FEAST OR FAMINE
ACT ONE: Wonderland
PART ONE: “Welcome to Wonderland” OR “Cost-Benefit Analysis as Calculated by a Madwoman”
> “Who are you?” said the Caterpillar.
>
> This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I–I hardly know, sir, just at present–at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”
>
> “What do you mean by that?” said the Caterpillar sternly. “Explain yourself!”
>
> “I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir,” said Alice, “because I’m not myself, you see.”
>
> Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
When I was a little girl, I loved to read. I read every book I could get my hands on, from quaint little tales to sprawling epics meant for adult eyes only. I didn’t distinguish; a book was a book, and any page with words on it was worth reading.
As I grew older my sense of taste sharpened and my eye became more discerning, but I have never let go of the wonder that fills me when I open a new book and breathe in a new world. When I read a story I immerse myself in it; I walk through a world of ink and paper as the chosen protagonist of the tale, and I feel as they feel, think as they think. It allows me, if only for those few precious moments, to imagine that I am in another world.
I’ve always dreamed of falling down the rabbit hole like bold little Alice–I even entertained the idea of going by Alice when I renamed myself, but settled on Morgan because it was nice and neutral–or being whisked away by summoning spell or errant Japanese delivery truck to the world of an isekai light novel. I would give anything to live a life of magic and mystery and adventure. I would give my whole world to be taken to another.
The reality isn’t quite what I was expecting.
My eyes open from dreamless sleep and I find myself standing in a classroom with three solid walls and an infinite chasm of darkness in the place of the fourth. My gaze darts about as I take in new information and attempt to process it. This isn’t my bedroom. Am I dreaming? This doesn’t feel like a dream. Focus, gather data, analyze.
For a moment I set aside the plunging emptiness from which no light escapes and examine the classroom that doesn’t really look like a classroom. There are desks and chairs in neat little rows, and on the far wall behind the teacher’s desk there is a chalkboard with “WELCOME” written in a rainbow of colors. No chalk, I note, and nothing on any of the desks, even the teacher’s desk. The three walls still standing are barren of any posters or projects or those tacky little mottoes that teachers so love to hang up. There’s a door to my right, another concession to normalcy, but there are no signs of habitation or use in the whole room, and though I can see as clear as day there are no lights amid the ceiling tiles above.
And then there is, of course, the matter of the yawning abyss.
I step up to the edge and peer into the darkness, watching the barely perceptible roil of shadow. Something is moving in the depths, or there is the illusion of motion, but like an optical trick I can’t quite make out what. It’s not like outer space–no pinpricks of starlight shimmer in the dark–but there’s texture to it, a sense of dimension that I can’t quite wrap my brain around. It isn’t normal. It fascinates me.
I stick a hand past the dividing line and feel the darkness against my skin. It isn’t cold like the dark of space or the dark of night; this dark is warm and soft, almost comforting, but alive too. Like putting your hand against someone’s forehead when they’re sick; feverish. I wave my hand through the fever-warm dark and meet no resistance. It’s just air and darkness and dull heat.
I pull back into the cold, empty classroom, or what might be the facsimile of a classroom. A simulacrum of the real. An impossibility. Elation bubbles in my lungs and courses through my veins but I force it down, not yet, not yet. One more experiment. One more test before we can be certain.
I grab the nearest desk, check that it’s empty–it is–and shove it toward the edge. My scrawny bookworm arms strain more than they really should for an object that honestly isn’t that heavy, but I’ve never been the athletic type and my atrophied muscles protest even the slightest exertion. I push the desk until it teeters on the brink of the abyss, then give it one good kick and let gravity handle the rest.
Gravity does not oblige. The desk neither flies off the edge nor tumbles into the depths; it just dips and keeps dipping until all of it has slipped into the endless blackness, and then it gently drifts out into the void, rotating slowly with the last of the momentum I gave it. No friction drags against it, so it floats off at a steady rate, getting smaller and dimmer, until the shadows swallow it whole.
