My dream was interesting enough to be remembered. I was silently striding forward, grasping the tattered remnants of a crimson banner lightly by my side. Some components were more vivid and I felt like my memory was intertwined with that of my dream self. My jet-black hair, which had hardly felt the touch of scissors and streamed past my waist, was blown around me by a frigid gust of wind. My black trench coat, which should have been billowing as well, clung tightly to my skinny frame—though, nowadays, that self-critique was only in comparison to the ridiculous standards everyone seemed to have. Standards probably made up within the dream. But I just felt like there were standards somehow.
No hesitation crossed my mind about what I had to do. I kicked a dark chunk of gravel forward, the sleek, stainless-steel tips of my minotaur leather boots connecting hard enough to send it slamming into a large piece of debris. The impact kicked up a minor dust storm—partly to alert them to my presence and partly to obscure my movements.
“I know you’re there. You never could hide well,” I called gently into the expanse of rubble ahead, hoping to provoke a reaction. I glanced at the notification in the corner of my vision.
[The sacrificed story, “Knower of All Futures” informs you that you will be killed by a flying object in 12.436 seconds!]
But I wasn’t worried about that. It was all just part of the game.
“You don’t have to do this, man! We’re best buddies, please!” an old friend shrieked towards me, his back pressed tightly against the same debris I had casually attacked. His tone was fearful, although he also was simply attempting to trick me in a similar manner I did him. His power was not low enough to the point he would realistically be pleading for his life. He was clad in a vantablack jacket, blending into the shadows, dark jeans he must have scavenged from what was once an expanding civilization, and sneakers probably custom-made from hydra hide. In each hand, he gripped matching silver daggers that glinted in the moonlight.
His shrieking didn’t falter, but only intensified as a decapitated head was hurled his way. It whistled through the air before hitting the ground and rolling until it splatted at his feet. Who would have thought that receiving the bloodied head of his former wife might anger someone? Me. I thought that. That’s why I did it. I was on top of the world…for a second. Realistic dreams never last too long.
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The blaring cacophony of a silver, digital alarm clock, which had been sounding off for hours and no longer served any real purpose, ended abruptly. This sudden change was caused by a pale, bony hand—unmarked by scars or calluses of any kind—weakly moving it aside, just hard enough to knock it off the nightstand.
What once displayed the time in oversized, grainy red letters flickered “11:36” repeatedly until it finally gave out, surrendering to its inevitable fate as if reflecting my own. The resulting crash and shattering of glass was enough to snap me awake. For about a second. My eyelids, momentarily open, shut again, concealing eyes that shone a bright, verdant green.
"Problem for later me…" I groaned, my voice barely audible—no one would have heard unless I spoke directly into their ear. Truly, a great start to a Tuesday. After I procrastinated the problem, like I did with everything in my life, I raised that same limp hand again and gave my cheek a weak slap. An attempt to wake myself up. It did nothing. Eyes still tightly shut, clinging to the last threads of sleep, I pinched my wrist hard enough to finally pull myself into consciousness.
With great reluctance, I untangled the silky blue sheets from my body and tossed them to the side of the bed. Sitting up fast enough to see stars, my scalp brushed the low ceiling. I rubbed my eyes until they stung, not really caring if they got infected. What did it matter anymore, anyway? Stretching my arms overhead in a classic motion everyone on Earth had to have done countless times, I strained them to their limit before letting them drop, deadweight, by my sides.
I tried to think of something to write about as I scooted to the edge of my bed, desperate to remember even the smallest fragment of my dreams. Nothing. Blank. Nada. Synonyms. Sliding onto the hardwood floor of my studio apartment, my bare feet were forced to adapt to the cool surface quickly. I crouched slightly, bending my head low enough to be perceived as bowing, to avoid slamming my head into the ceiling.
"Another day in paradise, as they say. The American Dream, my ass." I grumbled to no one in particular. Maybe the walls were listening. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Someone to talk to, for once. It’s been a while. At least a year, I guess. Anyway. I glared angrily at the remains of what had once been a functioning alarm clock, willing it to disappear and stop wasting my time. Too bad. I wish the world worked like that. But no, you can’t have everything you want. Not something I need to replace, anyway—and definitely not something I have the cash for.
The journey to anywhere else in this excuse for an abode was a difficult one. One had to traverse the great plains of fast food containers and old junk worth nothing, but once someone like me learned the layout of this mess, navigating it wasn’t difficult at all. Venturing down from the loft, down the thin stairs blandly carpeted in material that should have been used nowhere and never, I scratched my chin with one hand and prodded a pimple on my nose with the other. There weren’t many pimples on my face, but this one was certainly noticeable among my otherwise sharp-enough features. It wasn’t truly hidden by my matted brown hair, which hadn’t been cut in about two years—and was yet another reason not to go outside. Not that I needed excuses, though; I had no one to give them to.
