in September – the weather was fairly benign in that transition between summer and fall. Eli relished the sunlight on his skin, even if the warmth was weakened by the mass of clouds that greyed out most of the sky.

There were few people on the pedestrian lanes, but the trams were full – it was just the end of the morning coffee break, wasn't it?

He shook his head at himself – was he even getting nostalgic about corporate life?

He started walking, heading in no particular direction – the streets were familiar and not – the carefully designed lanes were so different from the wild paths he'd walked for the last seven years, but these were also streets he'd walked through with his mother for years and years.

The local neighborhood was at the edge of the slums, and so a lot of the buildings were old and rundown, but the area also had a lot of small parks that made long therapeutic walks suitably attractive.

Eli felt himself slowly calm down as he walked.

He let his feet guide him, cautiously going down one lane, or trying an alleyway, or turning a corner to see another morass of small streets.

He just walked and walked, trying to empty his head of…everything.

He succeeded and didn't, putting himself into a trance where all he could do was muse distantly, hazily, as if everything was a dream. He only came out of it when his stomach made a gurgling sound, embarrassingly loud.

He stopped in his tracks.

The sky was slightly clearer of clouds, enough for the sun to bathe the city in the deepening golden light of late afternoon. Eli looked around. Um?

Where was he?

The street was narrow and the buildings were close together – he didn't see any landmarks.

"You coming in or not?"

He jerked around to see an old woman peering at him from within a window. Behind her, he could see a mass of bubbling pots and sizzling pans. He leaned back slightly to look at the sign.

Master Chef Round the World Bowls

Eli leaned the entrance-doors beside the window, peering inside the restaurant. There was only seating for about twelve people, definitely not a restaurant large enough for the grandiose name. The inside was narrow, with seats for two-person tables against the walls leaving barely enough space for one person to traverse the aisle.

The smell though, was certainly…he understood why his stomach demanded he stop here. It gurgled again, as if in enthusiastic response to his thought.

He smiled sheepishly at the old woman and looked away to the menu. Whoa, he boggled as he tapped through the options. There were more than two hundred kinds of dishes, marked with the flags of at least two dozen countries.

He glanced behind the woman again, considering the scale of the kitchen, then focused on her. "Do you have a recommendation?"

She paused in her washing out a number of utensils and contemplated the question. "What's your favorite ingredient? Spice level? Textures? Scents? Hot or cold?"

"Beef," he said immediately. "Wagyu."

She nodded absently.

"Tomatoes," he decided. There were no tomatoes in Zushkenar. Orven Norge, creator of Redlands, apparently hated them.

Zushkenari pizza could get very creative.

Mock-tomato was a favorite food ingredient among the transmigrators after the Quake – an inside joke that started as angry and bitter humor but later became a bonding point between people in the same situation.

"Lots of tomatoes." Eli shoved his hands into his pockets, only half-serious with his next request. "Do you have shark?"

To his surprise, the old woman nodded. "The South African spiced blacktip bowl is popular. Young shark, very tender."

Eli was suddenly aware of a rather ravenous hunger. Hunger and a distinct wish for petty revenge. "Forget the beef. I'll take all your shark dishes. And whatever tomato dishes you recommend."

The old woman lifted her head from her pots, blinking in concern. "Young man, we have four shark dishes. The food in each dish is by weight 200 to 300 grams. Can you eat all of it?"

Eli calculated.

"Um…yes? Yes. Nothing too strong smelling – fish sauce level and mixed spices is fine. Heat level…nothing stronger than 10,000 Scoville. Any texture, as long as it's not homogenous. Hot dishes, if possible. What's your best tomato dish?"

"Then definitely the Golabki Bowl and the Wild Ratatouille Bowl. We also have a great pasta al pomodoro. Ah, the tomato and egg rice bowl is also a good one."

Eight dishes would be 1.6 to 2.4 kilograms. Most people eat that much in a day, not in one sitting. Eli nodded, tapped the recommendations into the menu screen, then searched the shark dishes and added them.

This time, he wasn't eating to eat.

Mostly.

This was about principle, about taking back himself!

Yeah, that's right! He pressed a finger into the biometric scanner, the bill immediately being paid from his bank account.

The woman just shook her head as the order appeared on her kitchen terminal. "Free soup, hot and fresh," was the only thing she said.

