I stare at the ceiling. Florescent lighting shines down on me. The plastic covering the light dims the glare, casting a sick pallor over the room. It mirrors the vertigo inside. I shake my head to clear the feelings and rise.
It’s then I notice my hands are shackled to the table. Or rather, my wrists are. My hands are sealed inside padded mitts. Why—ah. To protect against magic. For the ensuing conversation, Insect Swarm would be a real mood-killer.
I’m in an interrogation room. Steel table, steel chairs, giant mirror on the wall. A camera in each corner of the room watches me. Steel chains keep me tied to the chair. I can tell this much even without my glasses. The world is a blur, but I have experience seeing.
The door opens. A group of buff men enters. All but one of the men are Black Robes, though they’ve left their customary coats behind. Each of them carries a shotgun. They all take up positions around the room. By the walls, but the threat is still there. I take a few deep breaths to settle my racing heart and wait.
The door opens again. This time I ignore it. I’m expecting the firing squad to start shooting any second now. But my execution is put on hold again as a man seats himself in the chair opposite me. His face is a blob of color with two dark spots for eyes. He is neither fat nor skinny, nor tall or short. Without my glasses, I can’t describe him. He has no smell and nothing notable.
“Hello,” he says. Like the rest of my perception, there’s nothing memorable about his voice. Neutral is the best adjective. “I am going to ask you a series of questions. You are being monitored for honesty. If you like about anything, we will use a truth serum.”
I don’t speak or emote in any way. I am to be interrogated for information, first. This does not require emotion.
“Is your name Doctor Lawrence?”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“Yes or no answers, please.”
“Yes,” I say a little louder. Across from me, he looks down at the file on the table. To me, it’s several sheets of paper with black squiggles.
“Were you arrested for publishing a dissertation stating aliens existed?”
“Pretty much.” I shrug.
“Yes or no answers, please.”
“There was more to my dissertation than aliens.” In the intervening pause I hasten to add, “But yes, that is the laconic summary.”
The man says nothing for a second. He looks at his notes. The two dark spots flick down, revealing white corneas, then back up. “And did you go to another world upon passing through artifact zero?”
“Artifact zero? Oh, you mean the portal-thingie? Yeah.”
“You were told to remain there for one minute, is that correct?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I nod.
“Yes or no answers, please,” he repeats. “And you did not?”
“Nope.”
“Did you understand the orders which had been communicated to you through the other agents?”
“Yup.”
“Was there any danger on the other side?”
“Nope. Well—the other side was an alley. It didn’t feel safe because alleys are like that. But to answer your question: no. There was no immediate danger.”
“Were you aware that disobedience of your orders would result in disciplinary action?”
“I suspected it. It wasn’t communicated word-for-word, but the threat was implied.”
The interviewer makes a note.
“It is at this point that you may begin answering with more detail.” He touches his pen to a notepad. Somewhat unnecessary, no doubt they’re recording this conversation. “Why then did you try to escape?”
I look at the table instead of speaking.
“Why did you try to escape?”
I bow my head. A weight settles itself on my shoulders. So, that’s what this is. The death-interview. The gather-information-first, get the dirtbag to implicate himself and then haul him off to the courtroom so the judge can say he’s guilty. Open and shut case. Add the crime of trying to escape to my rap sheet, and the axe gets heavier. I should have left the Docklands when I had the chance.
“Why did you try to escape?”
“Why was I sent to the other side?” I raise my head.
“That is not pertinent,” the interviewer snaps. He raises his voice to a furious shout. “You will not ask questions, you will answer. Why did you try to escape?”
I slouch in my chair and lift my chin.
“I was not informed as to my purpose in being there. Lacking sufficient information, I was under the impression I was acting as a disposable scout. If I died researching this new world, so much the better for you. With that in mind, I tried to explore as much as I could in that one minute. As soon as I left the alleyway, I was lost.”
“And what did you find?” the interviewer asks, calm. Angry to calm in a flash. It’s disconcerting. To make sense of it, I decide he’s putting on a show and roll with it.
“The city in the immediate vicinity is called the Docklands. It’s a dock that stretches the coastline for miles. There doesn’t seem to be a unified epoch or anything. I saw ships from Ancient Greece up to the modern era. The city is supposed to stretch inland for several miles, but some of the locals told me about a city in the clouds where they study magic.” I pause. “I have no reason to believe they were lying.”
“I see.” The interviewer scratches out a note.
“Despite being a city, the area is smaller than it appears. Or, it’s larger.” I shrug. “I dunno. It’s supposed to be a city. But it serves as the crossroads for a lot of different worlds. The city’s geometry is alien. Something that looks far away is a short walk. I never had to walk far to find something. Despite that, the Sewer Dungeon was vast.”
“The sewer dungeon?” the man tilts his head. “Is this related to that identification card in your pocket?”
“Yeah.” I shift in my seat. I notice my clothes are clean and changed. My pockets are empty. I don’t stink like a toilet anymore. In brief, I explain adventurers, classes, dungeons, and such. The interviewer scribbles on his notepad for a full minute but otherwise doesn’t react.
“Thank you,” he says as a way of concluding. He closes the file. “You’ve been most helpful.” He stands to leave.
