Sometimes the world gets a bit weird. All expectations and predictions are thrown out the window and suddenly the sun rises from the south and sets in the north, at least that’s how it feels for those involved, for everyone else it’s just a normal fucking day.
Staring at the back of the mysterious visitor pressing the doorbell to my home in clear irritation, I realize that today is one of those days. The stranger is wearing an ankle length hooded cloak that would look more fit in some fantasy fiction than your average 21st century apartment building. Though it’s not his unusual sense of style that has brought my steps to a pause and shifted my day into the weird.
From the top of my apartment stairs, I watch the foreign visitor give up on the buzzer and begin knocking rather heavily upon the thin wooden door. I fumble for my phone, readying to call for the police. An unusual response to someone knocking at your door, perhaps, but this stranger as should already be established is not some ordinary door knocker selling their religion or some other trinket.
No, this visitor, with their hood covering their head, is what I can only suppose to be a lizard person. I’ve already cleaned my glasses twice while standing here watching its back, but the simple fact doesn’t change. It’s not a human.
Of all the conspiracies that the tinfoil hat bearers have anticipated, this was not one that I had expected to come knocking at my own front door.
That scaled hand, not easily confused with the fleshy sort still fumbling with a phone at my side, presses the doorbell again as I hear the creature hissing in frustration. Antsy shifting of his stance, and a more irate pressing of the buzzer almost results in an anxious giggle escaping me.
Perhaps the lizard people aren’t so much different from us after all. I can certainly recall that sort of frustration myself.
In his frustrated shifting, it would seem that the dark cavity of its hood has turned to the stairs where I’m still standing, staring at the creature.
“Kyra Baker?” The sound that I hear, while my own name, sounds awkward, too distinct from the tongue clicking and hissing from his earlier swearing, like the words don’t quite fit his mouth. Yet, it comes out so dry that I can almost see the creature as just some tired employee trying to get through their day.
I’m left wondering if I should call the police, sprint down the stairs, or simply reply the same I would to any warm-blooded, hairless ape. Having been properly trained in social niceties for many of my younger years, I can’t help but properly reply.
“What the hell do you want?” The nicest as anyone should properly be to uninvited guests knocking on their door. Though I’m told by others that my view in this might somewhat be subjective.
As the cloaked stranger walks ever closer, I step a little away and raise my phone as if to ward him off with the quiet threat that it might pose. But if I’d somehow thought that the 5g signals might frighten off this cold-blooded fiend, then I’m proven wrong as soon as his scaled hand slaps against my wrist.
“What the shit?”
Chilled metal spreads out across my wrist, looking not unlike mercury as it shifts around my arm and starts sinking into the flesh. My upper arm aches with a cold chill, then my neck, and my head follows. The pains aren’t so terrible, more uncomfortable, like a brain freeze and just as quick to fade. All that remains to prove that I didn’t imagine it is a small metal symbol rising from the skin on the back of my right hand.
Circular with a few detailed glyphs written concentrically within, it bends as I roll my wrist.
I gaze between it and the lizardman whose bored, yellow, vertical slit eyes meet my own. He lazily opens his reptilian jaw revealing an array of sharp teeth, and starts speaking as if from an old script read and re read so many times, he could recite it without thought.
“You, Kyra Baker, have been selected for a scholarship in the Landra inter-realm academy, as a part of the Unified States student sponsorship project. As a representative of Landra academy, it is my responsibility to advise you not to try to remove the support device as it would prove impossible and very likely lethal. As a part of a 3rd grade civilisation all of this may come as a surprise, but be assured that your chief, headman, King, or otherwise is aware of this program and given all appropriate permissions to allow for your enrolment.”
“You’re inviting me to your school?” I ask slowly, backing away another step. “I’m already enrolled in a university course here, and it’d be such a bother to change to this Landra whatever at this time of a year…”
“Invitation? Not exactly. Participation is not regarded as optional. Should you fail to arrive on your own, you will be collected, and your behaviour will be marked negatively in your records.” The lizardman pauses a moment, “Harmful records may limit your access to markets, your allowances for travel, and many other privileges. I understand your confusion, but I strongly suggest that you follow provided instructions here and in the academy.”
I can’t quite describe how, but his lips and facial expressions feel, perhaps not wrong, but also not quite right. Like cg that’s good but not quite great.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“As a member of a 3rd grade civilization certain information is censored, do not attempt to share such information to any unauthorised persons or it may affect your records. The support device,” He gestures to the silver mark newly formed on the back of my hand, “Will detail this information more thoroughly upon initialisation, as well as all necessary details for your travel schedule.”
With a deep sigh, the lizardman turns away without giving me chance to ask anything more, as if his job is already done.
“Hey, is that it?” I call to his back, but he ignores me.
He stumbles on the last step of the apartment complex and spits some violent words before getting in a taxi that has been parked there waiting for him. No one else seems to be paying enough attention to notice that the strange man isn’t even human.
