A white handkerchief, a fountain pen, a hip flask half-filled with hard liquor, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a letter with an elaborate sigil that sealed it shut, and an iron-cast key, that looked like it could fit inside a gate. House keys? Satou thought. Could be. What else was there? A doll—a nutcracker doll—from the looks of it. In his hand he held it, eerily cold despite it being made out of wood and him wearing gloves that were by no means thin, and he found it odd thing that it was so.

  Something heavy touched the back of his hand. He reached for it, picked it up, and had halfway pulled it out when he realized what it was. At first, all he could do was blankly stare. Then his blood began to boil from fright. He shoved the thing back in—startled eyes wide-open for any witnesses—and he saw… No one. No one had seen him.

  Slowly, he pried the satchel back open.

  Ornate engravings etched on cold steel; a familiar barrel. His eyes hadn’t deceived him. It was a gun! A revolver, to be more precise, whose thin and long barrel made it look more sleek than it was burly. He held it on its ivory hilt, mindful that the did not to take it out, and felt the weight of it bear down on his hand. Though by no means small, it was heavier than what he’d expected it to be, and that to him spoke of power, force. But why was it here? Why did he have it on him?

  More importantly, was it fine that he had it on him? It wouldn’t get him in any trouble, will it?

  Does it have a safety? A stupid thought. It was a revolver. The hammer of it wasn’t cocked.

  But just to be sure, and since not making sure to do so was negligence on his part, he turned the satchel away so that the barrel faced far away from either him, his thighs, or anyone else he could see in the vicinity. But if it does go off, it won’t matter if it hits someone or not. What else? There was nothing else. He remembered he had yet to check himself.

  He patted himself down, but froze the moment he saw his prominent chest block the view to his lower torso.

  Like a boy, he flushed, shy.

  This’ll take some time to get used to…

  He tried to ignore it, get back on track; but the swap of his gender was not something he could’ve easily feigned. In the back of his mind it was here to stay, making him feel guiltily elated each time he stole glimpses of his figure in his mind’s eye; yet he pushed on nevertheless, half-distracted.

  In his rear-pockets, he felt something, and leaning on one side took it out. To his pleasant surprise: a wallet: inside which he found a folded stack of fresh notes; and—polaroids. He counted the money first. “One thousand riyals,” in notes of hundred each. It was a lot. Even if I’m in another world—a stack ought to be a hefty sum, yes; but more importantly,

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  He held the polaroids side by side, each one the width of his palm, three in all.

  The first one was of a city, taken from the dark confines of an open attic that stood out like a wet blotch of ink. Three-quarters up: roofs, chimneys, domes, belfries, and spires jutted out to meet the midday sky. The second was of a marble hearth, in the dark. Barely, was he able to make out the borders of something hung above the mantlepiece: a portrait, most likely; below which were cindered logs, nearly lit out. And the last one—he found that to be the most artistic: a canopy of a tree. Dead twisting-branches branched out over a dark and overcast gloomy sky, and it was the last one.

  Moving on, he patted his upper-garbs next, and found a a ticket—a train ticket—right over his cleavage. He flipped it open—an embellished white card with gilded borders—turned it upright, and read it: “Advanced booked, 1st class. Admission for one: Adult. Boarding time: o-three pm, platform o-seven, at King’s Crossing, for the Aureate Express…”

  Satou looked up, past the memorial, beyond the plaza, up a long flight of stairs where there it stood, three entrances wide, with lofty pillars on either side: “King’s Crossing,” he muttered. That was where he had come from. An enormous gold-rimmed clock high up on one of its gothic towers told him the time: “Half-past four,” which meant that he had missed the train ‘she’ was meant to board. And who was this—she?

  Ednin, King’s Crossing: these were not names of places he could recognize. Project Elyse had no such locations as far as he knew. But he had recognized her, knew who she was!—or so it had seemed to him, at least at first. Now he wasn’t so sure. All the things he had just catalogued—the clothes she had worn—attested to belonging to someone who was a proper denizen of this world, and not of his player-character, who would have a sword, and not be in a beige trench-coat.

  So was she then? A mere look-alike?

  “If so, then she probably has a life of her own,” a life lived for twenty years, at least; and she most likely had friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances, and probably unlike me, even lovers, somewhere in the wider world at large, who knew who she was, and would grow worried if she went missing for more than a few days. Or did not show up at the platforms…

  Woe was to befall him if he had to deal with that scenario—deal with all the people who knew her; but, of course, none of this was guaranteed. He was guessing, at the end of the day, that he had, like a ghost, taken over the body of someone else—a look-alike of his player-creation from Project Elyse—and thereby transmigrated; but who knew what was real.

  As for the train ticket, he could go back still, look for a ticket counter and try to get it rebooked; but, where to, was he meant to go? The train ticket made no mention of any arrival destination: meaning, that he was probably expected to know at which station he was to get off. “Except, in my case, I don’t know where that is.”

  Only she does, whoever she is… And who was this—she?

  Great, he was starting to repeat himself. The whole ordeal was such a muddle.

  Exasperated, Satou ruffled his hair, and said, looking up: “Half-past four already?”

  In a couple of hours the sun would set; then night would fall. He was wasting precious daylight, idling here, he realized.

  “What to do now, Satou-kun.”