In the beginning, there was darkness. There was silence.

It was not the darkness of an endless void. Nor was it the crushing, inky blackness of abyssal depths. It wasn’t the nothingness, the lack of everything, that preceded the emergence of light. But it was close to that. It was the darkness of absence. Of sleep.

And at first that was all Jordan knew. He would have preferred to stay there too, but the darkness waned as he awoke. His mind worked slowly to coalesce into a semblance of existence, but something was waiting for him on the other side.

Pain. Throbbing, burning pain that ebbed and flowed and made everything an unending torment. He knew this pain. He hated this pain. It was too damn familiar.

It was the agony that followed in the wake of overindulgence. Of revelries that ended in sudden darkness.

Fucking… hell. Jordan drifted in and out, as every time his mind surfaced it was met by the pounding, dizzying pain. So, he’d fall back into dreams to escape it.

He danced with pastry-like muffin kings while running from wyvern queens, soaring through the skies on a pirate ship that was really a whale, on some grand adventure. It seemed to be about returning an overdue book to a library. Jordan hated the library. Maybe it was actually a nightmare?

Crossing that unknowable threshold, Jordan came into being as his dreams ended. He regretted it immensely.

His head hurt, like it was splitting open and spilling out everywhere! He was positive that had to be literally happening because nothing else matched how it felt. He just wanted to escape it, maybe catch a few more minutes of sleep, but he felt uneasy.

Something was wrong and his mind had picked up on it. A random subconscious thought, or feeling, or something was trying to tell him—wake up. Something is wrong. Wake up, now!

That animalistic part of him wouldn’t shut up. It was yowling at him, as though it too were in pain. The racket was keeping him from sleep—forcing him to wake up. He needed to know something. It was important. His life depended on it.

The gears of his mind were grinding together. The pain was a cloying molasses for the rusty, pitted nature of his mind’s thought processes right now. He was shifting into gear out of sync, his transmission was going to explode if he kept this up. Muffins would not be pleased. Could he have a pastry?

No, don’t slip back. Stay here. Focus damnit! What the fuck’s wrong?

His thoughts were floating about like pieces of a puzzle. He could see them spinning about in the pseudo zero-g of his mind. He just needed to put them together—he had everything he needed, instinct told him so. But why was it so hard to put it all together? To grab the disparate thoughts, slam them together, and just think. It just wasn’t working! He needed time to figure this out.

Oh, that was it—the first piece. Time.

Something about time? He was out of it? No, he was running out of it. Well, that was obvious, the piece of his mind that made up Fear was screaming shrilly alongside his animal brain at him about that. Or was that the wyvern?

No, that was nonsense, that thing just wanted to Kill something. Well go outside then! He yelled at it, but by thinking of where to send it he found a second piece: Place. Something about the place? Which place? He had to go somewhere. Or be somewhere?

Click. Simple really—it only took two pieces and a shouting chorus of panicky thoughts to do it. How many puzzle pieces does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Orange you glad I didn’t say banana? Joy laughed in his mind.

Er… what? What the hell was wrong with him? Had he drank so much he had brain damage?

And why had he drank so much alcohol on a…the clicking pieces vibrated in his mind. It wasn’t the act of drinking that was important but the when of his drinking. Why had he drank so much on a worknight. Oh shit a worknight!

He began to panic, knowing he had to get up for work. Was he already late? He couldn’t afford to be late— again. He only got his current form of corporate slavery recently, and with how he tended to bounce around his resume was looking like swiss cheese. He hated explaining all the gaps to every judgmental interviewer sitting pretty in their own little castles.

But the pain was so extreme it was unreal. He couldn’t work like this… could he? No, that was ridiculous. He’d have to bite the bullet and call in sick. The problem was—if it were too late in the morning he’d be counted as late and absent, even if he called in. Assuming it wasn’t noon already and he was jobless.

Still, if he could leave a voicemail for his boss in time, it would be alright. The asshat would be a passive aggressive dick about it the rest of the week, but Jordan would survive. He was good at surviving. He sighed, venting his frustrations. Or at least, he tried to but…

His body didn’t respond.

