Prompt:

A message arrives for your character inviting them to attend the Survival of the Fittest Beach Summer Camp. They pack their belongings into a small bag and wait as the bus arrives to take them to the train station. The bus driver is a huge angry looking man, his dark brown eyes stare at your character, watching every move as they board the bus. He slams his foot down on the accelerator and the bus flies down the road. The passengers are thrown across the bus, the man sings loudly. His booming voice and the screams of the other passengers give your character a headache and make them feel really sick. Your character must get the driver to slow down for a safer ride.

All you have to do is find the perfect song in the glovebox to calm him down.

* * * * *

Meixong jolted awake. A torrent of information flooded their mind—a large white, black, and orange carriage sat in front of them, five to seven people lined up to climb in, and they were sitting under some sort of canopy to name a few—either way, no matter what they saw, they were not where they were a second ago.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Please refrain from calling me 'sir' or 'ma'am' of any kind," Meixong replied automatically, still trying to sort through their disorientation. Their head whipped to the side where the voice spoke a moment later, however, realizing what they had said. It was a woman wearing a style dress they had never seen before, but she was certainly not one of their soldiers. "Apologies, that was uncalled for. Force of habit."

The woman, while startled at first, gave a hesitant but warm smile. "Oh, no worries! I shouldn't have assumed. Sorry that I scared you, though, but I wanted to make sure you knew the bus had arrived."

As a testament to her statement, she motioned to the odd-colored carriage.

It took a moment for Meixong to absorb all that had happened in the past minute—which was honestly a remarkable feat all things considered. One second they were leaning against the sharp stone walls of the fortress, reminiscing and enjoying the sun with Ren, and the next, they were—well, here. Nor did the strange hum of the bus elude them, something obviously used as transportation and yet didn't have any horses or dragons pulling it. Strange people, strange clothes, strange...everything. They didn't know how they got here or why, but this was not their world.

They suddenly looked down at themself, realizing the familiar tightness of a sword belt was absent. No, there was no belt, nor was there anything familiar on them. Instead of their usual white button-up, black trousers, and leather boots, they wore a sleek-looking dark green jacket (What were they trying to be? An Elva or an Arcloven?), a charcoal grey vest under that, a different white button-up underneath that—at least that was somewhat the same minus the charcoal grey fabric necklace around the collar—matching green trousers that looked to be of the same material, and black shoes in a style they've never seen. Not that they really paid attention to the latest fashion, but they could at least identify the common.

...What the hell were they wearing?

"Get in!" A harsh voice barked from the bus, causing Mexiong to look up sharply and for the woman to jump. A large man sat at the front holding onto a wheel, large and angry.

Together they approached the bus—Meixong grabbed the handle of a rectangular bag that they instinctively knew was theirs. Meixong stepped to the side at the door and let the woman board first. She was wearing heels, after all, and they wanted to make sure she didn't fall while climbing the steep steps. Apparently, the impractical shoe was still a thing in this world.

Once onboard, they both made their way to the nearest open seats. The woman slid next to the window near the back of the bus. There were other seats available, but Meixong had a bad feeling about the whole situation. For one, the coachman—they thought the angry man was the coachman—hadn't taken his eyes off them ever since they boarded, his body twisted around as they glared. Two, all the other passengers seemed to fear the man, all of them glancing warily at him to some degree. Three, music filled the air, but it crackled and repeated only a few measures before starting over. Over, and over, and over again; three, 4/4 measures. Meixong slowly lifted their bag overhead where other bags were stored, careful not to make any sudden movements.

Easy come, easy go. Little high, little low. Any way the wind blows, doesn't—

They barely had time to sit before the bus lurched forward.

Their head slammed into the back of their seat, and their arms braced in front of them as the bus continued accelerating. Screams of terror filled the bus, alerting Meixong that this experience was indeed abnormal. Dangerously so. Someone shouted for the bus driver—they supposed that made sense—to slow down. Bags from the overhead compartments fell to the floor as the bus swerved. And all above the din was a booming voice, singing at the top of his lungs.

Meixong managed to lean over to the center aisle, their knuckles near-white as they gripped onto the seat. The bus driver could've been mistaken for a statue if it weren't for one arm jerking the wheel side-to-side while the other violently smashed against one of the many buttons nearby. His arms were stiff and the veins stuck up below his skin. It took a moment for Meixong to hear it, but they soon realized they recognized the tune.

The man was singing the same three, 4/4 measures that the music was skipping back to.

Briefly opening their hand, Meixong let magic ripple down their fingers, relieved that they were able to keep one thing from their world. They had no idea what contraption the bus driver was trying to activate, but maybe if they fix it...It must be the music. There simply wasn't any other explanation without straight-up murdering the man, which wasn't exactly on the agenda for Meixong.

Much to the surprise of everyone around them, Meixong stood. They had been a Dragonmage for years. Their core and balance had been honed to withstand sudden movements. Granted, they didn't dare attempt to test that theory—they were too old to be that reckless—always making sure they had a firm hold on something before taking another step.

Bit by bit they crept forward until they reached the control unit—they really needed to learn the names of these things, but that would have to wait—and with a few cautious glances at the driver, they kneeled on the ground. Next to the button the man—by this time—had crushed deep into the base was a slit about six inches wide, and besides that was a porous surface where the music was coming from. The noise was deafening.

But no matter. Pressing their ear to the slit, they could hear a whirling, clicking sound coming from within. There was something inside, and that must have been where the problem was. Meixong didn't know any of the buttons—whether or not one of them got the item out—so they did it the old-fashioned way: draw it out with magic. What they didn't expect, however, was for a disk to pop out of the slit, nearly hitting them across the nose. The music came to a blaring halt.

Meixong snapped their attention onto the man, freezing where they sat. They could almost feel the other passengers do the same as the bus suddenly grew quiet. But the man continued singing, repeating the phrase like nothing happened. They let out a sigh of relief at that, and Meixong glanced down at the disk. A large crack roughed the edge of it.

Well, there's not much I know about this, Meixong thought grimly. There was a certain art that came to repairing anything with magic, and that included at least some knowledge of how it worked. So let's hope the source magic of this world knows what it's doing.

With a faint, blue gleam, Meixong pulled at the edge of the disk, rounding out the sides and mending the crack until it looked to be a perfect circle once again. Double check...triple check...this had to be done right. People's lives depended on them, and Meixong almost laughed at themself for the anxiety that bubbled up inside of them. They were one of three generals holding the front together; they should be used to this pressure.

They hesitated before feeding it back into the slit, almost jumping in surprise when it went in by itself. Whatever it was, the device already knew what to do with the disk, and soon the music returned. And Meixong held their breath.

Easy come, easy go. Little high, little low. Any way the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me. To me.

The reaction was instantaneous. The man's face dropped along with his volume, his expression now impassive. His hand stopped mashing the poor button as he sang along to the unfamiliar song. From where Meixong sat, they could feel the bus gradually decelerating to a more manageable—and safer—speed. Everything felt like it was under control for once.

After a minute had passed—Meixong waiting to see if everything was truly alright—they slowly stood, groaning under their breath at their now-sore legs. No one spoke a word to them or to each other as they staggered back to their seat, but they could see the relief in their eyes and even received a few grateful nods.

Almost as heavily as before, but this time of their own volition, Meixong sat, their head hitting the back of their seat and their hands holding loosely onto the seat in front of them. That was when they glanced at the woman beside them, the one who helped them from the start. Her hands still clung onto her skirt, and her skin had paled, but she was otherwise unharmed.

"So," Meixong began candidly, "where am I?"