Chapter 4
The Wrong Side of the Bed
The Trickster—Hermes—reclines deeper into his throne, the smooth surface of the jet black stone cool against his skin, and lets out a laugh—a sound that ripples through the void like a stone skipping across a still lake. It’s not just a chuckle or a snicker, but a full-throated, belly-deep cackle that echoes off the invisible walls of the demiplane created by the System—Participant Assimilation Chamber. Despite being an immortal being who had witnessed the Breaking of Creation, even he could still be amazed by mortals. Or, more accurately, amazed by how idiotic they could be.
“Oh, Joseph Sullivan,” Hermes mutters between bouts of laughter, his glowing yellow eyes gleaming like twin suns in the gloom of the chamber. “You absolute buffoon.”
The image of Joseph’s panicked face as he accidentally selected the Spellcaster Discipline plays on an endless loop in Hermes’ mind. The mortal had actually tried to interact with the System using his hands—his hands! Most Participants quickly figured out that the System responded to mental commands after their first clumsy attempts to touch the interface, quickly adapting to the mental sensations of the System’s feedback. But this Joseph? Oh, no… His idiocy made it easy for Hermes to . . . tweak things.
After all, being responsible for onboarding this Game’s Participants gave Hermes a unique opportunity to place his finger on the scale. The Participant Assimilation Chamber was probably the only place where his Willpower could influence the System’s interface and meddle with other beings’ access to it. Particularly when those beings were newly assimilated mortals.
Of course, it wasn’t that simple. Hermes’ mind was fractured into hundreds of millions of versions of this very room, each fragment of his consciousness handling a different mortal’s onboarding process simultaneously. His attention was spread thin, making it difficult even for him to truly affect things in too meaningful way.
But hundreds of thousands of these mortals—like this Joseph Sullivan—made his job a little easier in comparison. Just a little nudge, a slight flicker in the interface, a whisper of frustration nudging his finger at just the right moment. And voila. The fool had done the rest.
Hermes sighs contentedly, his laughter fading into a satisfied hum. This Game—this Game—was going to be interesting. Each of the millions of tiny tweaks he made would compound over time. Imperceptible at first, but the System would incorporate and adapt to the changes, resulting in variations that none of his brothers or sisters could anticipate. It was like planting hundreds of millions of seeds, each one with potential to sprout into something wonderfully chaotic.
“Welcome to the Game,” Hermes whispers, his grin stretching impossibly wide as he gazes into the void where Joseph Sullivan had just plummeted.
And then, with a snap of his fingers, he turns his attention to the other mortals, still going through the process. Yes, he thought, settling into the rapturous joy. The games within the Game never stop.
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When I wake up, it’s to the obnoxious blare of my phone alarm rattling against the nightstand. Groggy doesn’t even begin to cover it. My head feels like it’s packed with wet cement, and for a second, I can’t even remember what day it is. The shitty beige walls of my parent’s basement blur into focus, and I fumble around, snatching up my phone and slapping at the screen until the noise finally dies.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, when it hits me—the dream. That weird, vivid dream. The man with the yellow eyes, the snakes, the System. I can almost feel the weightless drop in my stomach again.
But then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a faint bluish glow. My heart jumps. No way, I think.
I snap my head toward it, expecting some floating hologram or notification from the System. But no. It’s just my laptop, sitting on the cluttered desk where I left it last night, the screen still on.
The words “Senior Associate, Summit Lake Capital,” greet me, followed by a blinking cursor that’s practically glaring at me like some cruel joke. I groan, rubbing the back of my neck. Of course. Just a dream. Some weird, lucid nightmare cooked up by stress and too many energy drinks. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, though I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed. As much as a world-changing . . . world-ending . . . Game amongst the gods of the multiverse sounded, the promise the System offered had been an exciting one. Even if I was going to be stuck with some useless class for my build. Oh well.
I glance at my phone, still in my hand. The lock screen lights up: January 16th, 4:01 a.m..
I frown. Wait a freaking second. Wasn’t it the 16th yesterday? Did my mind just fabricate the entire day?