That was merely odd at first, but graduated to terrifying the next second when he tried to move and nothing happened. It was like he had sleep paralysis. It was a familiar phenomena, one that had plagued him in his younger years before he’d used self-hypnosis guides to fix the problem. He knew, despite his lucidity, his body must still be asleep and he was locked out.

Taking a calming breath, he focused his mind on the truth: Things are fine. I was asleep, but now I’m waking up. I’m going to be okay. It’s just time to get up, that’s all. I need to check my phone. It’s important. I was asleep, but now I’m waking up. So…

Get up.

He rhythmically chanted his thoughts in his mind, the only lingering skill from his college years responded to his call. He could feel his will and his mental energy flowing through his body, a reminiscent feeling of his equally brief foray into meditation. He moved and—

And nothing happened.

He… laid there. He thought he had… moved? Had he not? He tried again, but his body only… shifted. It had moved! Only it was barely perceptible. Why was his body acting like this? The pain in his brain was throbbing like crazy now. That brief effort had cost him immensely. This made no sense! It was driving him ins—

Wait, what was he thinking about? Oh, nevermind, he wasn’t going to just lay here like this! He needed to get up, and he needed to do it now. He tried to shift his arms. They twitched. He tried to wiggle his toes. Only one of them responded. He tried to open his eyes and they felt glued shut. How long had he been asleep that his eyes were crusted over and lids trapped together?

He tried to focus on his body's needs and found he was hungry and thirsty. Badly so, but the pain had been masking it before. That realization cranked up his panic meter. Had he slept through the entire day?

He was completely screwed if that was the case! His job was gone, sure as could be, and he didn’t have any money to spare. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. What options did he even have? Self-accusatory thoughts began to circulate in his mind with Disgust.

Why had he been partying on a worknight? It didn’t make sense. Worse still, he couldn’t even remember doing it! Had he drunk so much he blacked out and the whole night was wiped from memory? He hadn’t made such awful judgement calls since he moved away from… home.

It’d been a long time. He didn’t want to think about it though. Not right now. It wasn’t the right time. It was never the right time. A little voice tried to speak to him, but he didn’t hear it.

His hand formed the world’s weakest fist—he wasn’t confident his fingers were even fully curled. It was pathetic, but it was a start. He tried to lift his arm up, but found a resisting weight. Was it bed sheets?

They felt gargantuan, heavier than his body even. That didn’t make any sense—his bed sheets were thin, and he rarely slept with more than one on at a time. He was utilitarian like that to prevent overheating in the night. Heating?

Hot. He was hot. He’d missed it too because it wasn’t… bothering him? That didn’t make sense. He focused on it anyway. He was hot. Extremely hot, like he was in a damn oven being baked like a…!

Muffin? Pastries?

He shook the thoughts from his head. Was he still dreaming? He was lucid though, he was sure of it. He was thinking, he knew he was awake. He had to be! But he was hot. Was that why his head hurt? Was he being cooked alive? He didn’t have a comforter, assuming that was what was causing the heat and not an actual oven.

Focus. Breathe.

In and out. In… and out…

Jordan took time to slow his brain, to try and stop its anxious spiral. He could breathe, and the air entering his lungs didn’t feel hot. That meant his face had to be out in the open. That was good! He could rule out being in an oven.

Pushing harder against the force ensconcing him, Jordan made little progress, but did get a better feel for the texture enveloping him. There was an incredibly soft sheet between him and something huge, heavy and fluffy. It was like he was trapped in a damn prison of fluff! That was confusing. Why was it there? He owned nothing like it.

His arm sat limp at his side, his brief attempt at using it having drained it of strength. Jordan didn’t seem to have much energy, even as his mind raced. His body was tired, that was clear, but he had latched onto the mystery of the unknown coverings and his mind was alive with speculation.

The blankets weren’t his and he was anything but comforted by the misnamed covering. Who had draped it on him? Was he in his apartment and trapped in a stranger’s blanket? Or was he… somewhere else? Was this not even his bed? That didn’t make any sense!

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Memories of the night prior eluded him, only telling him he’d stayed home peacefully. While he was sure he had likely drank something as well, he was sure he wouldn’t have had more than one, maybe two beers. It was possible, though unlikely, that he may have even partaken in a third. To accuse him of more than that was slander!