“What’s going to happen to me?” I ask.
The man pauses with his hand on the door. He looks at me. Without my glasses, I can’t read his expression. And his tone is, as before, neutral.
“You will be returned to a cell for the time being,” he says. “After which, I cannot say.”
I close my eyes. I should have kept my mouth shut and tried to bargain for something. Planting my elbows on the table, I lean forward and bury my face in my hands.
“Don’t do that,” the interviewer admonishes. “Sit up. Take responsibility for what you’ve done.”
I sit up, more out of annoyance. Someone throws a bag over my head, plunging my world into darkness. I smell something damp, a little sweet. Like someone mixed red wine, rotting paper towels, and rum. It takes a few minutes for the drug to take effect. When it does, I let my head sink forward and sleep.
-
I’m thirsty. That’s the first thought when I wake up. But the more pressing matter is my need to go. I stare out through the window. There are no bars on my cell. Instead, a floor-to-ceiling opaque whiteness covers the space. It’s like staring at drywall with a mirror finish. I wash my hands in the sink and wave them in the air to dry.
I touch the window, and it is a window. It feels like glass. Wherever I am—the window changes.
All four walls become transparent. I shield my eyes against the glare from outside lights. After they adjust, I see what I took to be a cell is a plastic and glass box. The hinges locking it together are metal, but the bulk is clear. The box rests on a platform. The platform resides in a concrete cave. In the far wall opposite me is a single, steel door with a single, small porthole.
“Welcome to Ravenholm,” a voice says. A man’s face appears in that porthole. He looks at me like a rare specimen in a laboratory. Which is where I suppose I am. Either that or a supermax prison. “I am pleased to say you will not be executed. Instead, you will be staying with us.”
“For how long?” I ask, guessing and dreading the answer.
“For the rest of your natural life. On the wall to your left, you will find a library of wonderful books and a television with one channel: the televangelist. On your right, a collection of nice paintings that will be swapped out every week, for your intellectual pleasure.”
The ‘doctor,’ if he is a doctor, smiles.
“On the walls behind you is a wonderful view of the open sky, without bars as you will no doubt appreciate. You may stare at it any time you wish. On Sunday afternoons, a train passes the facility. You will be able to see it. It is a cross-country train. Passengers have dining and sleeping cars as they did in the 1800s.”
His voice comes through several speakers set around the room. The bare, empty, featureless, cement room.
“You can stare at that train as it goes by. It is quite a treat. Once in a while, if you show good behavior, you can eat a similar meal. Something other than the nutritious sludge that comes out of that hole in the wall.” He nods at a spickut over my head.
“Anything else?” I say, deadpan.
“Enjoy your stay,” the man says. His voice says charm, and his face too. Anger and regret worm through my gut. The porthole goes dark. The cell remains clear, for now.
As if on cue, an unappetizing white sludge drips from the spickut onto a plate. Out of curiosity, I dip my finger in and lick it. The stuff is chunky and bland. Like a pile of wheat mixed with white rice, water to glue it together, and dusted with wood for flavoring. It’s so lacking in taste I want to vomit.
But I swallow it. Despite the situation, I am hungry. More sludge pours from the spickut, filling the plate. I take a seat on the concrete stool that forms part of the floor and eat. Lacking utensils, I eat with my fingers.
I didn’t eat while in the Docklands. I spent… how much time there? A day? Two days? I haven’t had anything to eat since my Last Meal. Despite the situation, I’m famished. I devour the bowl. I’m surprised to find I’m no longer hungry or thirsty. The meal may not be good, but it satisfies.
When I’m finished, I lick my fingers clean. There is no water anywhere—well, that’s not true. There is the toilet. But I’m not animal enough to wash my hands in that. Not yet. And, I have nothing to do. Lacking stimulation, I review my spells.
“Show status.”
My menu appears in the air. I flip to the section on magic. I know five spells, and three of them are cantrips. The system doesn’t call them cantrips, it calls them tier zero. The energy cost is too low to be a real spell. I take a seat on the bed, level my hand at the opposite wall, and think.
“[Chocolate Dart],” I say. I hear two voices emanate from my mouth. One is mine, the other is someone else’s. At the same time, a lumpy, somewhat rectangular bar appears in the air and rockets forward. My energy drains. Ten percent is a huge amount but expected. No doubt the cost will decrease as I get better. “[Chocolate Dart].”
“[Chocolate Dart],” I say. The bar shatters against the glass. I’m down to seventy percent. I want it to be sharper. More like an arrowhead than a candy bar. But how do I alter it? “[Chocolate Dart]. [Chocolate Dart]. [Chocolate Dart].” Forty percent. I yawn.
I want to take a nap. I check my status screen again, but there’s no indication my prowess is rising. Oh well. No RPG hero ever leveled by not trying. I raise my trembling arm. I focus on the door beyond the window. The doctor’s face doesn’t return, but I have no doubt they’re watching.
I focus on that smug doctor’s face. He was enjoying it. He likes the fact I’m going to be locked in this vault for the rest of my life. No stimulation. No visitors. No one to remind me I’m me. If they don’t start torturing me, I’ll go mad from the isolation. I was in the Docklands. I had the beginnings of a party. I was free. For one shining moment in my dreary, horrible existence, I was free. I had friends. And now they’re gone.
