In a daze, Kyle dreamt once more.

He was back in middle school. A drowsy afternoon, the math teacher at the front, back turned as he wrote on the chalkboard. The chalk struck the board with dull, heavy clacks.

Kyle's head spun.

He couldn't make out what was being written, everything blurred as if out of focus. His gaze locked onto the raised lines of the teacher's shirt, the only clear detail in a sea of haze.

Kyle stared, transfixed, neck and cheeks itching.

The math teacher turned. It was his boss's face, a man in his forties, spectacled, lips painted.

Pointing at Kyle, he bellowed: "Moon Prism Power, make up!!"

"…"

Kyle jolted awake once more.

Emerging from the bizarre dream a second time, he felt like he'd been crammed on a subway for hours, ready to hurl. Mercifully, he wasn't bound in some strange locale or wracked with pain. Only a dull ache in his left cheek, slightly swollen.

His left cheek…

Senses returning, Kyle recalled what had transpired.

Michelle's fist, slamming into his cheek. Then… nothing. He must have been knocked out cold, slipping into that odd dream before waking here.

What happened?

He opened his eyes to pitch darkness, blind. For a split second he feared he'd lost his sight entirely. He flexed his limbs experimentally - all in working order. Something soft beneath him.

Almost like his bed back home.

Had he traveled back? Was it all just a long, strange dream?

No, this wasn't his house. The distant ticking of a pendulum, a sound absent from his modern flat. And the mattress felt more akin to the pricey display models at his furniture store - the ones he could never afford. Wherever this was, it wasn't home.

"Hello? Anyone there?" Kyle called out, deciding caution was wise.

Silence.

He tried hailing the AI mentally, hoping it might shed light on his situation. Strangely, it too had vanished, as if it had never existed. Only the glowing blue sigil in his mindscape assured him this was no fever dream.

He was still in this world.

Which left one question: What had Michelle done after knocking him out?

Five minutes of furious contemplation yielded no answers. Lying here solved nothing. The fact that he still drew breath meant Michelle hadn't killed him outright or framed him for the Cleansers. That alone was cause for relief. Even as he'd summoned the water sphere, gambling on Michelle's need for him as a hostage, a seed of doubt had lingered.

What if she snapped and ended him then and there?

But here he was, alive and intact. That spoke volumes.

The knot in Kyle's chest loosened. His life had been spared - best not to question providence. Michelle still needed him. What was the worst she could do if he stepped out of line?

Mind made up, Kyle rose from the bed.

Shoes waited at the bedside. He fumbled them on in the dark. His questing fingers brushed something else - a hard, heavy object. Metal, by the feel of it. Cylindrical, like a canister of some sort.

A notion tickled the back of Kyle's brain. He took it with him, a makeshift cudgel.

Two steps forward, his hands met a door.

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The handle turned easily, a sliver of faint illumination spilling through the gap. Kyle's shoulders sagged in relief - the impenetrable gloom had begun to fray his nerves.

Though calling it "illumination" was perhaps overly generous.

By the meager light, Kyle could just make out a long hallway stretching before him, the air suffused with a subtle, pleasant fragrance. Arched windows punctuated the far end, slivers of moonlight warding off the oppressive shadows.

Another night, then.

Judging by the tomblike silence, the house's occupants had long since retired.

Where was this place?

It put him in mind of a sprawling manor house, the kind featured in gothic novels.

Mulling it over, Kyle ventured a few cautious steps. A low, eerie sound drifted from behind, freezing him in his tracks.

"Ooh… ooh… ooh…"

Kyle whirled, the hairs on his nape prickling.

There, at the far end of the corridor, a humanoid figure shambled towards him. "Humanoid" because in the gloom, Kyle couldn't make out any details - only a silhouette, lurching drunkenly from side to side like a marionette with its strings cut.

"Oh hell no, this place better not be haunted."

The figure drew closer. Kyle squinted, trying to discern if its face was black with necrosis or just really committed to the bit. As the initial shock faded, he dredged up memories of every zombie flick he'd binged, struck by a sudden realization - this thing might not be as scary as it looked.

At the speed it was shuffling, how dangerous could it possibly be?