The rest of the day disappeared without entirely registering in my memory. Not all of it, I mean. I must have gone downstairs and made myself a cup of coffee—that is, poured a glass from a bottle of pre-prepared coffee that had sat in my mini-fridge for who knows how long. I suppose I then sat at the minuscule excuse for a desk in the corner of the room, attempting fruitlessly to brainstorm ideas for my latest novel series that would end up abandoned after the first page. Truly though, most of the time was simply spent spinning a gel pen from finger to finger. The allure of that form of fidgeting couldn’t be completely measured. After an hour of fruitless effort, I gave up, assuring myself the novel would practically write itself once I came up with a solid idea. I was too excellent in my field for it not to. Surrendering to the inevitable, I pulled my outdated smartphone from my pocket in a crappy pair of cargo shorts I’d thrown on the day prior, checking my bank balance. Enough to survive for a while, I hoped.
A few hundred bucks? That couldn’t be right… Another problem for tomorrow, though. And so, the doom scrolling began—any social media I could get my hands on. Just a way to pass the time, all the while hating everyone whose lives seemed so much better. Why? I did well in school and I did the work! Shouldn’t that have been enough to get a job? To succeed? No. I guess not.
Damn it, man. At least I could have the appeal of sliding around lithely through the halls with my slippery socks like a majestic beast stalking its prey while I observed these nightmarish assholes on their yachts. The little things in life are what get me through a day.
And just like that, another day disappeared. Finally shutting the device off only when the battery began to dwindle, I nuked some frozen pizza bagels I had gotten delivered yesterday. They came out of the microwave steaming hot, but their texture was all wrong—spongy and soft with a chewy crust that had no crispness. The cheese had melted unevenly, leaving rubbery patches clinging to the bagels, and the pepperoni was small, curled at the edges, and greasy, with an odd sheen that only made it look more artificial. The taste wasn’t much better. The sauce was bland, with only a faint hint of tomato, and the cheese tasted more like a greasy film than anything rich or flavorful. The pepperoni was overly salty and a bit tough, but I still ate them without really thinking about it. I brought out a bottle of cheap wine I’d found on sale online and poured myself a more-than-generous glass. The wine had a faint bitterness, metallic and acidic, and it burned slightly going down, but I downed it in one long sip without a second thought.
Staring out the window near the ‘kitchen’ setup—or more accurately, the mini-fridge, microwave, countertop, and cabinets—I saw nothing exciting. Just small buildings and the occasional passing car. The wind sluggishly moved in its endless pursuit of nowhere, and the dark clouds ensured a heavy rainstorm was on its way. It surely must be chilly, but I wouldn’t know, now would I? I mindlessly ate the processed meal, each tasteless bite heavier than the last. Somehow, about 3000 calories disappeared before I knew it. Wonder how that happened.
I guess now was the time to reflect on my past, same as every other night. Wallowing in self-pity. Not focused on a single event—never that. Just the accumulated first-world problems of a social outcast.
But tonight… Tonight was different. I could feel it. Time to face things head-on, for real. Actually focus on something for once.
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It was a sweltering summer day, yet I still had to work if I wanted any chance of buying a meal today. Sweat dripped down my chin and was excreted in large quantities from my armpits as I waited for a customer. The air was thick and oppressive, pressing down on me like a heavy blanket. My shirt clung to my body, soaked with perspiration, and the heat radiated off the black and white tiled floor in shimmering waves. I was overheated and exhausted, having not gotten a wink of sleep the previous night. My head throbbed, my eyes heavy as I gazed keenly at my phone screen, trying to distract myself. I was slacking off, letting time pass idly, until it was snatched away from my hands. It was a jarring, sudden motion, one that had happened many times before, leaving me knowing there was no use in fighting it.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Come on, Alie, come and get it! Let’s see what you were looking at…” Jordan taunted, his voice laced with a level of mocking that seemed almost inhuman in its cruelty. He was moderately tall with a somewhat skinny yet sturdy build. His unbranded, white, cotton t-shirt clung loosely to his frame, and his blue jeans, just slightly too short, revealed his ankles. His messy, blonde hair was spiked upwards with thick gel, making his forehead visible, though some parts of his hair seemed oddly darkened, as if streaks of dirt or oil had mingled with the gel. I could most definitely best him in a fight—or so I liked to think, despite being somewhat out of shape—but deep down, I knew it wasn’t something I could afford to do if I didn’t want to die a painful, miserable death.