Qozu will move on. He didn’t like us anyway. Jess… Jessica? That was her name. Jessica and… El… Elise. And Abby, the short, fat girl. Jessica, Abby, and Elise, the crazy anxious one. They’ll move on. They’ll forget about me like some bad thing that invaded their happy lives and then ran away to get captured like a rat and arrested. They’ll never associate with me again. No one will.
Having this on my record—it’s like a stain. It’s like being tarred and feathered after serving my sentence. Even if I got out, everyone would know where I’d been. I wouldn’t be able to live a normal life. My acquaintances will abandon me. I’ll be stuck in this metal box forever. I should have jumped ship. I should have run far away. I should have gotten a ride on the first ship or boat out of that place and never looked back. I should have—but I didn’t. I returned.
And now I’m stuck here. The knowledge makes my blood boil. Hot, angry tears fill my eyes. I had a chance at greatness, at having adventures. I had a taste of the outside, of living, laughing, loving, seeing, and believing. I got to see.
And now it’s gone.
When I’m tired, I turn into a jerk. All of my worst traits are emphasized. I’m tired now, but I don’t care. I try to push back against the wave of loneliness and rise above it. But sitting in this box, I don’t see the point. There is no such thing as hope. Or joy.
I am at the bottom of a deep hole staring up at a tiny circle of light. The walls are smooth. I am chained to the ground. I will never leave this pit. I will never feel the sea breeze on my face or drink a hot cup of coffee. I’ll never get a hug. Human touch. I’ll never….
The negativity washes over me like a wave. The riptide pulls me down, under, beneath, into the dark. I don’t resist. What’s the point? Nothing will change.
My energy drains. The spell forms in my hands. There are no words. None are needed. Energy is my fuel, rage, and despair my igniter. I extend both hands, palms out. My glasses haven’t been replaced. My vision, already blurry, becomes indecipherable. I squeeze my eyes shut. For the first time since I was bullied as a kid, tears run down my face.
I thought my heart was dead. I could never feel emotions. I would get beat up. I’d cry. They’d laugh. I stopped crying. Crying was a weakness. Crying was dangerous. It was wrong. As an adult, I couldn’t find a reason to cry. I went to funerals for my friends. No tears were shed.
My beloved dog died. No tears for the poor thing.
Emotion fills me. My parents. My dog. My friends. Deep inside, something cracks. My stamina bar ticks down to single digits. I open my mouth. A wordless scream that’s been bubbling inside me breaks free. At the same time, magic pours from my hands. It’s not Chocolate Dart. I’m not sure what it is. But I see the air contort around my hands. The glass cracks.
And then it’s over. I guess it’s a testament to human engineering that the cell didn’t shatter like I expected. Or, I’m not that powerful of a mage. Either way, I’m still trapped. And now I’m out of energy. I collapse sideways and sleep.
-
“Awaken.”
I open my eyes. I sit up. I’m still in the box, but the glass-plastic walls are gone. All that remains is the steel frame, crouching overhead like the bones of a spider. The steel door at the far end of the room is cracked. Warm yellow light spills from outside. The kind that hints at a warm fire and a house filled with love. I take one look at the walls of my room. Imported living rock forms the walls and ceiling, a man-made cavern to block noise, spells, or escape. The air vents are the width of my wrist and set overhead.
I stand and walk to the end of the room. I raise my hand to push open the door, but I hesitate. If I’m dreaming, no consequences. But if I’m not…
I push open the door. The hallway’s walls are missing. Corners and pillars connect to the roof overhead. But between them is nothing. I can see straight outside, but there’s nothing to see. Blue, swirling clouds fill the air. I look to my left. A solitary lantern sits half-sunk in a slab of concrete. Next to it is a cracked staircase. Lacking any other idea, I ascend.
The staircase leads me to the roof. The stone was white once, but now it’s a ruin. Nothing important to describe. The best descriptor is the lack of stone. Ravenholm should be a vast supermax prison or sanitorium, right? A place for comic book supervillains and madmen, the Hannibal Lecters and Jokers of Earth. But my world has none of those. There are no inhumans or mutants with weird powers. There are no superheroes. Ravenholm serves a different purpose. But it should be bigger than this little rooftop. Which means….
“Hello, Doctor.”
A man materializes in the air. A young man, early thirties, with broad shoulders and chiseled features. He hovers a few feet above the ground, his lower legs dematerializing into nothing. His face is unremarkable, but his dark coat has the finest cut. His hair is hidden by a magnificent dark hat with multiple points arrayed like a crown. Most notable of all are his eyes: pools of inky darkness fill his otherwise empty sockets.
“Hello, sir,” I say. I don’t focus on faces in dreams. I see people as a vague presence. The fact that this guy—“I’m not dreaming, am I?”
“You’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you?” the man says, ignoring my question. His mouth imitates a smile. “I apologize. It was appropriate. I had to say it.”
I don’t say anything. The man’s voice is soft, not deep. At least, not evil-deep. Evil characters in media sound deep. This guy is giving off creep vibes, but he doesn’t sound deep. Quiet. Normal, even. And since he’s the one driving my dream instead of me, I remain silent and wait.
