When the skeleton had crumbled, green bars on bands around the clearing had increased. If progressing in level required accomplishing feats, then a group of stone bands defeating an iron band certainly counted. Tiller, Reader and Cutter all saw their bands leap up. Cutter was past the three-quarters mark. Tiller not far behind. Reader was the furthest from becoming an Iron band, but even his bar had passed the halfway mark. The mercs were all visibly thrilled to see their bands leap forward, though none of them, even Huntress, were as advanced as the three humans.

  Lita, though, was only a clay band. It seemed being part of a party that felled an Iron was even more rewarding to a clay. Even though he had done nothing but take damage and get blown to pieces, Lita advanced. It wasn’t a spectacular display. The band blazed with white light; when the light faded a stone band had taken its place.

  “DOOOODS! Check it out!”

  It turned out that Norris had a flute. It resulted that, when plied with alcohol, he was inclined to produce and play the flute. Unlike his lack of aptitude towards farming, it happened that one of his five sigils was one that bore the image of a flute. None of those attending the gathering questioned why he wasted a slot on his band with a flute sigil. He played lively tunes by the fire and it roused the others.

  Cutter had convinced Spinner to extend a tab to him, and had placed a small keg of ale on that tab. They all sat by the fire, Maeve stirring a pot of stew, drinking and talking as the music played. Tiller hadn’t objected when Cutter wanted to spend some coin on actual beef. He hadn’t objected when Reader suggested it might be nice to have some spices.

  There was a strange sense of conclusion. The three men sat together, talking about the world they had come from. The others mingled in the background. Lita pleaded with Grim to try and spare the word “fuck” to every fourth word, at least, rather than every third. Maeve hummed happily, basking in the activity and the bustle around her. Norris tapped his foot as he played.

  The men spoke of silly things at first. Human things. How they missed central heating and air conditioning. What they thought the Pittsburgh Steelers would be doing at the end of training camp. How much they missed their families. Even Cutter admitted, a few pints deep, to the hole in his heart that could only be filled by his wife and children.

  “Lads, this might be the drink talking, but I’ve been thinking,” Cutter spoke up.

  Tiller chuckled, “Takes drink to get you thinking? ’Cause it sure as shit doesn’t take drink to get you talking.”

  “Ah, fuck off. Seriously, lads. I’ve been thinking. Farmers, by all accounts, can make serious dosh. Like, I can go out tomorrow and make a couple hundred bucks maybe, even more on a really good day. And right now, that’d take you, Tiller, what? A couple of weeks?”

  Tiller shrugged, “The farm’s in ruins… if Bonk hadn’t trashed it then I’d have been earning at a rate of about 50 coins a day on average after the next harvest. But now? I haven’t even started to think about it.”

  Cutter said, “Yeah. Well, that’s my point. Right now a fighter out-earns a farmer easily. But what happens when there’s hundreds of plants growing here? Thousands even? Then you’ll be raking it in.”

  Tiller glanced towards the odd-shaped mound of Bonk’s grave. “If I live that long…”

  Cutter’s eyes went wide, that fierce grin splitting his face. “THAT’s my point as well! You can make money, big time long-term, but you make f-all right now and you’re gonna get murdered by Clan Bonk or someone else long before you get there. Me? I’m like a seed money machine, and I’m security. See where I’m going with this?”

  Tiller looked into his cup. “We should hitch our wagons together?”

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  Cutter said, “Why you sound so glum about that? Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  Tiller said, “It does… but that means… how does that work? Do we have to make 30 million? Can I hop home when I make the first ten and leave you guys with the farm until it makes the next ten, then the next? I know surviving is going to be hard for me, but I want to go home so badly. No. I need to go home so badly.”

  Cutter said, “Ah, stop with that. Weren’t you the one talking about scale? Difference between ten mil and 30 mil isn’t as big as you think. Not when you’ll have half the white between here and Medley covered in earth and growing money. And I can get you started at that, really get things going. We could have that composter and my sword in a couple of weeks.”

