Greetings and salutations! We're almost at the spookiest day of the year and I've kind of... died, haven't I? Or so you thought! October 31st, the day of free candy and slutty-everything marks the day of my return! A doubleshot of F&C (35-40 page chapter) will be released patron exclusive while everyone will be getting the next chapter of OFNT. ~Sixty pages of new material coming to you on halloween. SpOoOoky!

Oh... and this. I got into a very, VERY lengthy discussion on what makes a good isekai/self-insert intro. After bludgeoning my poor companion until he was black and blue and largely no longer talking to me, I decided to have a good time by writing one. Not something I'm necessarily going to continue because of my two current ongoing stories (which I can hardly handle as is) but a fun start of what could be an epic adventure.

And as per the Halloween spirit, it has the spookiest thing of all. Deprrreeeeesssiooonnn. SpOoOoOoOoky!


Chapter 1

The Deal

Some people say that evil is a matter of perspective. History is written by the victors, so wouldn't it be easy to cast the heroes of one story as the villains of another? I agree with that much of the argument. It starts to fall apart for me when that premise gets stretched to encapsulating evil in its entirety. The idea that all morality is subjective — a popular belief nowadays — and that it is therefore impossible for one to judge objective right is all the rage.

Well, at least until someone touting that philosophy runs into someone who disagrees with them. Then that school of thought gets thrown in the waste bin. Frankly, I think that's where it belongs. Evil can be subjective. That's true.

But it can also be objective. I see proof of that every day.

"Goddamn PRISM," I swear furiously at the computer screen. The familiar lockout screen of the ransomware flashes before I immediately shut the computer down. I know what comes next in that boot sequence and having verified the problem I had no desire to see it again.

"Nooooooaaaaaaaaaaggghh!" My coworker's protest degenerates into a feral groan of frustration not six feet away from me. "Please for the love of god tell me management has sorted this out by now?"

"Yeah, they did," I look to my right and smile at my coworker. He heaves a sigh of mighty relief. "They also brokered peace in the middle east and solved faster-than-light travel. Oh, and you got a raise."

"Ass. I was willing to believe your crap out of sheer desperation until you went and shattered my suspension of disbelief. FTL is one thing, but a raise? Ha!"

A snort of laughter is all the response I give before turning my focus back to the bench. More of a colloquial term than anything, the bench was a thirty foot counter. We lined up computers on said bench and would pace back and forth like eccentrics as we started a process on one only to pick up where a process had finished on another. Management had decided that IT work would be handled more efficiently if we were on our feet for our entire shift. The idea was that if we were sitting we'd be more likely to focus on one machine out of a simple desire not to move.

Which they were right about, damn them.

The two of us worked back-of-house IT. Front faces would interact with customers and check things in and we'd fix 'em. Computers, phones, the occasional VCR. Wasn't much on the list that we wouldn't try our hands at. That was primarily because the customer-facing employees had a pretty high turnover and the replacements management hired were ignorant as a fucking rule. There were certain things we could work on and those we couldn't and with all the random exceptions management made the newbies didn't know the difference. That meant a lot of time training them up to be competent only for them to quit because the job was the pits.

Can't say I blamed 'em for that.

After booting the laptop into a file manager, I begin to check the system folders where I know PRISM is hiding. The company has a virus scanner that should take care of things like this. Should is really the operative word there. The scanner did what it thought was removing all the traces of PRISM. Again, thought being the operative word. The little bugger would hide in a variety of system folders and simply reinstall itself after a few boot cycles to assure that any IT working on it was well and truly gone.

Clever girl.

I'd respected the ransomwares for that when they first came out. A whole host of 'FBI viruses' had taken a Windows exploit by storm. They demanded payment, completely took over your system, and unlike many others could not be closed out of. The FBI viruses usually included some threat of legal action for some alleged crime. Some would even activate the webcam on a laptop to take a picture of the person using it just to spook 'em a little more.

I'd found it clever and not particularly nefarious when they first came out. They were nowhere near as bad as encryption viruses — something I appreciated them for — as they didn't brick your hard drive and all your data in it. I don't condone what is basically theft and exploitation and never have, but much like a jaded healthcare worker, I've seen too much of this crap to muster up much sympathy for the technological equivalent of a cold.

PRISM changed that. It was a special kind of ransomware. A special kind of evil.

"Jayyyyy…?" The way I say his name obviously implies a question.