“Your dissertation silenced. Your execution stayed. Your chance at freedom snatched. Imprisoned. Your world is changing, and others with it. You will play a pivotal role in the days to come. For this reason, I have chosen you.” He uncrosses his arms.
“I am Carmine. And I offer you this: power.”
“What d’you want?” I ask, blunt. “And what makes you think I want power?”
“I am here to help.” He spreads his hands, the tone never changing.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
I snort.
“All my followers desire similar things. I am here to grant those things. Freedom. Magic. A friend.” He pauses, “…Vengeance.”
“I don’t think I’m dreaming,” I say. I look around. To one side lies a series of rocky outcroppings. They’re kind of floating in the air. Nearby, chunks of rock bob in the clouds. I see broken cars and vehicles, wooden ships with their sides ripped open like the gaping chest cavities of great beasts. But no signs of life. “Where am I?”
“Others call it the Void,” Carmine says. “I have power to offer. Give me a token of the experience you earn, and I will grant you skills beyond your classes.”
“At what cost?” I ask. I look up at him. He’s creepy but tolerable. Not monstrous, like some surreal horror thing. His humanoid form might be an avatar. But I can work with it.
“You must take my class.” He crosses his arms again.
“Something tells me I’m going to regret that,” I say. “Creepy guy, alien location. Vague, Mephistophelian bargains. Think I’ll pass.”
“I am not a demon,” Carmine says. His tone remains the same, polite. “I do not make bargains. This is a transaction. For multiple worlds, the next days will be pivotal. You would have a finger in those events, but not as you are. You require aid. I will provide.”
“But why though?” I shift my weight. “Why does an alien with an ego bigger than a planet take an interest in a mortal? Aren’t we like bugs to you or something?”
“Have you heard of me?” Carmine raises one eyebrow. “Did
“Nope.” I shake my head.
“I offer this,” he points at a plinth under his feet. Funny, it wasn’t there before. The rock is the same color as the rest of the roof. But the pink, glazed tablet on it catches my eye. “A spell to learn. A tool to master. Consider it… a gift.”
Carmine the Creepy floats sideways, putting his back to the row of platforms. I stare at him from the corner of my eye, suspicious. When he doesn’t move, I glance at the tablet. Symbols are carved deep into its surface. I look away. Carmine hasn’t moved.
I walk up to the tablet and stare at it. A kind of blank buzzing fills my ears. The world outside of this tablet fades. The shape of the tablet: 12th-century heater shield. Eighteen inches across, twenty-four at the curved nadir. The heater shield was popular in its heyday and remains so among LARPers and reenactors or cosplayers. The tablet’s pink coloring comes from the fired glaze. When a tablet is made, it begins as clay. The clay dries, and it can be painted with glaze. Then the tablet is put into a kiln and fired.
After being fired, the clay turns into a rock. It’ll last forever. If the glaze is added before firing, its color is altered in the process. If the glaze is applied well, the fired clay becomes ceramic.
Archaeology isn’t a natural degree. It’s not normal to want to major in something that qualifies me to be a professor in a tenured position (those are all taken) or work as a museum curator (also taken, all by older people who dislike young people). All my job openings have tiny salaries and no real archaeology to perform. The company or organization hiring me—I’m there to check a box. The lawyers are able to say they met their legal obligations before bulldozing.
No, in my youth I encountered a tablet like this. It was pink. It was shaped like a shield. And it scalded.
I discovered that tablet on a field trip to a Sumerian dig site in modern Iraq. The rocks there were thousands of years old. While scooping away dirt with my trowel, I uncovered a rock with glowing symbols. Knowing it may be valuable, I used my fingers to brush away the dirt. Even though it had been sitting in the ground for thousands of years, it still felt as if it had come fresh out of the kiln. My fingers were burned.
But before they could drag me away and let the archaeologist “make the discovery,” I saw the symbols. [Dream]. That was my first spell. The tablet taught me the spell, as well as how to cast it. A noun or verb, appearing in my head as pink, but more brilliant than any shade I’d ever seen.
This is not the same tablet. The symbols are different. They are carved deep, as if from a chisel. The language is the same, but it lacks the equations of the other spells. I stare at it. Yes, there is a pattern. A verb and a noun. They feel… green—
[Create Vine]. The word appears in my head. Green, brilliant green. The hue of a fresh sprig after a springtime rain. A young flower sprouting. Not at all an emerald—not dark or rich. Bright and fresh. The symbols resolve themselves. Yes, two short handfuls of letters divided by a space. Taken together, one clump is the symbol for ‘create.’ Another clump is the symbol for ‘vine.’ Create Vine. Why didn’t I see it before?
“You have mastered the spell,” a cool male voice says.
I turn and face Carmine. I’d forgotten he was there. I blink. Pale symbols cloud my vision, the remnants of staring at the same thing for a long time. I squeeze my eyes shut to banish them. When I open them, he’s gone.
“Come find me,” he says. His voice emanates from far away. Across the platforms.
Platforming. Great.
I take a running start and leap. It’s… further than I thought. I slam into the side of the floating rock with my upper half on top. I scrabble at the rock for purchase, digging in my elbows.
Crap crap crap.