Eli sat himself at a table, and the soup was set down by a server almost the same time he sat. He sipped the vegetable soup, which was pretty good, and looked around.

Despite the small space, the table didn't feel that cramped. There were only a few people there, and several other tables were being cleaned up.

He'd come in at the end of a small rush, it seemed.

That meant the food should at least be good, right?

The first bowl clunked on the glass-topped table before him.

"Your golabki," the server introduced softly. "Enjoy."

The golabki was minced meat and vegetables rolled into cabbage leaves and doused in a spiced tomato sauce. Eli leaned forward to inhale – he couldn't help it. The smell was just so alluring. The steam condensed on his glasses, whiting out the world.

He ignored the momentary blindness for the promise of delicious food and took a bite.

Oh.

If the rest of the dishes were the same quality, the ache and tiredness from walking for hours would be totally gone by the time he left.

Eli lowered his head to eat faster, as bowl after bowl appeared as soon as he finished each one, didn't even care that he couldn't see while he ate – each dish made his tastebuds sing.

He spent two hours savoring each bowl after the first pangs of hunger were satisfied. He even ordered another of the African blacktip shark bowl – the shark meat was really tender and the mixed spice aroma invaded the nostrils as soon as the dish was put down.

He beamed in the direction of the server every time his soup was refilled, liberally complimenting the cook.

It was probably too much, because the old woman came out to chat for a bit, and Eli learned that her husband and son were both rated master chefs by the World Chef's Society – the reason for the name of the shop. They both died during a joint world tour with a dozen other chefs – their air-yacht blew up over the Caribbean, suspected to have been hit by a meteorite.

The shop used the family recipes.

By the time he left, the sun had set and the alleyways were illuminated by fairy lights and diffused light lamps – it was definitely a theme. Eli checked his geomap to mark the location of the restaurant, and discovered that he hadn't gone that far from his apartment – just a couple of kilometers away but the pattern on his personal trackware said he'd crossed and recrossed his route more than a few times in a number of places, turned around here and there by the warren of alleys and streets.

Right now, he was deep into the oldcity slums.

Looking at the quiet alleys lit like they were tourist streets, it definitely didn't look like the slums.

Come to think of it, it was probably a managed street – some of the lamps were stamped with the same logo. Managed streets were protected by a person or group, and in many cases were definitely marketed to tourists.

There were more and more people coming through. He checked his geomap and reoriented toward his apartment. He felt slightly sleepy now.

Should he call a taxi?

He took a deep breath of the cool air, patting his slightly bulging stomach. The chill in the air chased away some of his lethargy.

He started walking, ambling in the general direction of his apartment.

The large amount of food he ate needed to settle before he slept, and the dishes had blasted away his tiredness with delicious flavor and the feeling of dark satisfaction.

He stretched as he walked, feeling light and full.

As long as he stuck to the light-filled lanes, there won't be trouble.

He stepped onto a more mainstream street, then stopped. On the side of a high-rise, the moving poster was advertising a very familiar game.

An agile vargvir clashed with a roaring trollkin on the moving advertisement. The vargvir tumbling into a clawed slash, the trollkin easily twirling a massive shield as his only weapon – each of the movements something Eli had seen before, familiar.

He hadn't expected…

He stood there, dazed, as the advertisement for Redlands: Masters of War ran to end in an eye-catching close pan of a field battle between two large groups – showing the viewers the expressions of those on the battlefield to great detail.

Eli turned his back on the ad-screen, his thoughts once more chaotic.

He lifted a hand, as if to wipe away the sight from his eyes, paused when his fingers visibly trembled. He shoved his hands into pockets and walked away, tread heavier than before.

He lost track of his steps once more, wandering in deep thought.

Someone bumped into him, snarled, "Watch it, loser."

"Come on guys, I see him," the words had people moving faster.

The group of youths moved with a purpose, sliding around him with smirks and deliberate pushes. Eli, caught off guard, didn't react until they passed him like a small flock of piranhas scenting better prey.

He frowned at their backs.

There were no gangs in Greatcentral City; the public monitoring was too comprehensive for that. But that didn't stop people from being ruffians.

He looked at the way they moved; not very disciplined, too open – it would be as easy to defeat them without a weapon as a group of low-level hood-morlocks. He pushed his glasses more firmly up his nose, and smiled wryly as his thin wrists came into view – he looked down at his weak arms and jiggly belly.

