(Dylan)

White won after only a couple minutes. The silence was agonizing, and Dylan’s innate curiosity quickly became unbearable.

“What’s with the ball?” Dylan asked. His curiosity had gnawed at him since he first spotted it.

A clear crystal ball sat on a wooden stand in the center of the table. It flashed purple for a second and then returned to its previous transparency. That pulse snatched Dylan’s attention and White remained silent.

Before he could stop himself, Dylan asked, “Is this some sort of magical lie detector?”

The crystal ball pulsed purple once again. White finally broke his silence, murmuring a few words. Dylan noticed the ball remained clear when White spoke.

Dylan frowned, shaking his head. “That’s not very fair.” The crystal ball pulsed blue. He threw his hand up in frustration. “I can’t understand you!” he snapped, tired of the foreign language bullshit. The ball pulsed blue again.

White leaned forward to get a better look at Dylan’s hands. Feeling self-conscious of his filthy fingers, he pulled them back and hid them under the table in his lap.

Dylan watched something click for White as he nodded to himself. Turning around in his seat, he sent Abs to fetch something for him. This was another assumption on Dylan’s part, but Abs nodded and left the room while White turned back around, folded his clawed hands on the table, resumed his vow of silence, and waited.

Dylan wanted to test a theory and said, “My name is John Cena.” He watched as the crystal ball pulsed red and then he started rapid fire statements to confirm the suspicion.

“I’m thirty-five years old.” Blue.

“I’ve got short, wiry dark hair.” Blue.

“I’m thin and attractive.” Purple. He paused and pondered on what that meant and then shrugged—at least it wasn’t red.

“People say I look like an overweight Dylan O’Brien.” Blue.

“I’m tall.” Red.

“That’s mean.” Blue.

“But I’m five eleven.” Red.

“Fine, I’m five ten.” Red.

Dylan huffed and said, “Come on, I’m at least five nine and a half.” Blue.

White blinked as he listened to Dylan put his mystical crystal ball through its paces.

“I’ve got a huge—”

Abs walked into the room, and Dylan swore he saw the tiniest glimmer of blue in that ball before being interrupted. The elf looked apprehensive—like a kid who’d just broken his dad’s model rocket after being warned a billion times not to kick the ball in the house.

‘Not that I’ve ever done that before,’ Dylan thought. The crystal ball pulsed red.

“It can read my thoughts?!” It pulsed blue, and Dylan did his best to stop thinking.

Abs leaned in and whispered to White. The ivory dragon-man closed his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. It appeared Abs had failed in his quest to get White what he’d asked for.

White gave another order to the shirtless elf, but instead of nodding and complying, he looked at White incredulously. Slowly turning around to face him, White raised his eyebrows at Abs. The shirtless elf reluctantly tugged off a ring he was wearing. He didn’t seem happy about it, and he spitefully threw it at Dylan.

It hit the table, letting out two clangs before rolling off the ledge and past Dylan. The sound reminded him of a quarter falling out of his pocket, back when they still used coins and cash. He watched it fall to the floor, hit the wall behind him, swirling—seemingly forever.

White gestured to the ring lying on its side, and just then, a faint Ding! echoed through the room. They all turned toward the open door, where someone had just stepped off the terror tube, shouting down the hallway. Abs quickly darted out, joining in the commotion.

Dylan thought it might be Bronze. She sounded mad—big mad.

White’s chair chirped as he stood up to see what was going on. After he disappeared through the door, Dylan looked around the room—he was alone. Cautiously, he got up and made his way to the door to peek at what was happening in the hallway.

All three were in the middle of a heated argument. Bronze jabbed a clawed finger into White’s chest, while Abs wrapped an arm around her waist, trying to pull her back—a move that, if Dylan remembered correctly, hadn’t worked well the last time. White’s voice rose, the first sign that he was losing his cool and control of the situation.

‘This is it,’ Dylan thought. The moment he was waiting for. This was his opportunity to escape. The terror tube at the end of the hallways would ironically be his salvation. He bolted from the doorway.

‘I can do this,’ he told himself.

Adrenaline was one hell of a drug. It turned a middle-aged, out of shape man into a rocket. He was moving at a pace that Past Dylan would have envied. But speed, as theoretical physicists often stated, was relative. And he really wasn’t going that fast.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

He tried to remember how the terror tube worked, but all that came to mind was closing his eyes and screaming.

‘Fuck.’ He hadn’t actually seen Abs use the lift. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck…’ he thought as he had no choice but to commit to his poorly devised plan.

The three of them stopped arguing to watch an out-of-shape man threaten to blow out a knee with every step, exchanging looks of disbelief as he huffed past. White motioned with his head toward the slowly escaping prisoner.

Abs frowned, shook his head, and summoned an ornate green bow. With a smooth motion, he drew back the string, an arrow materializing as it notched itself, ready to fly. A moment later and the arrow had already sailed through the air and buried itself into Dylan’s calf as he cried out.

Dylan fell to the ground, accidentally slipping out of his toga. His momentum transitioned into a tumble. Brilliant, blinding flashes of pain shot up his leg as the arrow caught and dragged along the floor with blatant disregard for his impaled calf.

The glossy floor had the slightest bit of tack, and Dylan’s mostly bare skin followed a repeated pattern of catching, bunching, and skipping as he streaked along. Finally, he came to an unceremonious, screeching halt on his stomach. His bare chin chattered along the floor as it too skipped along, threatening to chip his teeth against each other.

Out of breath, Dylan laid there, naked, ass-up, shot through the leg, and half his body covered in friction burns.