I catch myself on the edge. Heart pounding, I pull myself up and over. I lay flat on the stone for a good minute. Who cares if I’m lying on the floor? I almost died.
“Perhaps I should lower the difficulty,” a cool male voice says. I raise my head. A wall of blue mist rises over the next platform. It holds in place a moment before retreating. I stare at the fancy marble archways mounted with sturdy wooden poles between them at set distances.
Rising, I dust myself off. How am I? Oh, wait. I’ve done this before in video games. Get a new spell or item, and use it to solve a puzzle. Hook Shot in Zelda, Grapple Beam in Metroid.
“[Create Vine],” I say. I extend my hand toward the nearest pole. A limp, sinuous tendril of plant material sprouts from my palm. It isn’t much, but it is thick. I grasp the end and draw my arm back. My [Archaeologist’s] whip prowess takes over and I throw my arm forward. The end of the vine wraps around the horizontal pole.
I swing across. The vine doesn’t release like in the movies. It stays stuck. Jerking the vine doesn’t loosen it or anything. It’s up there to stay. I let go. Without being connected to me, the vine shrivels.
Next bar, next platform. This isn’t easy, but it’s not hard either. I don’t want to fall into whatever abyss is below these floating pieces of civilization. Navigating the maze without falling… well, at least it’s a dream.
“You appear to have mastered the spell,” a cool voice says. Carmine doesn’t appear. His voice seems to come from ahead of me as if guiding.
“It’s not hard. Archaeologists have whip proficiencies built into our class. Vines are used as whips in jungle stories. Or rather, vine-swinging. George of the Jungle and Tarzan popularized it. It’s kind of a cliché in adventure stories. What else was I going to do?”
I land on a squarish platform a bit larger than the rest. People sit at desks, typing. But they’re frozen in time like suspended animation. They don’t move. They don’t blink. I touch two fingers to one man’s neck. No pulse.
“This is a scene from your life,” Carmine says. “Tell me, what is happening?”
“Work,” I say. I remember the faces. The setting is familiar. Carmine almost sounds interested. I walk past the desks to the back of the platform and resummon my vine. “People typing. Office drones. My destiny, prior to being imprisoned.”
“I thought you were an archaeologist. Do they not work outside?”
“All those jobs are taken.” I swing to a bus lying on its side. I grab the edge of the empty windshield and haul myself up. Grabbing the outer side, I pull myself on top of the bus, which is the side, and walk its length. “My specialization. I went out for archaeology to get a job at a dig site uncovering Sumerian artifacts. I was looking for more tablets.
“But all those jobs were taken. And they require government clearance. After my little incident, restrictions got a lot stricter. Nope. My future was to be an office drone. After five years I’d apply for the supervisor position. After eight years, they’d give it to me. Low salary, high cost of living, and drowning under a pile of student loan debt.”
I come to a second platform of office workers in my age group. Most are women sitting around answering phones or filing paperwork. The bosses are almost all men, despite both groups having similar degrees. I pass the platform without comment. Drab uniforms, boring work. Snore.
“Do you regret your education?”
I come to a section where most of the workers are men. I recognize several faces from my college dorms. All the men here are slaving away as drivers, whereas the few lucky ones have made it into management. Forklifts, semis, pizza. The odd ones who never left retail. Or the ones who flunked out of college and got processed.
I look around at the people. Some women, but most are men. Archaeology and paleontology suffer from rampant sexism. Workers often live in cheap motels and eat at the cheapest diners. The private sector is where all the jobs are, but they exist to check a box on government regulations. My job was to tell a company whether cultural artifacts were on the land they wanted to bulldoze, tell them ‘no,’ and sign my name.
I saw so many sites destroyed. So much Indigenous American heritage was destroyed because a company refused to let me dig it out and save it. ‘Not in the budget.’ ‘Don’t have the time.’ Most of what I did was shovel dirt in the hot sun. Sunburn, bug bites, low pay, entitled archaeologists, condescending corporate-types shrugging at the bulldozer obliterating a five-thousand-year-old astronomy hut while smiling and saying ‘We’ve met our legal obligations.’ I sigh.
Several minutes pass.
“I don’t.” I pause next to a column and catch my breath. “I regret how much money it cost. I’ll never be able to pay it all back. And the interest keeps rising. But my degree led me to the Docklands. I learned magic there. Almost getting executed was unpleasant, but if I had to do it all over again, knowing the outcome?” I raise my eyes and find the man staring at me.
“I’d do it again. Every moment. To meet those wonderful people, to take a Class, to go on a dungeon crawl. That world wasn’t pleasant. It stank. But mixed with the rancid waste was the unmistakable odor of adventure.” Certainty settles itself in my heart, a pleasant feeling accompanied by lifting weight. “Given what came after? Where I went?”
Carmine regards me.
“Do you regret your Class?”
“A bit. Yeah, a little.” I push off from the pillar, but the maze of debris is at an end. This is the final platform. All that lies beyond are swirling clouds. “I wish I’d taken the mage subclass. Doing what I love is important. A job will follow. And even if I never find work as a mage, I can still put levels into that class for me. Training those skills is its own reward. Or prowess,” I add after a second’s thought.
For a long moment, Carmine is silent.