“Hand it back,” I calmly retorted, extending my hand towards him. My voice was steady, but the tension beneath the surface was palpable. Jordan began backing up quickly at my words, scrolling through something on my screen with his thumb, his eyes alight with amusement.
“No way, there’s too much good stuff on here. Come on, I just need a few screenshots to send to Greg,” Jordan barely wheezed out, laughing hysterically to himself. His laughter grated on my nerves, each giggle feeling like a personal attack. Greg was his so-called “friend,” though their relationship was more of a power dynamic, with Greg serving as the only intimidation factor Jordan had. Jordan might have had wits, but he lacked any real strength, relying solely on the threat of Greg to pull off stunts like this. It was frustrating because, with a strong backer, even the weakest person could wield power.
“I can’t believe you’re reading a kid’s story like this at your age,” Jordan sneered, his eyes glinting with malice.
“To say-”
Blank. What did I say next? I couldn’t recall.
“children’s book?!” My voice began to rise in volume, though in my fury, I barely noticed. The heat of my anger flared, mingling with the actual heat, making me feel like I might explode. Jordan cackled, still backing up toward the door, completely ignoring my attempts to defend myself. It only seemed to amuse him further. In hindsight, my outburst probably sounded ridiculous to him—my voice was struggling not to squeak, betraying my frustration in a way that must have seemed laughable. My cheeks flushed a bright red, a stark contrast to the dark circles under my eyes and the black eye still healing from a previous altercation. I gritted my teeth, grinding them together so hard that the sound was probably audible. I shook my head, the motion jerking my overgrown hair from side to side, which only added to my overall annoyance. Both the grinding and the head shaking were loud enough that anyone nearby might have heard them. And one of those things, the grinding, was something my dentist would definitely kill me for.
“You fatherless fucking dumbass...” I muttered under my breath, mostly to myself. Somehow, Jordan heard me and immediately shot back, “That’s hilarious coming from you of all people.”
I repressed the urge to fire off another insult, knowing I had to keep my cool. If I wanted my phone back, I had to avoid aggravating him too much. The last thing I needed was for this to escalate.
A flood of memories hit me then, memories I tried not to think about. Just a few months ago, I could still feel their warm embrace—my parents, that is. They weren’t the best parents; some might even say they were abusive. I remembered them always pushing me harder, demanding more—better grades, better behavior, more sports, more clubs, more achievements. Anything less than perfection was met with harsh punishments. But I still loved them. They were my parents, and losing them had broken me in ways I didn’t like to think about. That loss, combined with the fact that Greg Wolf, a cold-blooded murderer with connections and no conscience, was responsible for their deaths, gnawed at my soul every day. Greg didn’t kill them because he hated them; he killed them to toy with me. Most likely. It sounds just like something he would do. He delegated the job to hitmen who took the blame, and our flawed justice system let Greg walk away scot-free. Right? He bragged about it at school. I don’t think anything happened to him. Maybe a slap on the wrist. Was he charged at all or even considered a part of it? I remember the day a police officer, in full uniform and armed, knocked on my door to inform me of their tragic passing. I mean, I couldn’t remember anything they said to me, or how exactly they looked, but it definitely happened. 2nd degree murder with no accomplices they said–I think. 1st degree murder with accomplices I said. My appeals were ignored in entirety.
My hand instinctively brushed against the switchblade in my pocket—a weapon I carried in case I ever ran into Greg. I couldn’t help but dream of killing him, of avenging my parents, though I knew it was a dangerous fantasy.
“How much do you think this would sell for?” Jordan asked, his voice dripping with sarcastic curiosity. He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he bolted out the door, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the floor. I stared after him, frozen. Maybe I’d get my phone back, maybe I wouldn’t. If I called the police, they might check the security cameras and question why I hadn’t fought back. They’d see that Jordan wasn’t armed, and my passivity might make them suspicious. Or maybe I was just overthinking everything, which I tended to do.
I sighed, grasping the brass knob of my “apartment” door. The cold metal felt odd against my hot, sweaty skin. I didn’t turn the knob, though. Instead, I stood there, small clear droplets of water streaming down my face.
“Damn it! Damn it all!” I screamed, slamming my head into the door so hard it shook. A fresh stream of dark red droplets joined the clear ones as I continued slamming my head against the door. No one would come looking for me, though. I didn’t live in a real apartment, after all. Being broke meant making sacrifices, and my “apartment” was nothing more than a small, abandoned building on the outskirts of the small slums area. I had used most of my money to renovate one of the floors into a makeshift studio, though the outside still looked as derelict as ever.
“Why does the world have it out for me?” I wondered aloud, pausing my self-destructive rampage. But the blood loss was catching up with me. Everything went black as I fell backward, consciousness slipping away.
