Anya returned to her apartment, the adrenaline from the morning's brutal encounter still thrumming faintly beneath her skin. The image of the ruined arcade, the acrid smell of ozone and blood, lingered in her senses, a stark contrast to the sterile, metallic environment she usually inhabited. She slid the door open, her hand instinctively hovering near the grip of her sidearm, a habit ingrained from years of living on the edge.
But the scene that greeted her was not what she expected.
The apartment was...different. Cleaner, yes, cleaner than she had ever seen it. Even considering the shared, if somewhat awkward, cleaning effort with Jaune the previous night, this was another level entirely. The usual cold, metallic surfaces gleamed, polished to a mirror sheen. Dust motes, usually dancing in the filtered light, were conspicuously absent. But it wasn't just the cleanliness. It was...warmer. There was a...a presence that hadn't been there before.
And then she saw it.
Wood.
Not the simulated wood-grain of some cheap synthetic paneling, but actual, honest-to-god wood. A small table, crafted from a rich, dark wood she couldn't identify, sat in the center of the living area. It was smooth, polished, and radiated a subtle, earthy scent that was utterly alien in this chrome-and-steel world. A few other pieces, equally incongruous, were scattered around the room: a small shelf, a standing lamp with a wooden base, even what looked like a hand-carved wooden bowl holding some of the strange, colorful fruits Jaune had produced.
"Woood?" Anya's voice cracked with disbelief, the single word echoing in the strangely transformed space. She whirled around, her eyes scanning the apartment with a frantic intensity, finally landing on Jaune, who stood near the kitchen area, looking slightly sheepish.
She stalked towards him, her cybernetic hand twitching, the polished metal gleaming ominously. The fatigue from the morning's massacre, the sheer, draining effort of unleashing such raw, unbridled fury, combined with the shock of this...this domestic invasion, left her on edge, her control fraying at the seams.
"How...how did you get wood?" she demanded, her voice a low, dangerous growl. She grabbed Jaune by the arm, her grip surprisingly strong, her fingers digging into his flesh. Her body was shaking, not with fear, but with a volatile mix of disbelief and anger. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Wood...real wood...is illegal. Highly illegal. Narcotics are like a child's game compared to this. The penalties...the authorities..." She trailed off, her mind struggling to process the sheer audacity of it.
Jaune winced slightly at her grip, his expression a mixture of concern and bewilderment. He gently pried her fingers loose, his touch surprisingly gentle, given the circumstances. "Anya, calm down," he said, his voice low and soothing, the same tone he'd used when she was devouring his pancakes. "I know it looks...unusual. But I didn't steal it. I didn't buy it. I..." He hesitated, searching for the right words, the words that wouldn't sound completely insane.
Anya stared at him, her eyes narrowed, her expression a mixture of suspicion and exhaustion. "Then how? How in the name of...of whatever gods are left...did you get wood? And not just a splinter, but actual furniture? In my apartment?"
Jaune took a deep breath, steeling himself. He knew this was going to sound crazy. "I...I got it from my backpack," he said simply.
Anya blinked, her expression shifting from anger to utter bewilderment. "Your...your backpack? You're telling me you pulled furniture out of your backpack? Are you insane?" She ran a hand through her hair, the gesture more weary than frustrated. "I've had a very long morning, Jaune. A very...messy...morning. I'm not in the mood for jokes, especially not ones that involve trans-dimensional carpentry."
Jaune stepped closer, his voice softening. He reached out, his hands hovering hesitantly before gently taking Anya's. He could feel the tension radiating from her, the lingering tremors of her earlier outburst. He hated seeing her like this, so tightly wound, so close to the edge. He wanted to soothe her, to ground her, to bring back the fragile warmth he had glimpsed earlier.
"Anya," he said, his voice a low rumble, "I know it's hard to believe. I barely believe it myself. But it's the truth. I can...I can get things from my backpack. Things that shouldn't be there. Things that are...impossible." He led her towards the sofa, his touch surprisingly firm and reassuring, guiding her as if she were a wounded animal. He sat her down gently, kneeling in front of her, his gaze searching hers. "Please, just...just try to understand. I'm not lying to you."
Anya sank onto the sofa, the unfamiliar softness of the cushions a stark contrast to the usual hard, unyielding surfaces of her apartment. She looked at Jaune, really looked at him, at the earnestness in his blue eyes, the genuine concern etched on his face. She saw no deceit, no malice, only a strange, unsettling sincerity. Her anger began to ebb, replaced by a growing confusion and a bone-deep weariness.