Besides, he’d been playing games with online friends, so he had no reason to get trashed. And doing so alone on a weekday? There was zero chance that would have happened. Could he have gone out? No! He couldn’t afford it, and he didn’t have any local friends to visit.

So, why was he in a stranger’s bed when he’d been at home last night? Were his memories wrong? It was unsettling to think about, but blacking out had those kinds of consequences. But where did he go?

A party? Or had he been on a date? Those seemed like the most likely possibilities. The problem was he had no reason to be in either situation—neither were things he did anymore. He was alone, his only friends were the online variety and he hadn’t spoken to his family since his sister reached out a year ago. She wanted to talk to him because their mother was sick, and he…

No. He couldn’t think about that right now. He never wanted to think about it. It was never the right time but he most definitely had more pressing concerns. This time at least.

So, a party? There were a few people at work he might have hung out with, but it was something he actively avoided. It was just too awkward. He was always the oldest amongst his coworkers. Hell, at his current job he was older than his boss. And that was normal for him.

Jordan was forty one years old, and jumping job to job had left him getting older while the people around him stayed the same ages. The natural consequence of working entry level, dead end jobs, as his Communications Degree never offered him anything better.

Okay, a date then? The last successful relationship he’d had was nearly five years back. Of course, having never been married one could say he’d had zero successful relationships… but he’d rather be single than tied down anyway. He could try harder, but he didn’t like dating apps, and he wasn’t looking for love.

Though, he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t understand women very well. He’d joke about it and brush it off in casual conversation, but it was true. A part of him had given up on romance after so many failures.

It was so stupid! Why had he done this? How was he supposed to pick up the pieces when he couldn’t even remember what day it was? Was this a cry for help? A mid-life crisis hitting him when he thought he was finally past that kind of crap? Was he trying to kill himself through drinking?

No. He wouldn’t do that. He’d never risk his own life in such a stupid manner. He knew the pain that it caused people. He’d promised his sister before his radio silence—the one who’d still talk to him at least—that he wouldn’t run from the next funeral. Not again.

It didn’t stop him from running now though. Avoiding the pain. Being alone. It helped it hurt less for him, but it probably hurt them more. He was selfish like that. He didn’t want to be, he just…

Stop that. His mind was inwardly spiraling again.

He tried to move his arms once more. They were so slow. So heavy. So distant. As his brain sent signals down his lethargic body, it responded dully and with stuttering hesitation. Like his whole body had a damn ping delay! But lag was a thing of the past, wasn’t it? When was the last time he’d even had to worry about an internet connection? Childhood? And why would his body have lag in the first place!?

Ugh, this doesn’t matter right now! He was hot. His head hurt. He needed water, and he needed to verify the time and date. He couldn’t risk his job, and he was worried about his health. The heat felt damn near lethal, and the fact that it hadn’t killed him yet just made him sure he was burning alive but numb with shock or something.

Move. He tried to move. He tried to scream, he tried to thrash, he tried to do anything. Anything at all. It was infuriating because all he managed to do was writhe and gasp awkwardly.

He was squirming under the covers, wiggling like a fish out of water—only half as coordinated and twice as floppy. His kicks were mere jerks, his flailing limbs small spasms. Pins and needles, nice to know you—goodbye! This wasn’t right, but hey that was just Incubus. Wait, no, focus! He’d blacked out before and faced the consequences and it had never been this bad. It was like he was on…

Drugs. Oh God...

Vigilance presented the theory. The council of Feelings conveyed their emergency session to discuss the merits. Muffins tried to filibuster the argument, stating it was an excellent time to dream, but they were shouted down. This was serious. Something was wrong.

And it made sense. His body was too slow and too heavy. It was worse still because it didn’t feel right. His mind was telling him where his body was, and it was wrong. He felt that his hands should be down by his sides, but as they bumped against him it felt like they were at his chest, but his knees were reporting contact. What was wrong with his body-awareness? His mind-body coordination was completely haywire right now. Short-circuiting?

Drugs. Oh God… oh fuck, fuck, fuck! You fucking idiot!

What drugs fucking did this shit? Jordan couldn’t help but curse. He shouldn’t have trusted people he barely knew at work and gone to some ill-advised party. He didn’t remember doing so but that didn’t change the reality he found himself in!