He wasn't StrawmanScare anymore. He didn't want to be.

"Oi, Rigaton!"

The yell had obvious challenge in its tone.

Eli, who was already walking away, hesitated. Rigaton….wasn't that the name of one of Zee's friends?

He looked back, then carefully followed the sounds of jeering laughter. Peering around a moldy mass of packaging, he saw seven or eight youths surrounding two people, taunting.

The two were backed against a chained gate, and one had stepped in front of the other, returning the taunts with a wide smirk and a calm voice.

Eli peered into the semi-darkness, cursing once again his eyesight.

Oh.

It really was one of Zee's friends.

Jori Rigaton, and behind him was one of Marai's numerous cousins…Helian? Harrine? Recognizable because of the blue and white dyed hair.

Everyone mostly called her H, for some reason. Also Hellion, sometimes. Eli snorted in amusement. He could see why. She didn't look scared, and unlike Jori's general mocking, she chose her targets, returning their barbs with precisely targeted thorny words and an unchanging look of irritation, as if annoyed by the necessity.

The group surrounding them was getting angrier.

Which, really, what did the two think they were doing?

Eli looked around, and saw a mass of birdseed pouches tied to a balcony railing above him. He was fairly certain there was a law against feeding wild birds due to the Pigeon Crisis in American cities some decades back, but thanks for the consideration, random lawbreaker.

He pushed himself slowly up the pile of crates, and onto the balcony. Then started tying the birdseed pouches closed.

There was a burst of mad malicious laughter, and Eli glanced down to see the ringleader kick Jori in the stomach viciously. "Arrogant ballsucker! You think you can take us all on? We'll make your twathole watch while we cut you open, Rigaton."

"At least make a more credible threat," the Hellion shot back. "You think you can get away with armed assault like this, even in a place where there's no monitoring? You've already been caught on cameras heading here, idiots. And we know your faces, even though who the frak are you, is my question. If you want to get away with this, you'll have to kill us. Do you have the guts?"

Eli stifled a laugh as he tied off the last of the birdseed pouches. Jori didn't bother and guffawed openly while using the chain-gate to hold himself up – his laughter was wheezy, likely just got his breath back.

One of the girls with the group stepped forward, obviously going for violence, while one of the boys moved to restrain H. Eli hefted a pouch, wound his arm back, and threw as hard as he could.

The pouch exploded on one of the group's backs, causing yelps where the birdseed shrapnel hit.

Eli grinned, sudden.

More effective than expected.

He hurled three more in quick succession, causing confusion and angry yelling.

The two slipped away, smartly.

Two more launches, and Eli ran – flinging himself off the balcony and onto the street below like he still had his advanced physique from Zushkenar.

"Ow." He whined for a second when the jolt of landing hit too hard. But he ran.

"After them!" was the roar from behind.

No footsteps trailed Eli, so he knew they meant the other two.

Eli didn't know the streets here, so he only ran until he rounded a corner, then slowed down to a slightly fast walk, looking for a street with more people and better monitoring.

He stepped onto a tourist street with a sigh of relief and slowed down even more, feigning interest in the booths lining the market street.

"Oh wait," he realized. "I could've called the emergency hotline."

That was possible on Earth.

"Yeah, but thanks for not."

Eli whirled, coming face to face with Jori Rigaton, who snorted.

"I thought that was you, Crewan. What are you doing in this part of the neighborhood?"

"…they say you have to sweat out the flu. I'm taking a walk."

H, who'd been looking at Eli curiously, snickered. "No, you were running. That just makes a flu worse, y'know?"

"You mean that great-grandmother's wisdom-for-the-ages netsite was lying?"

She laughed. Jori scoffed. "Call a taxi and go home, Crewan. You can't even run twenty meters without drowning in sweat. Don't really care what you're doing in the neighborhood, but I owe you one. Don't ask for anything illegal, yeah?"

He pushed past Eli with an almost friendly wave.

"Bye," H smiled before falling into step beside Jori.

Eli considered the suggestion of a taxi. His muscles were once again feeling the ache, adrenaline starting to drop. He sighed and tapped his geomap for the location of the nearest station.

He fell asleep before he got to the apartment, waking at the gentle shake the autodrive taxi made when the biomed systems that were standard on every automated vehicle detected he was asleep.

He yawned all the way into the apartment, didn't even stop to wash but went straight to bed.