"Impossible," she repeated, the word a bare whisper, her voice rough with exhaustion. "Everything about you is impossible. The way you appeared, the way you sing, the food...and now this. A backpack that defies the laws of physics." She shook her head, trying to clear the fog in her mind. "I don't understand any of this."
Jaune nodded, his expression sympathetic. "I don't understand it either," he admitted. "But it's real. I can show you." He hesitated, then asked, his brow furrowed with genuine curiosity, "But...why is wood illegal? I don't understand. It's...wood. Trees. Why?"
Anya closed her eyes for a moment, drawing a shaky breath. The question, so simple and yet so profound, struck a chord within her. It was a question she had never really considered, never had the luxury to consider. In this city, survival was paramount, and the laws were the laws. Questioning them was a luxury she couldn't afford. But coming from Jaune, with his innocent bewilderment, it sounded almost...absurd.
She opened her eyes, her gaze meeting Jaune's. "Because," she said, her voice low and bitter, "because trees are almost extinct. Because they were destroyed centuries ago, for fuel, for building materials, for...for everything. Now, a few carefully cultivated, heavily guarded forests remain, more myth than reality. Wood is a relic of a lost world, a symbol of a paradise we destroyed. Owning it, possessing it, is a crime against the state, a crime against history."
Jaune stared at her, his face etched with disbelief and a dawning horror. "But...that's insane," he said, his voice rising in incredulity. "You make it sound like...like it's more important than people."
"Sometimes," Anya said, her voice flat, "it is. Or at least, that's what they want us to believe." She looked away, her gaze fixed on the alien wooden table, her expression a mixture of longing and resentment. "It's a reminder of what we lost, a constant, painful reminder."
Jaune was silent for a moment, processing the information. He remembered the lush forests of his world, the towering trees that had stood for centuries, the feeling of the earth beneath his feet, the scent of pine needles and damp soil. The thought of a world without that, a world where wood was a forbidden treasure, filled him with a profound sadness.
Then, a new thought struck him, a thought that made his blood run cold. "But...but if wood is so valuable, so heavily guarded...then why is a gun so easy to get? This morning, I saw a kid, barely ten years old, buying a gun! A weapon capable of killing someone, but that's legal?" He was incredulous.
Anya sighed, the sound heavy with weariness. "Because," she said, "in this city, life is cheap. Control is everything. And guns are a tool of control. They keep the population in line, they enforce the laws, they maintain the status quo. Wood...wood represents something else. Freedom. Nature. A world without control. And that's something they can't allow."
Jaune took a deep breath and held Anya's hands, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of determination and a strange, unsettling sadness. "Anya," he began, his voice firm but gentle, "I know this is going to be hard to believe, harder than anything I've said so far. But I'm telling you the truth. I'm not from here. I'm a...dimensional traveler. I told you a little last night, remember? About not knowing where I was?"
Anya's eyebrows furrowed, her gaze searching his. She remembered his vague explanation, his bewildered confusion. At the time, she had dismissed it as shock, disorientation. Or, as she put it, him "fucking with her". Now, looking at his earnest expression, she wasn't so sure. "I thought you were...I thought you were out of your mind. Are you saying that you're actually from another...another dimension?" The words felt absurd in her mouth, like something out of a bad synth-drama.
Jaune nodded slowly. "Yes. And my backpack...it's connected to that other dimension. That's how I can get these things. It's not magic, or some trick. It's...it's a doorway." He gestured to the bag, which still sat on the floor, its green glow pulsing softly.
Anya stared at the backpack, then back at Jaune, her mind reeling. She was a pragmatist, a survivor. She dealt in facts, in realities she could see and touch and destroy if necessary. This...this defied everything she knew, everything she had ever believed in. But Jaune was here, in her apartment, holding her hands, his presence undeniably real. And the impossible objects...the wood, the food...they were real too.
"Show me," she said finally, her voice a low, almost challenging growl. "Show me this...doorway."
Jaune nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes. He reached into the backpack, focusing his intent. He pictured a specific item, something that would be undeniably real, undeniably...different. He remembered the crisp, juicy apples from his family's orchard, the taste of them, the feel of their smooth skin in his hand. He concentrated, and his hand emerged from the green swirl, holding a perfect, red apple.
He held it out to Anya. "Here," he said softly. "This is from my world."
Anya eyed the apple with suspicion. It looked...perfect. Too perfect. In her world, fruit was a rarity, grown in carefully controlled hydroponic farms, pale imitations of the real thing. This apple was vibrant, flawless, radiating a healthy, almost unnatural glow. She hesitated, then took it from his hand. It was firm, cool to the touch, and it smelled...incredible. A sweet, fresh scent that triggered a distant, almost forgotten memory.