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Then, as if my memory of the events had triggered it, though it would be impossible for them to have any power whatsoever, the lights went out. Just as suddenly as they seemed to at that moment not so long ago. That moment where I’d nearly accidentally killed myself, that moment where I’d really accepted my seclusion as viable and embraced it. Not the lights in my room, I mean, which remained bathed in that annoyingly harsh, yellow fluorescent glow, casting shadows across the cluttered corners of my space. No, it was the world outside. Everything beyond my window was truly and utterly pitch black, the kind of black that swallowed you whole and made you question if anything still existed. Living in a semi-city, or more accurately just a suburb that decided to move a little closer together without ever achieving the status of a metropolis by any metric, I knew there should have been street lamps lining the roads, illuminating them throughout the night in their pale, artificial glow. I could easily recall countless nights where even at the late hours, it was still unnaturally bright outside. But now there was nothing. Nothing and no one.
I struggled to open my slick white window, which usually glided up effortlessly but now refused to budge as if an invisible force held it down. My hands slid across the cold frame, frustration growing with each failed attempt. Another strange, almost supernatural thing was that I couldn't hear much of anything besides the sound of my own increasingly rapid breaths—though that might just be a fluke since there weren’t many sounds in this area anyway. Still, the silence was unsettling. Even the usual musty smell that typically clung to the air in my living space seemed absent. It was as if the world had gone blank. I couldn’t — Wait...what if—
A loud, resonant chime like the tolling of a massive church bell shattered the silence, filling the air and drowning out every other sound. For a split second, I swore I saw an infinite number of eyes, each with somehow fear-instilling gray pupils, staring at me from every direction, burning their image into my eyes. Then, just as quickly as they appeared, both the eyes and the chiming vanished, leaving me blinking in the eerie silence. The world outside remained unchanged in its emptiness.
[The clock strikes midnight, beginning the summer solstice of Yondermore.]
[Universe #937, “The Vexaris System,” has been integrated into the Multiverse.]
“FUCK YEAH! We’re going all system apocalypse in this bitch!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, which immediately screamed back in protest, my throat raw from the sudden outburst. But who cared about losing their voice when all their debts were about to disappear? A transparent, light blue screen appeared in front of me like something out of a video game, its glowing white text hovering just in my line of sight, partially obscuring my view. It didn’t block everything, more like looking through a slightly tinted window, but it was enough to make me squint to see past it. Oddly enough, I wasn’t shocked or panicked. I didn’t doubt my sanity, didn’t think I had gone mad. Why? Because I read. Or at least, I used to. Enough to know that this kind of thing wasn’t entirely unfamiliar—fictional, sure, but not unheard of. In fact, I had read plenty of novels about events like this happening. The world’s order collapsing at the integration into a wider multiverse of possibilities. A smaller subgenre in the general area of fantasy. Now that I think about it, should those books be considered holy texts now that they’ve come true? Maybe. I don’t know. I could definitely imagine some religious fanatics trying to form new belief systems around this… well, system. Maybe they’d treat those books like sacred scriptures. And then I realized what I had done wrong.
In all those stories, the system was omnipotent, a format for existence itself, controlling the multiverse since the dawn of time. In different narratives, the system’s origins varied, making it impossible to understand its complexities. It helped people grow stronger, forge their futures, and track their progress. But it never cared about what people said about it—except, apparently, this one did. Because the second those words left my mouth, I found myself coughing up dark, thick blood, dribbling down my chin and spraying all over the countertops in front of me. My eyes stung, and I realized they were oozing the same sticky and oddly hot substance. Pain exploded in my chest, excruciating and sharp, as I clutched my heart with trembling fingers, my mind reeling in panic. It felt as if it might burst at any moment, and I could only claw at my chest, desperately begging it not to explode in a shower of viscera and gore.
Attempting to repent for my mistake, I scrambled to compose myself, my voice shaking as I tried to sound as polite as possible. “I-I apologize for my rash statement, minimizing the impact of the integration. So it’s true then. Those tales passed down through the generations of our species.” For some reason, my nervous mind decided to use the poshest British accent I could muster, as if that would somehow make my plea more refined, more acceptable. Sweat dripped down my forehead, falling onto my eyes, but I had no time to wipe it away. “Praise be to the mighty system,” I called out, raising my voice just slightly, hoping it would stop whatever was happening to me. If anyone had been watching, they’d probably think I had gone mad. But it worked. The agony disappeared as quickly as it had come.
Alright. Don’t trash-talk the system. Got it. Now then… all those stories talked about some sort of tutorial, right? Everyone gets teleported to an artificial area to start. My mind buzzed with the idea of my problems disappearing, of a new world waiting for me. I tensed the few muscles I had, bracing myself for whatever was about to come next.