I can’t help it: I start laughing. I laugh and laugh until my lungs ache and I have to steady myself against the nearest wall just to remain standing. It bubbles out of me in bursts and waves, an inconstant cascade lacking in rhythm or reason. Tears stain my cheeks with wet, salty joy. Magic. That’s magic. I’ve found magic. I’ve finally found magic. I sweep a hand at the abyss. Nothing like that can exist, right? A void without gravity, warm, connected to a room affected by gravity, cold. No membrane between them, no separation. That breaks at least two laws of physics, right? Has to be magic.
As my laughter dies for lack of breath, the first question I asked returns to the forefront: Am I dreaming?
Immediately I grimace at the question. Of course we’re not dreaming. What about this feels like dreaming. Why even question if we’re dreaming?
The impossible room with its impossible void, I counter dryly.
I feel too lucid to be dreaming. I can think, feel, move. I can contemplate my own existence and act with free will. I can read writing and perceive color. I rake my nails across my cheek and feel the sensation of pressure transmitted to my brain as a light, pleasant pain. I feel the nerves tingle even after my fingers are drawn away. I am not dreaming. I know I’m not dreaming.
So where are we?
The answer is obvious: Another world. I’m in another world. I’m in another world and it has magic! I’m not dreaming, but this is all I’ve ever dreamed. I’m in the kind of story I’ve read about and fantasized about a hundred thousand times!
I squeal loudly and hug myself, grinning and wiggling as I lean against the wall, and it’s only then that I notice what I’m wearing: a navy-blue blazer over a white blouse, a pleated gray skirt that stops just above white knee socks, and black dress shoes that look fresh out of the box. My joy is slapped with indignation and I scowl.
“Really? A schoolgirl uniform? I can drink! I’m in college! If this is some fetish thing I am going to be very cross. Do you hear that, whatever or whoever brought me here? Cross!”
It doesn’t even have pockets. And it should have pockets! The blazer has what looks like a pocket, but it’s been stitched over so you can’t actually put anything in it. Unbelievable. What a miserable excuse for an article of clothing.
I fidget with the traitorous stitching as I push off the wall, that spike of anger bringing my focus back to practical matters. I am in another world, or at least someplace so unlike the familiar that it might as well be another world. This world has magic, which is incredible, but I’m also in a weird not-quite-classroom with only the clothes on my back and my wits, and the clothes are pretty sub-par. I need more resources and fast before whatever dangers exist in this world get a whiff of easy prey.
We probably should have thought of that before laughing loud enough to disturb the underworld. If there’s anything nasty waiting in the wings, it definitely knows we’re here.
Yeah. Shit. I need a weapon.
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I quickly move to each desk and peer inside for useful loot. The desks are all spotlessly clean, not even a layer of dust, and all but one are completely empty. In the exception I find a stoppered glass bottle, unmarked, filled with green liquid I don’t recognize. Potion? Bottles of weird liquid are usually potions in fantasy settings.
That’s assuming this is a fantasy story, which isn’t a sure bet. Sure, the abyss is pretty unscientific, but unnatural abandoned schools are pretty common in supernatural horror.
I take the mystery bottle and am forced to hold it one hand as I do not have any pockets to store it in. I take off my pocketless blazer and use it to wrap the maybe-potion so it won’t break if I accidentally drop it, which is depressingly likely to happen.
Step one: find a weapon. Step two: find some fucking pockets.
I turn the door handle and step out into a plain, sterile hallway. Plain wooden floor, plain ceiling tiles once again devoid of lights–I can still see perfectly well, though the lighting is a little colder than sunlight–and more doors interspersed regularly. No writing on or above the doors, no grime or signs of decay. To my right, the hall turns a corner and continues out of sight. To my left, there’s a ghost.
She’s got skin paler than mine–which I assure you is an achievement, as I detest being under the harsh light of the daystar–and stringy black hair that completely obscures her face. She’s wearing a gauzy white dress that seems to flutter in an unfelt breeze, and her bare feet are covered in dirt. She stands there with her arms at her sides, so still you could mistake her for a statue or a photo image if not for the fluttering dress. She is, to put it cleanly, the very image of a Japanese horror ghost girl.