  Reader stirred. “I don’t know where I fit into that exactly…”

  Cutter said, “You’re fucking R and D! You just got started and you make things float and build flashlights out of junk! Where will you be in a few weeks? Making it rain on schedule? Building like, I don’t know, magic tractors or some shit.”

  Reader only shrugged demurely, not objecting to the ideas, as if they had already been floating in his mind.

  Tiller mused. “I do need a way to transport goods… not just to Medley, but beyond.”

  Cutter nodded. “Right? RIGHT? I can keep coin flowing and keep you alive. Reader can do magic and engineering shit to make production go through the roof. Three amigos, three musketeers. We make the goal 30 mil instead of 10, but we do it together and I bet we hit 30 before we’d ever have whiffed ten. And wel…”

  Silence rested in the gap. Tiller said, “And?”

  Cutter sighed. “And we wouldn’t be alone…”

  Reader stepped in before the next silence could take hold. He raised his cup. “Here here!”

  Cutter raised his. They both looked to Tiller. The farmer looked from man to man, then cup to cup. He paused. Then he exhaled. He didn’t sigh. It wasn’t a sigh. It was a breath, expelling tension and resistance. He raised his cup. “Fuck it. Why not!”

  Cutter laughed. “Great! Fuck, that’s great! Here’s to the Farm!”

  They smacked cups again.

  Cutter said, “And to the ladies back home! I can’t believe it, I never even asked what your wives’ names were.”

  Reader looked at a point distant and murmured. “Lisa.”

  Cutter barked a laugh, “That’s gas. My old lady is Lisa as well.”

  Tiller seemed more disturbed. “Um… my wife’s name is Lisa.”

  Cutter stilled slightly, his face bemused. “Shit, what are the odds. I guess your kids are named Ben and Maggie as well.”

  The other two men really did freeze at that.

  Cutter said, “No… what?”

  Tiller said, “I’ve got two kids, 10 and 7, the eldest is Ben, and the younger is Maggie.”

  Cutter’s silence said enough. He looked to Reader who just nodded.

  Cutter said, “That’s fucking… weird…”

  Reader ventured, “What kind of car do you drive?”

  Cutter said, “A lame-ass blue minibus.”

  Reader looked at Tiller who just nodded, his expression dazed.

  Reader said, “What’s your occupation? I’m an accountant. Silly, I don’t remember my own name, but I know I’m an accountant.”

  The only responses were a faint nod from Tiller and a stream of cursing from Cutter.

  They compared more details. Favorite sports teams. Favorite foods and drinks. They didn’t line up exactly. As they explored the madness and got deeper into their cups Cutter provoked them to name their preferred sexual experiences. Cutter was a man for hard sex, Tiller for luxurious oral, Reader for slow romance with candles.

  But too many of the details were the same.

  Later, bleary-eyed and still processing, Reader said, “Guys… this is more than coincidence. The fact that… that the three of us are even here… in this place…”

  Cutter snapped, eyes red, “This dream.”

  Reader only rolled his eyes. “The fact that we’re all here… all the details… I don’t know what it means… some kind of multiverse thing, I guess… it has to mean something.”

  Cutter stood up and pointed a rigid finger at Reader. “I’ll tell you what it means.” His words were thick with drink.

  He looked from Reader to Tiller, back again. “Will I tell you what it fucking means?”

  Tiller nodded.

  Cutter stood up straight. He swayed a little bit.

  “It means that somewhere out there there’s two more Lisas, two more Bens and two more Maggies. It means when I spent a fortune saving your sorry ass from Skeletor that I wasn’t just saving your sorry ass. I was sparing another Lisa from never seeing her husband again, another Ben and Maggie from never seeing their dad again. It means I’m right. I’m RIGHT goddammit.”

  Reader echoed, “You’re right?”

  Cutter nodded, the exaggerated nodding of the deeply inebriated. “Shut up, fucking voice, I’m not that drunk.”

  He waited, for a response. Getting none he looked at the other two men.

  “This means we really do have to stick together. I know how fucking lame it sounds but… this really is…”

  Reader and Tiller spoke, their voices merging. “One for all and all for one.”