“Am I the dreamer or the dream?”
…
The crackling of fire and the light smell of chamomile tea filled a comparably small study nestled at the edge of a picture-book mansion. The lone person in the room, a woman wrapped loosely in a cashmere shawl, flipped the pages of an unpopular mystery novel. She laughed every so often, as if responding to an unspoken joke between the lines—though the book itself wouldn’t be winning comedy awards anytime soon.
This woman was Jacqueline LaRue. Jac to those close to her, few and far between as they are; the oft-missing rich lady down the road to her neighbours; and Boss, owner of livelihoods and dispenser of bonuses to her employees. It was common knowledge that she only had casual flings, that she built her business from scratch, that she liked obscure mystery novels. It was not common knowledge that her name was not Jacqueline LaRue.
Ding.
In the quiet of the night, a faint chime that somehow both sounded like that of a digital notification and a tiny bell echoed in the space. The hiss and snap of flames in the hearth paused its progress and the scent of tea vanished from the room. The scene in the study froze in place as a one-woman tableau, ignored by the passing of time outside of the room.
Jacqueline couldn’t move. She couldn’t even try to move.
She found it a little vexing. That was a lie; it was very vexing. There was a crick in her shoulder that needed shifting, and a page in her book that needed flipping. It had been so long that she had not gotten her way with her body almost immediately, and she had forgotten the annoyance it was. But soon enough, those worries were pushed out of her mind.
An ethereal, white mist began to float out from the seams in her floorboards. The cloud of vapour looked slow to her eyes, but it was clearly not, as in moments, her armchair was hidden from view.
The distant thought that she probably would not finish her book passed through her head, the mist washed over her body, and all Jacqueline could feel was a sleepy, sleepy calm.
…
She blinked; she was not where she was before. There was no seat and no study, no furniture at all. The space she stood in was a haze of pastel colours and spots of light, with images flitting through the surroundings either too slow or too fast to see clearly. There was an inexpressible quality to the space, something that kept her feeling detached by the proceedings.
Strands of colour and light in the space started to warp and form words as the space ebbed and flowed. It may have taken a minute; it may have taken a year. There was something slow and hypnotic about it, something she would never take a glance at, were it not for this place.
[ If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer …
If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin. ]
The poem in front of her eyes was familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she had seen it. She wanted to comb through her memories, but the text dissipated before she could and took her train of thought along with it.
[ Welcome, Jacqueline LaRue ]
She felt as if she had missed something important, but she did not know what. Shaking it off—she was not one for incomprehensible feelings—she wondered what exactly she was welcomed to and whether she should be looking forward to it.
[ You are a newcomer and are granted one bound article. ]
Jacqueline pushed a finger at the text in front of her. They went straight through. The moment she wondered about whatever the “bound article” was, the words before were replaced with a new block of text.
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[ Bound Skill ] Cynical Idealism
A paradox of wishful imagination and cold, hard pragmatism, cynical idealism is a contradiction of opposing beliefs.
[ Sub-Skill ] Wake Up to the Reality
This skill splashes a metaphorical bucket of cold water on the head of a chosen target. Frozen by the shock coming back to the mortal plane, they pause all inessential mental processes for one minute.
This sub-skill is limited to once per day per target.
[ Sub-Skill ] [ Locked ]
[ Sub-Skill ] [ Locked ]
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This entire thing was starting to sound like a satirical video game, and she found it amusing, in an ironic sort of way. Out of all the things her sleeping brain could make up, it had to be a game that caricatures herself.
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[ This is not your dream. ]
And perhaps it wasn’t. The entire space was a little too sweet-looking for her liking. Then again, what’s to say her subconscious wasn’t a pastel enthusiast? Whimsical images of her brain wearing pale greens and baby blues flew through her mind.
[ An event is manifesting. ]
Before Jacqueline could properly process the line, it was removed and a new sentence took its place.
[ Good luck, Jacqueline LaRue. ]
Mist once again covered her vision, and she was gone.
…
Once again, Jacqueline was not where she was before.
She supposed it was to be expected; the space from before didn’t seem like one to host any event other than a massive drug-induced… experience. She believed there was no need to be vulgar, even in the territory of her own mind.
The winds blew and whipped her short hair in her face, and she grimaced from the impact, brushing it out of her face. As far as her eyes could see, wisps of cloud shrouded the tips of washed-out mountains, the edges harsh and wind-carved. She herself stood atop a wide, flat ledge jutting out of the side of sheer rock, the only way off a drop of likely steep proportions.
Jacqueline made a face.