With the number of times we'd had to do this recently, the exact nature of the question isn't a mystery either. "No way, no how. I fielded the last one. You're up to bat."

I blow a raspberry and resign myself to my predictable fate. I turn away from the bench toward our back shelf. A variety of tools both diagnostic and mechanical are strewn with what might have been the rough draft of a preliminary plan for order. It didn't much matter. You could only spend so much of your life somewhere before you could find anything through any of the mess.

I wish I was lucky enough to be looking for a misplaced screwdriver. No, it's not a tool I'm reaching for. It's the phone. Picking the wireless off it's charging station I glance at a memo stuck to the wall half with electrical tape and then redone with duck tape once I'd gotten tired of it falling. Tacky though it looks, I was content the memo no longer fell. Verifying that the number on the paper matched the one of my memory more than anything, I start to dial the listed number.

"Hey…" Jay starts off hesitantly. I can see him reconsidering as soon as he does so. I wish he would. He doesn't. "I heard what happened… you okay?"

At this point, everyone at work had heard. I did my best to keep the emotional backlash of what happened from creeping into my work, but that couldn't stop the word of mouth from circulating through the workplace like poison.

I sigh, pausing right before I'd hit the talk button to start the call. "No."

That was it in a nutshell. I wasn't okay. Not even close. Jay was asking because looking at me was enough to make it hard to pretend otherwise, no matter how much we both wanted to.

"But what can you do?" I joke with a chuckle. "You should be happy. If I was in a better mood I would have fought you on taking this call so I wouldn't ruin it."

Jay's face crinkles as he gives me a sad smile. "Guess you're right. Better not look a gift horse in the mouth."

He's a good guy to say so. I can tell he doesn't give a damn whether or not it's making his life easier. He says so anyways so the topic can drop. I'm grateful for that. I don't want to spend any more time thinking about it than I already am.

I hit the talk button and the pre-dialed numbers beep by in quick succession. Shaking the thoughts from my head, I do what I can to focus on the dial tone and what was essentially a prepared speech at this point. As I'm waiting for someone to answer, John walks into the back.

Bald, white, and with an almost missionary-like appearance, John was our back-of-house lead. He'd liaise with management and difficult customers whenever was needed in an effort to keep the two of us doing our damn job. When not dealing with difficult customers or management, John had the distinguishment of being responsible for batting out some of the more antiquated technologies we got into the store. Simply put, he either worked on the VCRs and the like we got in or got to make the call to customers saying we couldn't do it. It was a damn hard job and the small pay bump was hardly worth the responsibility in my eyes.

John managed by having a not so slight cocaine addiction. He'd snort some before work, snort some on lunch, and then power through until he could get home and smoke a joint to mellow himself out.

That's pretty much what it took to work IT most days.

John sees I'm on the phone and whispers something to Jay. I tilt my ear in their direction because the human condition almost demands I try and make out what they're saying. Despite my focus, I still manage to fail at eavesdropping. More embarrassing than that was that I let my focus get sidetracked from where it actually should be.

"- Police Department. Can I help you?" A female voice asks with poorly concealed irritation. If she worked this job a manager would have talked to her about her tone.

I don't let it phase me. I get how annoying it can be to answer phones all day and then some idiot comes along and forgot he even dialed you. "Hi there. I'm calling for Officer Santana. Is he available?"

"Santana's out," The lady answered shortly. "I can forward you to his line and you can leave her a message."

I can hear the woman already pressing buttons to transfer me before I say it's okay. "Wait, wait, wait!" I raise my voice in an effort to stop her.

Mercifully, it works. "What?"

"I need to speak to someone directly and immediately. If Officer Santana isn't available can you pass me to someone who is?"

Spend enough time on the phone and you can read the body language of an annoyed person through the receiver. Gnashing teeth, tapping feet, drumming fingers. This piece of work decided she wanted to set a record and went three for three on the checklist of obvious annoyance signals.

"Please hold," she asked curtly. Then, instead of muting the microphone like a civilized person, I hear her cover it with her hand like an animal. As anyone with half a functioning cortex could tell you, it does little to mute anything. "BAKER!" She shouts. A few seconds pass before she speaks again at a more normal volume. "Phone."

Apparently that's what the PD considers a warm transfer. The scraping of the phone being passed across what I presume to be a desk is enough to make me pull the receiver another inch or so from my ear.