Vigilance analyzed the clues, and Awe responded that it was probably muscle relaxants—how Exciting! Possibly quaaludes? He’d seen something like that. It was an older movie, but yes, a living zombie, flailing about. Body numb but mind intact. The zombie-esque Wolf of Wallstreet tried to get into a car and drive. Jordan loved that scene. Was that how this worked? Shouldn’t this be fun? Because it’s fucking stupid. Disgust complained.

It was likely accurate to some degree, but it didn’t help him now. He was drugged, and it was some sort of relaxant. That was the best he had to go on. Had he accepted drugs willingly? Vigilance declared that no, it wasn’t possible. Accidently? No, once again not possible. R-right? Fear was uncertain.

But there was no chance in hell he would have accepted some random pill from a stranger. So had he been targeted? Why?

That’s bad, Awe thought. You think? Disgust replied. We’re fucked! Fear pointed out. Were his feelings getting personified? That had never happened before but… no, it was nothing.

There was a big difference in his mind between taking drugs and being drugged. Surely it couldn’t have been deliberate, right? He must have mistakenly drank from a cup meant for another person. Maybe his misfortune was another’s salvation?

If that was the case, good for fucking them! It didn’t help Jordan now, and even if he thought of himself as a decent enough person, he wouldn’t have volunteered to suffer the effects of unknown drugs on another’s behalf. That could kill him. Moreover, he was no white knight. Not anymore at least, he’d learned those lessons long ago.

It had to have been accidental, there was no reason for someone to target him. What the hell would they get out of it? But he had been targeted. Fear trapped him in the moment, but it didn’t make sense!

He wasn’t attractive, he was old, getting older every year, and his body was starting to show its age. Too many long nights playing online and not enough exercise. He had no value, Disgust pointed out. Eh, thanks for the support? Jordan was… feeling weird? Could feelings have…F e e l i n g s ?

He mentally shook off the thought. Why would someone target him? What, did they want to harvest his kidneys? Joy had attempted to throw that option out as a joke to lighten the mood, but Fear went absolutely mental with it.

Old or not, his organs were good enough to buy someone some extra years. Love reported in late, reminding him that he did have value! The worst part was that this was the only explanation that made sense assuming this had been deliberate.

In which case, why was he even awake? Wouldn’t he be dead or dying in an alley somewhere? Not much point to drugging someone for organ harvesting and leaving them alone long enough to wake up.

Still, he did his best to bring his hands to his sides. It was easy since they were already… well, there. They just didn’t feel like it, but he ignored that once he confirmed their location. He wanted to see if anything was on his waist. Like bandages.

His hands began their scouting mission—scratching at his sides best as they could. There was little in the way of feedback, and as he waggled his fingers inquisitively, they felt almost alien. Like another person was touching him.

It made him feel nauseous with Disgust.

The expedition team reported a failure. Try as he might, he couldn’t feel his sides. He was numb. Too numb. His Rage mounted and he pressed into his sides. If there had been surgery, he should be able to feel something, right? Pain, blood, or something! Surely he would.

But he felt nothing. As he ran his hands against his waist attempting to dig his fingernails in, he found he couldn’t get past his… shirt? And he couldn’t reach the bottom of it to get behind it—it went beyond the reach of his hands. It was too long to be a shirt. Wait, what?

The garment covering him was long, and his fingernails slid off it easily. It was a gown. That made sense. He was wearing a hospital gown. That wasn’t good though. Heavy covers, unfamiliar environment, and now a hospital gown? He was still burning. He was… ill? Feverish? Hands here: it feels more like silk than plastic, sir! An inconsistent finding.

Fear was throwing a full scale riot moments away from a mental coup as Love tried to calm everyone, but Jordan was clearly sick. He was on some sort of medication, a good drug? While it was bad to be unwell, it meant he was likely in a hospital. That was good. It meant he was getting treated. It meant things were going to be okay, Awe tried to point out.

They were going to be okay, right? He passed out again as an animal stirred. That’s not good, was the last thing he heard from Vigilance.

You should have listened sooner, a quiet voice warned him in the darkness.

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