“I would like to show you something,” he says. He waves his hand. A cloud retreats, revealing a simple path without obstacles or gaps to traverse. It leads to a wrought-iron archway. Ravenholm, reads the sign.
“We’re going back to my cell?” I ask. “If this is a dream, let’s go someplace else.” I look back toward the debris maze and blink. Everything is gone. There are no clouds blocking the objects. There isn’t anything but a dark blue night sky above. Below the platform are opaque clouds of mist and a bottomless pit. Besides that, nothing exists.
Well, if this is a dream, then it’s a dream-world. And dream-worlds can be manipulated. I focus on the space in front of me and imagine a staircase. Nothing appears. Preparing to wake up, I step into the void. And fall.
My heart hammers in my chest. Gasping, I stare at the ceiling. I’m back in the plastic box. Sterile lights shine down. The living rock walls rise to meet the ceiling. Whether I’m in a man-made cavern or underground… Ravenholm didn’t look that big in the dream. If it was a dream.
The spell flashes through my head like a bolt of lightning. I can picture the words in my mind. I can almost feel the growth under my skin, but I release the breath I’m holding. All I can think about is the creepy guy. The man with unkempt brown hair and cold, dark eyes. I roll sideways.
“Holy—” I jump and press myself flat against the rear wall. The guy stands outside the box. Not standing, hovering. He hangs in the air unsupported, his feet hanging. His two black eyes are focused on me.
“Our conversation is not finished,” Carmine says. Uncrossing his arms, he gestures at the four walls. “This is your cell. It is where you will spend the remainder of your life. Your people have decided you are too valuable and too powerful to kill. You may yet prove useful. I intend to make that a reality.”
I sit up. I consider sending a chocolate dart at his head, but it won’t break the glass. He pauses as if waiting for a response. I shrug.
“We could be partners.” Carmine almost smiles. The corners of his lips rise, but it looks wrong. His skin is white like a corpse. And his eyes don’t crinkle with crow’s feet. His lips pull back, showing teeth. Normal, human teeth in a straight, white grin, but on his face it’s monstrous.
“Partners,” I say the word slow, as if tasting it. “Like the Bureau and their ankle-tracker?”
Carmine snaps his fingers. The box and the cave vanish. My thin bed, concrete desk, and stool, and stainless steel toilet appear on a wooden dock. The pungent odor of fish invades my nose. The Docklands are busy today, or night. The moon hangs half-obscured in the sky. Waves crash against the breakwaters. The moored ships are protected, frustrating the raging seas.
The workers ignore the squall. Crates of fish are unloaded. Goods take their place. Despite the rush, traffic flows around me. The cell with no box seems to exist in a bubble of calm. I see the wind’s effects on things, and the no doubt frigid rain coming down. But everything, even sound, exists outside a literal bubble around me. Me, and Carmine.
“There are many who view this place as undesirable,” Carmine says as if we’re having a normal conversation. “Transitory worlds are popular for entrepreneurs, but few linger. You saw the dungeon. You met the children and the arrogant. Why return?”
“It’s not Earth. Not Chicago, at any rate. In my world, most things are the same. Chicago, or rather what’s left of it, isn’t any different from the rest of the world. The cities are controlled factories. Every person is a cog in a machine. Outside the cities are thousands of miles of farmland broken up by plants for food processing.”
“This world is dark and cold,” Carmine says. “The sun does not shine here. Life is difficult. In your world, life is boring but safe. You are guaranteed food and shelter. Safety. You have none of those things here.”
“Other worlds connect to it,” I say. I ignore the floating figure to focus on a sailboat. It resembles a sloop, but it has actual cannons. The sailors don’t have peg legs or bandanas. Or cutlasses. The captain, if he is the captain, doesn’t have a parrot on his shoulder.
“What makes you think they are any different?”
I look at the black-eyed man as if seeing him for the first time. My Analysis isn’t working. I lack an adequate response, but a shrug is detestable. There are better ways to articulate feelings.
“It is different from Chicago,” I say, not meeting his eyes. “My education might not do anything, but magic always helps. I can work, save, earn enough to pay for a trip to that flying city.”
“You can’t leave.” Carmine shakes his head. “Your physical form is trapped in Ravenholm. If you Dream, this is the world to which you may travel. And if you achieve anything, it will not matter. Dreamers are ghosts in this world. Nothing you touch will change.”
I sigh. Yeah, I knew that. Richard Harris’s voice echoes in my head, a whisper. ‘It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.’ But I live in a cell. Until I get out of Ravenholm, I can enjoy this world as a tourist. But nothing more.
“Can ghosts fly?”
“Yes. And pass through walls.” Carmine lifts his chin, staring down his nose. “Dreamers have strength, doctor. Powers, but no permanence. With that, I could help.”
“For a price,” I mutter. I look down the street, studying the people. None of them have umbrellas. I see cloaks, oilcloth, and variations of yellow rain-weather gear. A coat-maker or umbrella-seller could make a fortune. Or someone who sold ultra-light, insulating gear.
“We could be partners in exploration. You seek freedom, a fresh start. I can grant it. Take my class. I will give you powers beyond imagining.”