"This is Baker," A gruff man's voice comes through the line with a vaguely irate quality to it. Is everyone in our PD chronically annoyed to the point they feel the need to make it this obvious? Lucky for them that they can express their discontent this transparently.

Must be nice.

"Hi, I'm an employee down at the CompFix off of 33rd and Lex. I was calling to inform you that we've had another case of the PRISM infection on the device of a client we're working on."

If my words sounded robotic and scripted that'd be because they are. Management decided that if we needed to interact with law enforcement regularly that such an arduity could not be trusted solely to us. I wish that meant they fielded these calls themselves, but no. It was enough to inspire them to make rules for us on how to do it without getting involved themselves. Par for the course of our management, really.

"Prism? Like the glass stuff?" The officer asks.

Years of IT have trained me to understand that he took the idea of prismatic refraction that glass can do and blanket it over the word prism without any real thought on my part. If you can't laugh at the way customer's remember or think of some things you'll be short-lived in this line of work. In this case, I don't have the luxury of breezing past the other party's ignorance to get the job done. I need to get this Baker up to speed.

"No, sir. PRISM is a ransomware that hijacks a computer system," I follow the preset dialogue laid out by my superiors. "It's installed in a Trojan-like fashion, meaning that what is displayed has no real bearing on the browsing habits of our client."

I'm annoyed at how stilted this sounds. I'm annoyed that I couldn't get Officer Santana and am now taking to this schmuck. I'm annoyed that my mind isn't on my work.

And yet what's said next makes me more annoyed at Officer Baker than any of those things. "Rigghhhht… Santana's case. You're the kiddie porn guys, aren't you?"

Is there a worse way to be remembered than 'the kiddie porn guys'? I'd never imagined, desired, nor actually belonged to such a demographic. To the extent of my knowledge, there isn't anyone who works here with such proclivities. Loathe as I am to admit it, the officer isn't entirely wrong either.

"PRISM is a ransomware that displays child pornographic content in order to scare and or shock people into paying the declared ransom," I grimace as I say it.

That's how I know objective evil. A hussle is one thing, but child exploitation? You find me a belief system that says that's okay and I'll expose them as an idiotic set of principles that should have died out back in the Bronze Age. Things like this are why I can't stomach people who say everything is subjective. Everything? Really?

PRISM being the piece of work that it is has made management declare a state of COYA; Cover Your Own Ass. As it's their asses they're concerned about, we've been tasked with the lovely task of reporting any and all incidents of PRISM to the local authorities in an effort to make sure we don't get sued out of existence for being complicit in child exploitation.

Fucking fantastic.

"Thanks for the call," Baker replies boredly. It's tragic that a person could be bored with something like this. Then again, with how done I am with the whole scenario that's very much the pot calling the kettle black. "I'll report the incident to Officer Santana and have her get back to you. She has your number, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Thanks." The click of the line disconnecting comes after the much more jarring sound of the phone being slid across the desk again.

"I really wanna give the assholes who coded this shit a piece of my mind," Jay growled bitterly.

"It's pretty damn grim, I give you that," I answer almost apathetically. As morally outraged as I was the first time we saw PRISM, it's not something I have the energy or willpower for now.

"Good job staying on script," John congratulates me with a smile. I roll my eyes with the most insubordination I can muster and earn a chuckle out of him. "It's a pain in the ass, I know. Still, seeing it helps me tell management that you're all sticking to it."

"Yay…"

"Hey, it makes my life easier," John's eyes scanned down our very full bench. It's filled to bursting courtesy of my having called out the past few days for… personal reasons. "I know you're scheduled off the next two days — and you're fine to take them if you need them — but if you don't mind-"

"I can come in," I cut him off. No point in putting him through the act of begging when I'm sure he stuck up for me to a very irate manager due to my call outs. The tension holding John's body up almost disappears completely. "Try not to look too relieved. I may get a big head."

"Can't help it. You're doing me a huge favor."

"I call in sick and create a problem so I can then get some hero worship for solving it? I've never felt more American."

John laughed, but in a pitying way. It was pretty obvious he knew too and that was why he was giving me such an easy time. Super. At this rate the next customer who walked in would probably know all the details of my personal life.

"Anyways, did the police give you a case number?"

"Sounds like they're going to add it to the pile we've given Officer Santana and let her sort it out."