A shiver crawls up my spine, and for a second, I don’t enjoy the feeling of deja vu. I sit up, blinking into the dark room, and something deep in my gut twists. Just a dream, right?
Right.
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The cold slaps me awake, biting through the layers of my coat as I step outside. It’s miserably frigid this week and I suck in a short breath of a crisp air, trying to power through it. I’m stronger than some Midwest winter, I silently scream in defiance as I practically sprint to the driver-side door of my car.
Sliding into the Civic, I turn the key and the engine groans like it resents me as much as I resent it. The gas light’s glaring at me—great, another thing to deal with. I let the car warm as I pull out, the streets still wrapped in that pre-dawn emptiness, like the world’s still sleeping. The feeling of déjà vu still clings to me like the static in this freezing Honda Civic.
Driving to the gas station, I can’t shake the weirdness of that dream. I was never one for remembering my dreams, usually forgetting them immediately upon waking. Now, to have one that was so vivid was unsettling. The day in my dream started just like this: the same shitty car, the same empty streets, the same stoplights turning red . . . the same creeping foul mood simmering under my skin.
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Dad always said I ‘woke up on the wrong side of the bed’ some mornings. Apparently, that’s some ancient Roman saying. Figures. The Romans conquered half the world and one of their many legacies was a superstitious saying about fending off bad luck. And on days like those—where I’d roll out of the wrong side of the bed—I’d let that mood set the tone, coloring everything in this dull gray. The day would start miserable and there would be no hope for recovery. But Dad had another one—’take your grumpy boots off at the door.’ Less ancient Rome, more dad-ism, but it stuck even if I was terrible at consistently remembering it.
Since moving back in with my parents, the wrong side of the bed’s felt like the only side I’ve got. The walls of my childhood home feel tighter now, like a cage I had escaped that was going to refuse to let me out of its clutches again. But I sigh, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. Dad’s right. He usually is, damn it.
I whisper one of those corny mantras I’ve been forcing on myself lately—“Today’s a new day.” It tastes fake in my mouth, but maybe if I repeat it enough, I’ll start to believe it.
The gas station’s neon lights flicker as I pull in, the place as empty as the tank. I park, engine ticking softly in the cold, and sit there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it’s going offer some profound insight. But it’s just me and my reflection in the glass, the echo of that dream still whispering in the corners of my mind.
“Today’s a new day.”
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I grab a protein shake from the fridge, a gas station coffee that tastes more like burnt hope than caffeine (just the way I like it), and fill up the tank. The sky’s still a dark, indifferent gray as I roll up to Save-Some-Bucks. Right on time, Dave’s sedan pulls into the lot, headlights cutting through the morning darkness in my rearview mirror before he parks beside me.
We both step out of our cars. Dave gives me his usual easy grin. “Morning, Joe.”
I slap on a smile like it’s part of the uniform. “Morning, Dave.”
Dave’s a nice guy. Pleasant enough to be around and with a constantly positive attitude that, I have to admit, wears on me at times. He’s the kind of person who could probably get a parking ticket and thank the officer for their service. No wonder my dad got along with the guy. Be more like Dave, I remind myself.
The morning shift kicks off like it always does. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the hum of refrigerators, the faint whiff of cleaning products that never quite covers the scent of desperation clinging to the linoleum. I get to work and the time flies by. Eventually, the store opens, and the regular parade of early-bird customers trickles in—the coupon clippers, the zombie-eyed commuters grabbing last-minute snacks, you name it.
It’s later in the morning when it hits me again—that weird, creeping déjà vu. I’m stocking shelves when I spot a guy pushing a cart down one of the aisles. Late twenties, like me. But there’s something about him. The realization hits me like a truck.
No shit.
I wipe my hands on my black work pants and head over, clearing my throat. “Matt Carter?”
He turns around, and his face lights up with recognition. “Joey Sullivan? You’re back in town?”
I scratch the back of my head, the old habit kicking in like muscle memory as I try to strangle the embarrassment washing over me. “Yeah, I’m back.”