“That’s going to leave a mark,” Dylan groaned as he rolled onto his back. He stared down at the arrow lodged in his leg. “Where’d that come from?” He didn’t remember anyone having a bow a minute ago.

Bronze reached him first. Her fist shifted into dark metal. White’s urgent shouts cut off when she struck Dylan, crushing his skull—killing him instantly.

> Death 2 - Voidspace

>

> Absence is what defines voidspace—a realm where nothing but time and souls exist, suspended in a state of in-between. It lacks everything—sensation, thought, and form—an endless void devoid of meaning, save for one thing: purpose. In its emptiness, voidspace serves as a cradle for souls, a place where they are prepared for what comes next, stripped of the burdens of their previous lives. But for Dylan, that process was cut short once again, as the tether yanked him back.

[Time orb]: [Dejavu] triggered. Wait.

Dylan found himself back in the interrogation room, sitting in the uncomfortable chair, staring at White.

[Time orb]: Thirty-Three Resets remain.

Dylan’s chair honked as he kicked back from the table, surprising White and sending Abs into motion. His hands moved to his head, feeling for any metal fist-shaped dents. White held up his hand, claw, or whatever he called it, and the shirtless elf stood down, returning to his post at the door. Dylan found his head as round as usual and with no unexpected dents.

His eyes darted around the room, looking for the double murderer, but she wasn’t in the room with them.

“It happened again,” Dylan muttered.

The crystal ball pulsed blue. White spoke directly to Dylan again, his tone rising at the end—another question, no doubt.

Dylan was still trying to figure out the language. “High Valyrian? Latin?” The crystal ball pulsed red.

Dylan sighed. “We’ve been through this before.” He crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

The crystal ball pulsed blue. White’s head tilted ever so slightly. He beckoned Abs, giving him the same order as before, and Abs was off on his impossible sidequest.

White resumed watching Dylan closely, employing the same silent tactic as before. Dylan scooted the chair forward one honk at a time until he was back at the table. Three honks later, he decided—he wouldn’t let White win twice in a row. Still bothered by his unsightly fingers, he worked at cleaning the gunk from under his nails—one of his many ticks when he got nervous or bored. Here it was both.

After doing his best to ignore the leering dragon-man, who seemed to have eyes only for him, and picking both sets of fingernails clean, Dylan reached for his phone to check the time.

‘Goddamnit.’ Dylan sighed, remembering it was still missing. Leaning to the side, he tried peeking around the massive ivory-scaled dinosaur to see through the door and into the hallway.

Dylan still couldn’t figure out if they were supposed to be reptiles, dinosaurs, or dragons. Technically, dinosaurs were just giant reptiles that’d gone extinct. His face scrunched up as he kept cooking on the conundrum.

Weren’t dragons supposed to have wings? Another glance at White confirmed the distinct lack of them. And neither reptiles nor dinosaurs seemed to fully describe these bipedal, talking, stab-happy, magic-wielding creatures. If he had to choose on the spot, Dylan would’ve gone with dragons. Countless stories depicted them as sentient magic users, with a penchant for shiny objects and burninating the countryside.

The crystal ball struggled to keep up with the rapid pulses of purple and blue as Dylan cooked. White followed Dylan’s gaze, turning in his seat to glance out the door behind him.

“He should be back by now…” Dylan muttered, grimacing as he mentally added another win to White’s tally.

The crystal ball pulsed blue. The frown sitting on White’s face told Dylan they shared the same thought. White huffed and resigned himself to standing, his chair barking in compliance. Pointing a clawed finger at Dylan, he gestured for him to remain seated while he stepped out. Dylan nodded compliantly, not like there was anywhere for him to go, anyway.

White left the room. As he stepped into the hallway, Dylan heard a loud crack. The corner of a painting smacked White in the head, shattering into pieces as the ivory dragon-man stumbled out of Dylan’s view.

Dylan stood up. “What the f—”

A bloodcurdling roar cut him off. White wasn’t just mad—he was fucking pissed. He reappeared in the doorway, blue blood streaming from the side of his head, just below his crest. Pressing a hand to the wound, smoky gray energy flared. When White dropped his hand, the injury was gone, replaced by a stony patch of gray.

White threw his arms up, deflecting another cartwheeling portrait that splintered into debris on impact. Someone was hurling them with impressive power and accuracy.

A domed shell formed over White, shimmering with a spectrum of colors. Moments later, it dissipated from sight. White rolled his shoulders, and a massive pair of leathery wings erupted from his back, manifesting right through his robes.

“Dragons…” Dylan concluded. “Definitely dragons.”

A wave of compulsion hit Dylan, forcing fear, uncertainty, and doubt to bubble to the surface. He ducked behind the table in response, his curiosity struggling to overcome the cowardice flooding him. Peeking above the table, he watched White stalk out of view.

Dylan’s courage returned the moment White was out of sight. Knowing magic was real, he suspected White had some kind of fear aura. Standing up from behind the table, Dylan hurried to the doorframe. His thoughts turned back to his mortality and fragility as he cautiously poked his head past the threshold, catching sight of the dragon again, confirming his suspicion.

The hallway seemed smaller now—like returning to your old middle school as an adult. White had always been massive, but now he was even larger, his wingspan tripling his size and taking up most of the hallway’s width. Dylan noticed that one wall was now bereft of Lady Spock portraits—their shattered pieces scattered across the floor.

Dylan’s stomach dropped as vertigo hit him. An unfamiliar masked figure ran along the other wall, the one still lined with paintings. Gripping the doorframe tightly, Dylan grounded himself, realizing he wasn’t actually falling—the new guy seemed to be casually ignoring the laws of gravity.