“Did you steal that line from a second-rate fanfic?” I raise my eyebrow at him. “Try again. What do you want? What are you offering? What do you want from me?”
He ignores me.
He snaps his fingers. The Docklands fade to be replaced by a landscape straight out of a board game. My bed floats on a sea of caramel. Red and white striped trees rise from the caramel. Nearby, a creature like a crocodile floats like a log. One of the eyes rolls over to me. The creature opens its mouth to yawn.
Its proportions resemble a crocodile, but the resemblance stops there. This thing is twenty feet long. Jawbreakers cover its back. Its teeth are jagged shards of candy. One look at its gaping maw—I could stretch out inside with room to spare. And it sees me.
This is a dream, or I’m a ghost. Either way, the people ignored me. This beast doesn’t. It closes its mouth, smacking its lips in a human-like way. It blinks. And its big yellow eye focuses on me. I’m seen.
“This place has no name,” the man-who-is-not-a-man speaks. “It exists on maps as ‘the candy country.’ It is a high-level region frequented by no one. Were we here, this creature would be trying to eat you.”
“He can see me,” I whisper.
“Dreamers are visible to Monsters. This place has never seen men or women of any species. Cartographers drew a circle around this region for their maps and laid a name on it. But that is not the same as exploring it. They should have finished their maps by burning a hole in them.”
“We’re the first to see this place?” I stare around in wonder. There is a sun here. Candy-like birds flit through the trees. “A mangrove swamp of caramel and peppermint. Thank you for showing me this.”
“This region is accessible to anyone. But no one comes because few return. There are other frontiers in this world.” He snaps his fingers. The landscape changes to a rocky outcropping on the side of a mountain. “This elevation matches the top of many summits in your world. You can survive here without protection for thirty seconds.”
I stare at the landscape. The sky is clear of clouds. The cliff we’re on sits at the edge of a mountain range. I count the seconds in my head. I look up. The mountain rises for miles over my head. It is scalable. I see buildings on some cliffs. I look down. Normal, not-candy pine forests stretch to the horizon. Carmine snaps.
We sit in a forest of old-growth trees. Each one is thicker than a car and tall as a skyscraper. No light reaches the forest floor.
“This is called the Shadowlands, I believe. The people live in the tops of trees. The local fauna is…”
A deer walks by. Not a normal deer. This thing is bigger than a car, with antlers longer than I am tall.
“So… the wolves are pretty big, huh?”
“The deer eat the wolves,” Carmine says. He notices my slack jaw. “This is another high-level place. Would you like to see it, someday?” Raising his hand, he snaps.
The creatures resemble stingrays. Wide, triangular wings run the length of their sinuous bodies. Fan-like feathers of beautiful shades and patterns cover them. Flapping their wings, they rise from the puffy, rolling, sun-dappled clouds and fly.
They glide over the white sea, tails trailing long lines, before dropping below the cloud cover. I gape at the sight, too awed for words. The creatures were gigantic. Hundreds of feet wide and three times as long.
“Were those sky-rays?” I ask.
“Sky-whales,” Carmine corrects, his tone detached. He sits at a quaint brass table outside a restaurant on a boulevard. A plain description that does nothing to capture the magnificence. Marble buildings decorated with brass rise above the streets. Above us and to the side, a chunk of rock rises from the clouds. A platform is somehow affixed to its top, and on that is a cluster of buildings. The rock seems to provide lift, while propellers at various points provide thrust.
I stare in awe at the floating buildings. Birds fly overhead, while sky-creatures swim through the clouds below. Instead of dirigibles, the ships have sails on all sides. Most of the ships are wood, though some of the smaller leisure vessels are metal.
“Is this Zephyr?” I ask.
“Zephyr is a region,” Carmine says. “Multiple nations exist. Multiple cities. Many communities. While not a true frontier, this region is one of the most celebrated. This city boasts the world-famous Wizarding Institute of Technomancy. Centuries ago, this was the forefront of the magic-industrial revolution. The City of Invention.
“Would you like one of the famous sky-ales?” Carmine gestures at a server.
“I don’t drink alcohol,” I say, a little faint.
“They are delicious, or so I have heard.”
“Well, I guess one wouldn’t hurt.” I raise my hand. The waitress ignores me. “Excuse me? Miss?” I raise my voice. No one listens.
Carmine snaps his fingers. The blue sky is replaced by a man-made cave. I stare not at a buxom woman with white teeth but at a plastic wall. The feeling of wonder fades. I look at Carmine. The guy floats in the air outside the box, unsmiling.
“I want to go back,” I say, not caring about the plaintive begging in my voice. “Please let me go back.”
“As a Dreamer, you are confined to the Docklands. The land of always-night, of squalls and cold, crows, crime, and grime. I am free to Dream wherever, but I cannot stay. I cannot aid one who refuses my help.”
“To accept your help, I must take your class?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Fine.” I get off my bed and stand. For important decisions like this, one should be standing. “What is it?”
“If one must ask, one does not know.” He pauses as if for effect. “Do you require enlightenment? The price is light, but there is price. If you eat more of your food, you can avoid paying.”
I lower my chin and look away.
“You’re terrible at making Faustian Bargains.”