She was in the mountains with barely a guess about the kidnapper’s methods. It made her want to speak unheard-of insults at the morning mist. But it wasn’t the time for shouting at particles of air; that could be pushed off until she was in a soft bed and had ample pillows to muffle her rage.
First, she needed information.
With her on the shelf was a shaggy-haired man in rags, roasting a de-feathered bird on a spit. The smell wafting over from the fire was tempting, enough to drive her to speak to him even with his unfortunate state of attire.
“Do you mind?” Jacqueline walked over to the man, pointing towards a spot next to him.
He let out a grunt and she took that as an agreement, seating herself beside him but still far enough that sparks wouldn’t land onto her. It was uncertain whether she would get a change of clothes anytime soon, and she quite liked her silk pyjamas.
She pursed her lips. “You don’t happen to know where this is, do you?” Her companion seemed too casual to have been tossed here with no information, but looks could be deceptive. She would know.
The man rasped, “No idea.” He didn’t look up as he replied, continuing to rotate the spit in his hand.
Jacqueline studied him and smiled. “So what’s your name?”
He glanced up at her for the first time, scratching his head. “It’s Otto.” His face was covered by limp strands of black hair, and the only clear features she could see were cracked lips and a straight nose.
“An uncommon name,” she said in a praising tone, though it was debatable if it actually was. “Mine is Jacqueline.”
He furrowed his brows and cleared his throat. “Nice.” Otto seemed to find some trouble in complimenting her moniker or just speaking in general.
“Thank you.” Her curved lips didn’t change from the supposed insincerity. She had a good deal of practice holding it in place. “It’s a bit off-topic, but how did you get here?”
“Mist covered me up and I was here,” he said hoarsely, waving a hand in mimicry of the supposed water vapour, though water vapour definitely didn’t whisk people away to drug-addled dreamscapes. “At night, in the alleys.”
She looked down at the crackling fire. “I see. I’m the same.”
Jacqueline continued to converse with Otto about their odd circumstances and prod for information but didn’t find much more than she suspected. While it was uncertain whether he knew more, she was appeased for now; she didn’t really expect to gain all the answers from a fellow like him.
Otto had gone onto eating the bird by the time she had finished her tirade of questions. She would love to know where he had acquired the bird, the wood, and the fire, but when asked, he replied with “I just did”, which didn’t tell her a thing.
Ding.
The sound that had heralded the beginning of her excursion reverberated in the valleys between the noises of chewing and tearing meat. Jacqueline looked up on instinct, expecting more mist. She was right.
Mist whipped up and a blink later, out of it tumbled a teenaged boy with paper-pale skin, whipping his head around with frantic energy. “W-where?” he asked, eyes lighting on the fire and the individuals around it.
“The mountains, likely,” Jacqueline nodded at him when he noticed her. “Come sit with us. It’s unlikely to get any better even if you stand.”
“Are you the ones who brought me here?” His carrot head turned to reveal grey eyes, wide with fear and a little awe.
She smiled wryly and said, “No, it wasn’t us. I don’t think we would be here if that was so.”
“Really?” The boy frowned. “What if you don’t do things by the book?” Under his breath, he muttered something about psychopaths saying that, squinting his eyes at her.
Jacqueline folded her hands in her lap. “Well, if you don’t believe me, I can’t do anything about it. We are here against our will, so we can’t really prove we haven’t brought you here.” And even if they could prove so, she wasn’t sure he would believe them. She found his attitude understandable but at the same time, still ridiculous.
He fell silent.
After that, the boy stayed away from the two others on the ledge, keeping his back against the rock wall. His eyes darted here and there as if waiting for some monster to strike.
As wind blew and the fire dwindled, Otto decided it was a good time to take a nap, pulling his tattered coat over his head. Jacqueline did not stop him and paced along the ledge, scrutinizing their place on the mountain, trying and failing to figure out a way out.
She loathed waiting; she was always the one who made others wait, not the other way around.
“Oh my, new guests.”
The owner of the voice dragged out the length of each word, giving the entire sentence a languid feeling. The line echoed oddly after she spoke, bouncing between cracks and crevices in the range, sometimes louder, sometimes softer.
A woman with crimson eyeliner wings reaching her temples descended from the cloudy sky. Her features were elegant, and she wore a long, monochrome robe in an Asian style. As for what Asian style, it seemed sometimes like a specific fashion, sometimes like many, and sometimes like none. Just like the dream-like atmosphere that permeated everything ever since the mist in the study, the lady that arrived also had the same quality surrounding her.
“It has been a while since my event has manifested.” As she landed on the ledge, her eyes crinkled into thin crescents, and she snapped open a paper umbrella in her hand. “I will be sure to enjoy it well.”