I shake my head at the sight and head inside.
The ‘support device’, as the lizardman called it, seems now nothing more than that small mark, though I still clearly recall the painful brain freeze as the cold mercury made its way into my mind.
I’ve been brain chipped by a lizardman.
I’ll never laugh at crazy conspiracy theories again, and if I see any little grey men, I’m covering my ass.
At least the mark isn’t too blatant, subtle with simplistic circular design, flexible and almost feeling as if liquid even as it holds its shape. A light touch to the symbol and a little pop-up screen appears before my eyes. Sepia, almost like the colour of aged paper, text flows beautifully across it.
They’ve got style at least.
First up is a confidentiality agreement. Though not quite, as the agreement part is nowhere to be found. No ‘I agree’ box to tick, just a list of potential punishments for letting the metaphorical cat out of the bag. Not particularly fair, since I didn’t put in there in the first place.
With such disclaimers through, I get access to the meat of the information loaded onto the damn brain chip.
I close it for now, tear open the fridge doors, and stare blankly at the options within. I can’t deal with this on an empty stomach.
“Hmmm... strawberry milk... chocolate milk... fuck it, both.” I promptly poor a half-half glass and get back to studying the alien device.
There’s a briefing on how I’ll be travelling to the academy and what I’ll be needed to bring with me. Local airport tomorrow, and basically nothing needed.
Stranger and stranger still.
Something about a live-in academy with a few opportunities over holidays to visit family, and ‘home realms’, and access to all living necessities.
“Possibilities… Strange new AR game set up by a creepy super-cosplayer. I got injured or killed and am experiencing some form of hallucination. Or it’s real.” I mutter as I lounge about and flip on the TV.
This past week I’ve been feeling a building anxiety that I just couldn’t explain. I guess I know what that was about now, though now I’ve something new to be anxious about.
Tomorrow.
Not really giving me much time, are they?
Not much time to question them, that’s how scammers and the like work. Not a point in the lizardman’s favour, and he has precious few of those.
I pick up my smartphone and type in the name of the school but only come up with a few hits, picking the top one, some random post on social media, a page pops up ‘the post you are looking for has been deleted for breaking our community standards, yada, yada,’.
Strangely enough the next is the same.
It’s not until I select something from a notoriously poorly moderated site do I find some post still up, and it’s nothing more than someone complaining about these posts going missing.
My stomach starts churning again. Whatever this is, there’s some real power and influence behind it to keep it off the internet, or at least try to. Damn lizard people must have their claws in everything.
I flick off the phone, it’s not doing me much good but offering me more to worry about. Instead, I look at the words drawn up from the strange holographic display of the ‘support device’ brain chip that’s been slapped on me.
“Classes, huh.” As soon as I’m through the main text blocks and explanations I get to what I can only suspect is the home screen. Listed is a mostly empty menu with the simple word ‘Classes’ listed up top, flashing slightly as if to demand me to ‘tap here’. I do so without much thought.
These are your current class options and class objectives, select those you wish to track.
-Fire Magic: Grade 1
-Crafting History: Grade 1
-Water Magic: Grade 1
-Harvesting: Grade 1
-Combat Theory: Grade 1
-Air Magic: Grade 1
-Alchemy: Grade 1
The list goes on and on, nightmares for anyone basically computer literate. Already I’m looking for some option to modify it into subcategories and simplify the unordered list at least a hundred long.
My search goes without hope.
Of course, I’m a little surprised to see magic pop up, though not as much as otherwise considering the circumstances being as strange as they are. Thinking it likely a scam helps too.
Hesitantly, I scroll through the list, returning to the top with my head spinning I choose the simple classic.
~Fire Magic: Grade 1
Let’s learn fireballs.
Current Goal: Complete a mana-fire conversion.
Warning: Your mana form is too underdeveloped to take the next step in this class.
Okay, so no fireballs. I instead look for this mana form.
~Mana Form: Grade 1
Current goal: Develop your mana form.
Current mana density: 0 units
Well, that’s helpful. I look around for more advice but what I can find quickly goes over my head. Magic this, mana that, ask a lecturer for assistance.
I carefully leave the menu without selecting anything more for fear of locking something in. With how messy this system is, I’d hate to have something like ‘competency in history of modern agriculture’ somehow locked in as my future prospects in this weird magic academy.
Putting aside the lists of objectives, I look into what seems to be an empty email account, without even any ‘welcome’ message to keep me distracted. Lastly, I notice an option to ask for assistance with a little picture of a thin, long eared man alongside it.
An elf, my brain chip is telling me.
Shaking my head doesn’t make the implanted realization disappear.
Such a strange day.
The phone rings, and I answer it without thinking.
“Hello?”
“Honey! Amazing work with that new scholarship, you’re transferring tomorrow, too. You’re such a smart girl.”
“Oh, this is totally a scam.”