Kyle steadied himself, raising the canister, and waited. When it had shambled within reach, he hurled his makeshift bludgeon with all his might, aiming for the head!

CLANG!

The sound of metal on bone made Kyle's own skull throb in sympathy.

The figure froze mid-lurch. Kyle eyed it warily, second-guessing his decision. The canister wasn't THAT heavy - would a solid thwack to the noggin be enough to put a zombie down for good? His borrowed body didn't exactly boast linebacker-tier strength.

If it shrugged off the blow, then what? It wasn't like he could spam water spheres until it drowned… did zombies even need to breathe?

Just as Kyle was contemplating a tactical retreat, an unearthly howl rent the air.

"AUGH!"

It was a cry of purest anguish, the kind of glass-shattering shriek you'd expect from a soprano getting an unsolicited prostate exam. It echoed through the manor like the wail of the damned. Lights flared to life, doors flying open as a flurry of footsteps converged from all directions.

The silent night erupted into chaos.

"What's going on? What's happened?"

"Who's making such a racket at this ungodly hour?"

"That scream… why does it sound so familiar?"

"…"

The darkness fled, finally revealing Kyle's assailant.

It was a man. A very human, non-zombified man with golden hair, clad in silken pajamas. His fine features were a mask of shock, foul-smelling liquid oozing from his lovely blond curls, leaving dark trails down his ivory nightclothes.

"Ah, whoops…" Kyle grimaced.

So this world wasn't THAT weird. Not a zombie - just a regular dude.

And that canister Kyle grabbed in lieu of a weapon? Not a regular canister.

Let's just call it… this world's equivalent of a chamber pot.

The manor's residents gathered, most wearing rough homespun garments, a select few draped in silken robes. Sleep-fogged eyes went wide as saucers as they took in the scene.

A hush fell over the assembled crowd, a collective intake of breath.

All eyes fixed on the golden-haired man.

"Pffft…" A strangled snort escaped Kyle before he could stop himself. He quickly swallowed his mirth, choking out an apology. "Sorry, that was an accident, I swear."

The blond man snapped out of his stupor, feeling the unmentionable substance dripping down his face. He goggled at Kyle, voice quavering like a concussed dove.

"You… you… I… I… drat… drat…"

Kyle arranged his features into a mask of solemn contrition, frantically suppressing the giddy hysteria bubbling in his chest.

The blond sputtered and shook, face flushing scarlet, chest heaving with each whistling breath. His eyes bulged, veins fit to burst. His mouth worked soundlessly, as if the sheer force of his outrage defied verbalization.

"You got something you wanna say, friend?" Kyle prompted, the very picture of innocence.

His gentle encouragement only seemed to agitate the blond further. He gesticulated wildly, flailing like a malfunctioning automaton, splattering the foul-smelling liquid every which way.

"Whoa, easy there!" Kyle raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Deep breaths, nice and slow. You're alright."

Something in his soothing tone must have penetrated the blond's fugue state. He sucked in a massive breath, visibly trying to collect himself…

Only for his eyes to roll back in his head as he toppled over in a dead faint, landing face-first in the puddle of noisome ooze with a wet splat.

"…"

Silence.

The kind of yawning, sepulchral silence that would make a crypt feel positively lively by comparison.

The crowd's eyes ping-ponged between Kyle and the unconscious man, the occasional shared glance speaking volumes. They might as well have been carved from stone for all they moved or spoke.

To call the atmosphere 'awkward' would be the understatement of the century.

That, and the stench was becoming quite overpowering.

Into that charged stillness, a familiar digitized voice piped up in Kyle's head.

"Wow, you made him eat shit. Literally."

The AI's sudden reappearance, coupled with its crass observation, startled an involuntary laugh from Kyle.

Every eye in the room snapped to him, staring as if he'd just suggested they all strip naked and dance the macarena. Kyle could FEEL their scrutiny, a near-tangible weight pressing down on him from all sides.

The stares were bad enough, but the continued silence was like nails on a chalkboard. Setting his teeth on edge.

Someone had to say SOMETHING.

"So, uh…" He fumbled for an opener. "Some night, huh? Nothing like a little excitement to chase away the sandman."