“You were in New York, right?”
“Yeah.” The word feels heavy. “Wasn’t for me. So, I came back. Still figuring some things out but it’s . . . it’s good to be back.”
The words hang there, brittle and hollow. But I keep thinking: grumpy boots at the door.
“Glad to have you back, man! . . . Nice running into you. I’ll see you around.”
And just like that, he’s gone, disappearing down the aisle like a ghost from a life that feels farther away than it should. I’m left standing there, staring at the spot where he was, flummoxed and wondering what the hell just happened.
There’s no way I’d dream of some random kid from high school and then he’d actually be here, right? I shake it off. The human mind works in incomprehensible ways. Maybe I’m just tired.
Then, there’s a buzzing in my pocket. I pull out my phone. It’s my mom calling. That’s odd—she knows I’m on shift at Save-Some-Bucks. Must be important. Maybe she wants me to pick up milk on the way home or something. I roll my eyes and smirk. She forgets texting exists sometimes. I swipe to answer.
“Joe? Joe?!” Her voice is frantic, panicked. My stomach flips, dread going from zero to a hundred in an instant.
“Y-yeah, Mom, everything alright?”
“Oh, thank goodness you’re okay.” She’s breathing heavy, words tumbling out. “I called your dad—he’s okay too. They don’t know what’s going on, but I’m happy you’re safe. Get home. Get home! Your dad is calling your sister to make sure she’s alright.”
My mind reels, struggling to keep up. “Wait, hold up a second, Mom. What are you talking about? What’s going on?”
“No one knows!” she cries. “It’s all over the news. Please, hurry home. It’s not safe.”
“Er, okay, okay. Don’t worry. I’m alright . . . I’ll see you soon. Okay?”
She sounds like she’s sobbing. But eventually I get back an “Okay.”
I hang up, my hands suddenly clammy. What the hell is going on?
I check my phone again. An alert ribbon flashes across the screen:
NEWS ALERT: World governments on high alert as worldwide violent attacks hit every city. U.S. officials caution everyone to shelter in place while the incidents are investigated.
My heart pounds. I sprint to the employee break room, practically ripping the remote off the table. I flip the small TV from whatever sports rerun was playing to the first news station I can find. The same headline scrolls across the screen. A man is being interviewed, words in the top corner of the screen seem to indicate he’s in Chicago. His face pale, eyes wide, like he’s seen the end of the world. The end of the fucking world, I think as echoes of my dream ripple through my head.
“They, they . . . they just exploded,” he stammers, voice cracking. “Oh god, oh fucking god.” He throws his face into the palms of his hands as he begins sobbing, shaking uncontrollably.
The camera pans to focus on the reporter who was interviewing him, who is doing a great job at remaining composed, her face held in a solemn expression as she reports out to the camera.
I pull my phone out again, my hands trembling as I tap on the news alert. The screen loads slower than usual—or maybe my nerves are just making it feel that way. My eyes dart across the article, heart pounding harder with each word I read.
‘Reports confirm that individuals across major cities worldwide are . . . spontaneously combusting. Authorities are investigating the cause, but initial theories suggest. . .’
My stomach twists into a knot. People are just . . . exploding? What the fuck? This has to be another nightmare.
I’m still trying to process that when I hear a voice behind me, tight and shaky.
“Joe.”
I spin around. It’s Dave. But not the Dave I know. His face is drenched in sweat, his usually neat hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes . . . they’re wild, panicked and practically bulging out of his head. The ever-present easygoing smile is gone, replaced by sheer terror.
“Uh, yeah, Dave?” I ask, my voice cautious, unsure.
He take a step closer, his whole body trembling. Then, he starts to cry. Big, heaving sobs that shake his entire frame.
“I’m… I’m about to run out of time,” he stammers, his voice cracking. “I’m running out of time and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know—”
Suddenly, there’s a strange pulsing sensation in my head. Like a phone notification going off in my frontal lobe. I try to ignore it, shaking my head. “What are you talking about, Dave?”
Then, Dave explodes.