We don’t know she’s a ghost. She might just have bad haircare and avoid sunlight, like you.
Hey! I take excellent care of my hair.
I turn to face the almost-certainly-a-ghost and wave. “Hey there! Quick question: are you a ghost? Because that would really help me pin down the genre of this setting. My gut says isekai fantasy, but my gut is a dumb series of meat tubes and the abandoned school suggests something more urban or supernatural, and if you’re a ghost that’s a strong tick for the horror column. It’s important to know your genre when waking up in another world.”
The pale woman doesn’t respond, but she does take a step forward. Her body twists at an odd angle, her movement twitchy and unnatural in the exact way J-horror ghosts tend to move.
“I guess that’s kind of an answer but I would really prefer something more concrete and definite, please and thank you,” I say as I carefully step back. “Anything? Just going to continue being silent? You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you?”
It’s weird that I’m not afraid right now. I’m usually terrified of ghosts in movies, or of anything that reminds me of death. Why isn’t this scaring me?
The very-definitely-a-ghost ignores me, rudely, and continues stuttering forward step-by-step. I keep pace, trying not to make any moves that are too sudden or aggressive. She’s stick-thin and frail-looking, but so am I, and unlike me ghosts are rarely burdened by the curse of flesh.
“No offense, but you seem like trouble. I’m just going to go head in the other direction, okay? We cool? Cool.”
I wave goodbye to the ghost lady and keep my eyes trained on her as I walk backwards toward the corner turn. She doesn’t increase her pace as I increase mine, which I take as a good sign. When my back hits the wall my gaze automatically flits toward the new hall on my right, and when I snap back to the girl in pale she’s right in front of me raising a kitchen knife over her head.
She stabs the knife down at my delicate, vulnerable body, and my piss-poor reflexes are way too slow to save me. The impulse to dodge has only just reached my muscles when the knife sinks into my left shoulder. Pain lances through that arm and makes my fingers convulse involuntarily. I scream at the sudden, blinding agony and my other hand clenches around the blazer-wrapped bottle. Before I can think to do something, anything, the pale lady rips the knife back out and looms over me.
It hurts, it hurts, why does it hurt so much? I stumble away from my assailant into the hall around the corner and grit my teeth against the pain as a whimper escapes my lips. My injured arm is shaking and blood soaks into my blouse. I can still move my arm but every motion brings a fresh spike of pain and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. I glance back at the pale woman but she’s just standing there, still as a statue, watching me.
There’s a noise echoing off the walls, echoing out of her, a staccato pattern somewhere between gurgling and clicking, and there’s a note of amusement to it. Entertainment. She’s laughing at me. My shoulder is bleeding, my nerve endings are shrieking, and she is laughing at me. Mocking me.
Fury joins the pain.
She takes a step forward and I take a step back, but I know she’s just toying with me. She could be on me again in a single blink but she’s drawing this out so she can play with her food. Maybe she wants me to be afraid, wants to taste my terror and feed on it, but I feel no fear. There is only the red haze of anger and pain mixing together in my veins and pouring over my body from the wound in my shoulder. I can’t outrun her. I can’t reason with her. The only way out is through.
No weapons. No chance of disarming her. The only tool at my disposal is the bottle. Another exchange of steps. Another shock of blistering pain. If it’s a healing potion, drinking it will only delay the inevitable. If it’s harmful, drinking it is a bad idea anyway. Easy choice.
Another step, flinch, pause, and I pull the blazer off the bottle. I clutch the jacket with my weaker hand while my uninjured hand grips the bottle tight. I only get one chance at this.
My opponents tilts her head as if curious, and this time when her hair shifts it stops covering her face. The upper half of her face would almost be normal if it weren’t for the blood pooling in empty eye sockets, but the lower half of her face is a mass of needle-teeth from ear-to-ear, rows and rows of sharpened enamel like the mouth of a shark but somehow wider and deeper.
The monster comes closer and I don’t move away. Pause, step, pause, step. She’s an arm’s length away now, and when she takes her next step I move at the same time. I swing the bottle at her face as she lunges at me with the knife and she’s still faster, damn her, but she doesn’t even try to dodge my attack.