“I am a businessman. We could be partners. But such requires a level of commitment beyond most. You have potential. You will play a pivotal role in the days to come. I offer a gift, should you choose to consider my offer. A powerful spell, forgotten by time. Evil to some, holy to others…. I am here to help.”
I stare at the pipe that delivers my food. Gray mush with corn and chunks of protein. I swallow a mouthful. It doesn’t taste half-bad. I swallow another mouthful. It tastes sort of good. I could live off this. As far as prison food goes, well… Compared to the pure corn stuff, the protein chunks are kind of good. It’s better than living on a diet of ramen and rice, which is what I did after graduating.
Not before. Cafeteria meals were included in the college’s required fees. Eating after college required living on my own, using my own money, having bills, a budget, and such. Rice and ramen are cheap. Nutritional. Easy to make. Bland, but that’s what sauces are for. A tolerable diet. This gray slush is called red rice. It consists of ground-up meats, vitamins, nutrients, minerals, and other such things.
One bowl has the nutritional value of three meals and includes the day’s water intake. It is cheap to produce, and it fills the stomach. Its ingredients are a trade secret. But any conspiracy theorist or believer-of-stars has guessed at the source. Guessed, and had various reactions.
I eye the blinking exclamation mark in my peripheral vision. The one that’s been blinking ever since I opened my eyes. The thing about the System, it didn’t function while I was unconscious. The other thing about the System, people in my world aren’t even made aware of its existence. Anyone who does partake of it is hunted down and eliminated.
I close my eyes.
“I know the name,” I say. “I… will consider your offer. But I won’t take the class. I won’t become… that.”
“I would have you remain in this box for a period of time. You must enact your own escape. It is beyond me to help. However,” Carmine pauses again, as if for effect. He crosses his arms. “I will give you the means to free yourself.
"You will require a way to cut steel and glass. I have a skill that does so. You will need illusions to disguise yourself. I can teach you magic. Your prowess must rise. You require training. If a Dreamer dies, they wake. But their Prowess remains.
“To return to that world in person, you will need a Door. I know several. I have many friends willing to aid as needed. And last, you will require an assistant. A friend. Most mages or witches will attempt to conjure a creature to aid them in some capacity. The spell I have is neither summon nor conjure. You will be able to forge a covenant with another soul, a sealed agreement.”
“You would have me make a binding… binding with someone? Or something? Like the bargain Ariel made with the sea witch?”
“I know not this ‘Ariel’ of which you speak.” Carmine’s black eyes glitter like chips of obsidian. Something like a smile crosses his face, but it looks wrong. Like a not-human thing attempting to pass as human. “The spell uses two words. I would teach you these words and the method to cast them as a spell. It is a powerful spell, not limited to dogs or lower animals. But to learn, you must consider my offer.”
“Consider… but not accept?” I raise one eyebrow.
“That is the promise,” Carmine waves his hand. “A powerful spell, but one and no more. A token of the power that would be available to you.”
“I need to think about it,” I say. “Can I do that?”
Carmine recrosses his arms. His eyes narrow, but he fades. After a moment, I am left alone in my box. My empty, plastic prison. I have no books, no TV, and no privacy. Nothing to occupy my time. There is a bed, a desk, a concrete stool, and a toilet. The one saving grace is that no one is there to watch me.
I wouldn’t mind it if I had access to my phone or my library. Lacking either, I have my imagination. I decide to make use of that and sit on the stool. I stare at the wall. I am well-read. Imagining myself in any number of stories is one of my favorite pastimes. However, the one thing that comes to mind is the storm-drenched planks of the Docklands.
I want to see it again. I must see it again. I extend my hand toward the wall.
“[Shape Element].” And… nothing happens. I am disappointed, but that’s to be expected. I level my finger against a spot on the wall. “[Chocolate Dart].”
A sausage-shaped lump of dark brown appears in front of my finger. I fire the spell on reflex, not thinking about anything. The chocolate log flies away from my finger and shatters against the wall. Pieces of chocolate rain down, evaporating to nothing before they hit the floor. The glass isn’t even scratched.
I fire the spell several more times. My energy ticks down with each cast. I slurp more of the sludge down when I’m finished. My stomach flips, but I force it down. I lean over the desk and press my forehead against the cool concrete. I take several shallow breaths through my open mouth. I stay like that for a while, until I’m certain nothing is coming back up.
I lie down to sleep. My pillow is thin. My mattress is thinner. But casting spells is tiring. And the other world is near. I cast the spell and let my mind drift away on a cloud.
-
I have no sense of opening my eyes. All at once, I’m standing in an open glade. The sky is blue. The short grass is green. The open space is on a slight incline, but the ring of trees surrounding it is unbroken. The sun is high overhead. I have returned.
The white exclamation point flashes. I look at it without thinking, causing the window to appear in the air.
You have gained [Rank 1 Horror: Consumer]. Skill Chain [Mouth] received. Link received: [Gaping Bite]. [Archaeologist] class removed. [Archaeologist] Abilities removed. Skill: Detect Trap removed. Secret: Quick Study Removed.
Whip Prowess increased. Whip Prowess is now Apprentice. Weapon Skill unlocked: Whip Swing. Weapon Skill unlocked: Improvised Whip.
I snap back to reality and wake up screaming.