(Dylan)
The cosplayer pointed at Dylan, giving an order to Abs-for-days. Without knowing their actual names, he resorted to assigning them nicknames.
Abs-for-days gave a curt nod to the bossy cosplayer and looked Dylan up and down—sizing him up. The inflection of Abs’ speech suggested a question, but Dylan wasn’t sure—they were still speaking Sindarin, Welsh, or whatever. He stared at the stone side of Abs’ face; it moved seamlessly as he spoke. When their conversation ended, Abs snatched Dylan’s free wrist, and the cosplayer left them both.
Now, he was being led around by the other wrist. Abs spoke one blunt word. It could have been “move”, “go”, “come”, or “follow”—but it sure as hell wasn’t “please”. Then Abs marched him down the hall.
Dylan channeled his inner petulant child, dragging his feet and pulling against Abs’ grip, but it was no use. The skin around his wrist grew angry and red from his attempts. Abs was deceptively strong for someone who had barely been on their feet just minutes ago. Dylan fucked around and found out, quickly learning that he shouldn’t have. Abs stopped, turned around, and, without a word, bent down to pick Dylan up like a sack of potatoes.
“Oh my.” The maneuver took Dylan by surprise.
They proceeded down the hallway, with the elf carrying him over his shoulder as if he were an eighty-pound woman—not a two-hundred-something-pound man.
Dylan wasn’t sure exactly how much he weighed these days. The last time he checked, he’d been around two hundred and fifty pounds, but he stopped weighing himself after that—less depressing that way.
His improvised toga wasn’t doing much to defend his dignity in this position. Face flushed with embarrassment and nothing else to do, Dylan noticed the floor was a type of wood he’d never seen before. It was a deep, glossy purple—like an eggplant.
Straining to look higher, he saw the walls were black with an elegant, repeating gold design. Every few feet, a painting hung on the wall. By the third or fourth painting, Dylan realized they all depicted the same woman.
“What the…” Dylan muttered, trying to get a better look at the subject.
The paintings depicted a beautiful woman with sharp features, wearing a black velvet coat with ornate gold trim. Her fair skin contrasted with her glossy raven hair, cut short on top with long sideburns and bangs just above her eyebrows. A glowing emerald tiara rested atop her head, and her long, pointed ears completed the regal look. Her imperious expression suggested Dylan wasn’t even worthy of looking at her portrait.
“What in the Star Trek fanfiction…?” Dylan muttered aloud. Rolling thunder answered unintelligently. ‘Seriously, what kind of convention is this?’ he wondered, but that question would have to wait, along with what their “Princess Spock” obsession was all about.
They reached the end of the hallway, where it forked into two other paths. Curved elevator doors stood directly ahead.
‘Fancy.’
Abs stopped and set him down, pointing a finger at him—likely telling him to behave. At least, that’s what Dylan assumed. He sighed in relief—they hadn’t run into anyone else while his ass was hanging out. Abs placed his hand on a small stone slab beside the curved sliding doors, uttering a phrase.
Ding! The elevator chimed, opening to reveal a small circular room that might fit half a dozen people. The floor was a dark stone, with embedded, glowing fractal runes that pulsated between cyan and white.
They both stepped inside, standing in the middle as the doors closed behind them. At first, Dylan’s curiosity took over as he glanced around the cool, circular elevator. But when the walls moved, sliding upwards—that curiosity quickly turned to horror—there were no actual walls on this OSHA-violating deathtrap.
The world around him spun, and his stomach lurched as if it were trying to escape through his throat. His breath came in quick gasps, heart thudding wildly in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that would calm the sickening sensation. It didn’t. He felt as though he were free-falling, with nothing to grasp onto but the solid, unyielding form of Abs-for-days.
Dylan latched onto the shirtless elf, hugging him tightly as the disk continued its descent into the depths of hell. Blood-curdling screeches echoed the entire way down. This wasn’t an elevator—it was a goddamned terror tube.
Ding. The terror tube chimed and opened. The shirtless elf slapped at Dylan, trying to cover his mouth and stop the screaming, then shoved him out. Dylan fell silent as he took in his new surroundings.
The air smelled faintly of mildew and hay scattered across the floor. Dylan had lost all sense of time while screaming—he couldn’t even guess how deep underground they were. Encased in smooth stone walls, he realized he was in an actual dungeon. A shiver ran down his spine as the cold, damp atmosphere set in.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Rows of empty cells lined one wall. Abs grabbed Dylan’s arm, guiding him into his own cell. It had two benches, one on each side of the small space. Two buckets sat in the corner—one half-filled with water, the other empty and smelling foul.
‘No bars?’ Dylan thought. That seemed like an oversight.
Abs forced Dylan down onto a bench before walking over to another stone slab across the room. He placed his hand on it. Dylan glanced around, momentarily thinking he could escape—until the loud clang of metal slammed that hope shut. His heart jumped into his throat as the bars shot up from the ground like jagged teeth, sealing him in. The sheer speed of it made him flinch backward, and for a moment, he could only stare at the gleaming metal now trapping him.
“Holy shit!” Dylan jumped back, nearly soiling himself again. “Someone could get hurt with those.”