Jaune watched her, his expression a mixture of hope and anxiety. He knew this was a crucial moment. If she accepted this, if she acknowledged the reality of what he was showing her, then maybe...maybe she would start to believe him. Maybe she would start to understand.
Anya brought the apple to her lips, her gaze still fixed on Jaune. Then, she took a bite.
Her eyes widened in shock. The flavor exploded in her mouth, a symphony of sweetness and tartness, a burst of pure, unadulterated...life. It was unlike anything she had ever tasted. It was juicy, crisp, and utterly, undeniably real. A low moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure, involuntary pleasure.
Juicy as shit, Anya thought, her mind momentarily blank, overwhelmed by the sensory assault. She took another bite, and another, devouring the apple with a primal hunger, the juice running down her chin. She had never tasted anything like it. It was like tasting the world, the real world, for the first time.
The combination of the adrenaline from her fight, the lingering fatigue, and the sheer, overwhelming sensory input of the real food proved to be too much for Anya. Her eyes fluttered, and her body went limp, slumping against Jaune.
Jaune, startled, quickly caught her before she could slide off the sofa. He looked down at her, his expression a mixture of concern and a strange, bewildered amusement. She was out cold, her face smeared with apple juice, a half-eaten apple clutched loosely in her hand.
He sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. "Well," he muttered to himself, "I guess that's one way to get someone to try your cooking."
Gently, he scooped Anya up in his arms. She was surprisingly light, despite her cybernetic enhancements. He carried her through the apartment, his gaze lingering on the unfamiliar wooden furniture, the soft glow of the morning light filtering through the windows, the lingering scent of apples and spices. It was all so...domestic. So unlike anything he had ever experienced, and yet, somehow...strangely comforting.
He reached her bedroom, a small, austere space dominated by a narrow, metal-framed bed. He carefully laid Anya down, pulling the thin, synth-fabric blanket over her. She looked almost peaceful in sleep, her harsh features softened, her expression vulnerable.
Jaune stood for a moment, watching her. He couldn't deny the strange pull he felt towards this woman. She was fierce, dangerous, and utterly unpredictable. But beneath that hardened exterior, he had glimpsed a flicker of something else: a vulnerability, a loneliness, a desperate longing for something more. And he, somehow, inexplicably, wanted to be the one to give it to her.
He shook his head, a wry chuckle escaping his lips. "Okay, Jaune," he said to himself, "let's be honest. You've fallen through a portal, discovered a dystopian future, befriended a beautiful but deadly mercenary, and now you're putting her to bed after she passed out from eating an apple. This is officially the weirdest Tuesday of my life."
He turned and walked back into the living area, his gaze falling on Anya's discarded weapons. The sleek, black handgun, the high-powered rifle, the various other tools of her trade. He picked up the handgun, its weight surprisingly substantial in his hand. He examined it with a mixture of fascination and unease. It was a deadly, efficient piece of machinery, a far cry from the simple firearms of his own world.
He sat down at the newly acquired wooden table, the smooth surface cool beneath his fingers. He began to clean the gun, his movements surprisingly deft and practiced. It was a skill he had learned long ago, a skill that had once been a necessity, a skill he hadn't thought he would ever use again.
As he cleaned, his mind wandered. He thought about Anya, about her world, about the impossible situation he found himself in. He was stranded, alone, and utterly reliant on this strange, dangerous woman. And yet, he couldn't deny the growing sense of...connection he felt towards her.
He thought about the food he had cooked, the look on her face when she had tasted it, the tears in her eyes. He had given her a taste of something real, something she had never known, and it had affected her more profoundly than he could have imagined.
He thought about the way she had fought, the brutal efficiency, the terrifying grace. She was a warrior, a survivor, a force of nature. And yet, she was also...vulnerable. She was a woman who had been hurt, who had built walls around herself to protect herself from a world that had given her nothing but pain.
And he, Jaune Arc, the kind-hearted, somewhat hapless dimensional traveler, had somehow stumbled into her life, bringing with him a backpack full of impossible things and a naive desire to help.
He sighed, putting the now-clean handgun down on the table. He looked around the apartment, at the strange, incongruous mix of the sterile and the organic, the metallic and the wooden, the familiar and the alien.
"Well," he said to himself, a wry smile twisting his lips, "I guess this is my life now. Impromptu husband to a cybernetic mercenary in a dystopian future. Who would have thought?"
He picked up another weapon, a sleek, black blade that hummed with a faint energy. He examined it with a newfound respect. He had a feeling he was going to need to learn how to use this thing. And fast.