Her knife stabs into my outer thigh, another shock of agony but nothing lethal, and when the glass bottle shatters against her needle-toothed face and the green liquid within begins to seep into her hair and skin and teeth, everything the liquid touches starts to melt.
The monster lets go of her knife and claws at her face, a surprisingly human scream emitting from her throat before it is silenced by the acid eating into her flesh. I stare with wide eyes as the acid corrodes her clutching hands and I spare a moment to be relieved that I never tried to drink that horrid elixir. Then I let the anger back in.
I pull the knife out of my leg, a terrible decision for my health but an excellent decision for my having a knife. The lady in white falls to her knees, still grasping at her melting face, and I drive the knife into her shoulder. I sink it deep and twist, enjoying the feeling as the knife meets resistance and pushes through. I withdraw the knife and stab her thigh, repaying her for both wounds, but her throat is melting and she can’t scream like I did so it isn’t enough, it hasn’t been made fair. I stab her again, again, again, again, not caring where the blows land so long as they draw blood. Her insides are human, I discover, despite how inhuman her face looked, and she bleeds the same red as coats my clothing. The body stills and I keep hacking, slashing, stabbing, chopping, until the last of my fury spills out and the exhaustion hits me all at once.
I slump against the wall next to the corpse. I breathe: in, out, in, out. Heavy gulps of precious oxygen. Adrenaline fading. Crash. The last of the awful energy that filled me as I butchered the not-quite-human monster escapes from my chest in uncontrollable laughter. I laugh and shudder and collapse, spent, on the wooden floor now covered in our blood.
I want to lie there for an eternity. I want to lie there and hug myself and ignore the world around me, but the pain forces me to keep moving. My shoulder and my leg both ache and burn, demanding my attention. I’m losing blood, but not quickly; given that monster’s sadism, I suspect luck isn’t to blame for my survival. I’m familiar enough with the sight of my own blood to know that neither wound will kill me if I stop the bleeding, but I still need to stop the fucking bleeding.
I cut my blazer up with my new knife, roughly sawing through the cloth with a blade not meant for the task. It suffices, and I tie a makeshift bandage around each injury. My shoulder is harder to bandage than my leg thanks to some awkward angles involved, but I’m well-practiced at the art of wound care.
After tending my fresh wounds I force myself to my feet and stare down at the mess I’ve made; my blouse is more red than white, and even after wiping my hands on my skirt they’re still stained with my own blood and that of the monster. The thing that tried to kill me is in a much worse state, of course. It failed, and it died. I killed it.
But only barely, comes the thought unbidden. Only because it was playing with you. Only because the liquid in the bottle was acid. You stumbled about while it laughed at you, and then you got lucky. The roll of a metaphysical d20 was all that kept you from being dead on the ground in that thing’s place.
I squeeze my knife. We won. We won, and that’s all that matters. There’s no point in obsessing over might-have-beens. We won, and we will keep winning. I’m not dying here. This is my story, and I’m going to win.
How? How are you going to win? You traded acid for a knife that you don’t know how to use.
It’s a knife. It’s not hard. Just stick them with the pointy end. I stick the corpse again to illustrate my point, and my upper lip curls.
There’s a pretty big difference between stabbing a dead woman and battling a living being. Face it: you’re weak, you’re clumsy, and you’re slow. You’re more likely to hurt yourself with that thing than you are to actually take someone in a fight.
“Shut up!” I hiss, hands starting to shake. “Shut up, shut up, just shut the fuck up and leave me alone. I don’t need this right now, I really, really don’t need this, so just shut up!”
You’re the one making noise. Attracting more monsters. It’ll be your fault when they come, and then they’ll laugh at your little knife and tear you to pieces. They’ll kill you. But maybe that’s what–
I slap myself, hard. My head jerks to the side and my injured arm screams but I let both stay at that odd angle, staring into nothing. There is silence. There is stillness.
I straighten up and force a smile to my face. “I am calm. I am in control. This is my story, and I am going to win.”
I grip the knife tightly and start walking.