Ding. The terror tube chimed again, and the doors opened. Another Argonian cosplayer stepped out, carrying a familiar limp body over their shoulder. This one was shorter and more lithe than the others Dylan had seen earlier, with bronze scales and shades of dark green. He got the impression this one was female, though he couldn’t be sure—and there was no one around to correct him.
Two horns curled back from the top of her head like a ram’s. Over her bodysuit, she wore the same black fantasy attire as the others. She opened his cell and dropped the dead body next to him—it was the same woman from before.
Dylan tried a different approach. “I want to speak to my lawyer.” He was almost certain this was all a dream—but still wanted to figure it out.
Both cosplayers ignored him, sitting down at a small wooden table nearby. Abs pulled a deck of cards from his pocket, and they started a game.
‘Where are the first responders? There should be police, fire, and rescue all over this place. Hell, where’s Homeland Security?’ Thoughts raced through Dylan’s mind, but he hadn’t heard a single siren since he arrived.
“You can’t keep me here. I didn’t kill that lady,” Dylan protested, immediately realizing how guilty that made him sound.
His brain was being an asshole for dreaming all of this up. And why the hell would it invent a language he didn’t know?
After a moment of introspection, Dylan wondered, ‘Maybe this is the afterlife? If so, 0/10—do not recommend. Okay, 1/10, being able to see without glasses again is a nice touch.’
The female cosplayer made a comment toward Dylan with a vulgar inflection.
Dylan taunted the scary-looking woman. “Come over here and say that again—Oh shit.” Dylan watched her kick the chair back as she stood. “Oh fuck.”
She marched right up to the bars, stuck her long nose between them, and repeated herself, syllable for syllable—slowing it down so he could hear every word.
“Oh sure, you can understand me,” Dylan muttered. “Because that’s fair.”
She scoffed and rolled her eyes with impressive realism. Dylan had to admit, the animatronics were truly impeccable. Narrowing her eyes, she growled something so foul that even Abs looked disturbed.
Abs got up, scooting his chair back before walking over and planting himself between them. He placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke calmly. She threw her head back, laughing—and Dylan suspected it wasn’t the cheerful kind. It had the vibe of someone who’d either lost their grip on sanity, or had simply reached their limit—or both.
Abs placed a hand on her back and gently guided her back to their card game, waiting at the table.
“That’s right,” Dylan said, but before he could stop himself, added, “You better walk away.” He winced the second he got the words out. ‘Goddamnit, Dylan.’ And that was the moment he knew—he fucked up.
Abs’ jaw went slack. He glanced at her and shook his head, silently pleading for her to ignore the idiot. She tried to shove him aside as he wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her back. Abs earned a stomp on his foot and an elbow to his stomach for his efforts. She broke free of his hold and stormed toward Dylan.
Abs bolted to the terror tube and slapped the slab to summon it in a frantic rush. Ding!
Dylan watched as she stalked toward his cell, using the slab to lower the bars. They made a grinding noise as they sank into the floor, stopping with a unified thunk.
The furious woman took a knee, drawing a pink crystal dagger from her boot. If she wanted to threaten him, it was working—Dylan felt very threatened. She lunged at him, gripping his throat with her free hand, and squeezed.
‘Shit, she’s strong.’ Dylan thought, unable to speak as she crushed his throat.
He raised both hands, trying to pry himself free of her grip—a mistake. She took the opening and plunged the dagger into his stomach. His breath hitched on the first strike.
‘Am I going to die?’ he asked himself.
She ripped the dagger out and plunged it back in again. Dylan still couldn’t breathe. The second strike tore into his innards, slicing through him. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision as the ambient cold sapped away his strength with every stab.
Dylan could feel it. ‘I’m going to die,’ he thought.
Blood soaked through his toga, mixing with the green stains Abs had left earlier. Dylan’s arms grew sluggish, unable to keep up with the relentless dagger strikes.
She released her grip on his throat, shoving him back before stepping away to admire her work. Something about his blood caught her attention. Curiosity flickered across her face as she squinted at the red streaks.
Dylan collapsed, clutching his stomach, a futile attempt to keep his innards where they belonged. He half expected the white lizard-man from before to step out of the terror tube and heal him, just so they could continue torturing him.
The murderous Argonian cosplayer seemed to multiply in front of him as his vision blurred. Dylan glanced down at his trembling, bloodstained hands and his ruined toga.
‘That’s a lot of blood… too much,’ Dylan thought.
His thoughts drifted to the dead woman beside him, realizing he’d soon join her. His dying brain was doing a terrible job. This wasn’t how he was supposed to die. Where was his peaceful ending?
Something tore inside him with every shallow breath. Where were his ancestors and old friends to welcome him into the afterlife? All he had was this dead woman beside him—a stranger he didn’t even know.
He stared at her blank, lifeless face, feeling a strange sense of kinship with this nameless corpse. They were both just bodies now—waiting for the inevitable. He’d never felt so utterly helpless, so disconnected from everything. The thought of dying alone weighed heavily on him. But maybe his time in the waking world was up, and his brain had given him as long as it could.
The lizard-man never came. Numb and exhausted, Dylan closed his eyes for just a minute. In that moment, his heart, drained and struggling, finally gave out—Dylan died.