John nodded and walked back out to the front, rubbing his eyelids as he did so. He probably had to cover the days I took off. Something I knew was bad for his health. Functional user of hard drugs that he was, John often spent his days off not indulging in substance abuse. Covering me on his days off made it so he'd either be going on coke for two weeks straight or make the choice to lay off of it and let us all suffer. The drugs helped him cope with both the idiocy and insanity of our day-to-day. Depriving him of them…

I'd learned patience and stimulants had a more powerful correlation than I once believed.

"Hey, Tiger," Jay said now that it was only the two of us again. The fully serious way he said it and the fully serious way I accepted it was stupid in of itself. It had started as a ridiculous nickname because of how young I was when I started the job. Almost a decade later and he hadn't kicked the habit. Worse was how I began to respond to it in public. "Did you get the workflow started on the Horowitz computer?"

"Ezra? He brought it in saying it was running slow. I was going to call him tonight and tell him the whole tower needed to be replaced."

Jay glanced over to the area we'd designated for desktops waiting to be started. Ezra's computer sat there, predictably untouched. "Did you diagnose it?"

"Of course," I assure him. "It's an XP machine with a Pentium Three. Firing a round of buckshot into that thing would be the best service I could give it. Diagnosis finished."

"He wanted us to install some RAM."

"They all want us to install RAM!" I fumed exasperatedly. "Snake oil is more likely to cure cancer than RAM is to make that piece of shit run faster. Hell, the RAM itself is more likely to cure cancer if we melt it down and stick it in an IV than fix that computer."

Jay laughed a little more earnestly this time around. "If we didn't charge customers making poor decisions we wouldn't have jobs. Did we warn him it probably wouldn't do anything?"

I walk the few steps towards the desktop tower and scoop up the paper on top of it. I scan through the notes that were left before giving an unenthusiastic. "Yep."

"I'm pulling out the Trippi tower on port three. You can set it up there and start it on scans."

"It's pointleeeeeeess," I groan childishly. Jay doesn't look back or even say anything more. He knows I'll do it despite my griping.

I'll spend my time doing work that someone asked for yet doesn't need. My efforts will fix nothing. For all my efforts put towards accomplishing the request asked of me, I know it will be meaningless. Yet here I am, doing it anyways. What does that say about me? Probably nothing good.

Reality doesn't change. I need the money from this job to live. Food, clothing, what little entertainment I can now afford as a reprieve from this mundanity. Video Games, card games, and streaming service keep me on my computer even after I'm home from work. I've tried branching out to multiple hobbies… I haven't taken to them as I hoped.

In that sense I'm not dissimilar to John; spending my gains on a mental reset that allows me to continue on the path I'm walking no matter how little desire I have to walk it. I'm actively aware of that, it irritates me, and I still do nothing about it. While they may not fulfill me, they occupy my time. I've tried to fill the void between leaving work and arriving back arriving back known as a home life with as much simple stimulation as I can. As if the act of doing so could distract me from my lack of satisfaction with my life.

It doesn't. It can't. I do it regardless. My fervent wish is that one day I'll wake up with the motivation to stir my dormant self from this torpor — this mental decay eroding at my sense of self and worth. I know that motivation won't spring forth from nothing. Drive is like a rolling snowball; the longer you go at it the larger it becomes. I know this.

So why am I stuck?


My keyring jingles as I unlock the door to my house. My mind is hazy as I close it behind me, flipping the handle lock and sliding the bolt lock good measure.

"I'm ho-" I stop myself. The sound of my voice bounces off the walls and up the staircase to be heard by nothing and no one. I sigh and shake my head. "Right…"

I kick off my shoes haphazardly towards the shoe mat on my right. While mostly inside, the heels of my left shoe rest on the hardwood floor. The haphazardness of it is exacerbated by the two pairs of substantially smaller shoes pointed perfectly straight towards the wall. I can feel the substantially smaller running shoes and laced heels looking at my obtuse pair of loafers with disdain for their messiness. I don't bother to fix them as I make my way to the kitchen.

I loosen my tie as I look for something to eat. I take stock of my mostly barren pantry, the refrigerator filled with condiments and expired ingredients, and countertops littered with the remnants of meal preparation I've not yet bothered to clean. Knowing that my options are between eating out and steamed white rice I glance around for my rice cooker.

I find it in its usual spot on the counter, pop it open, and then see the remains of a 'meal' made some few nights ago. Its contents have the first spatterings of mold beginning its slow march. Knowing the mold will eventually succeed in its conquering of my food, I lift the pot of the pressure cooker from the electrical apparatus and carry it to the sink. Of course, as I'd left it, both sides of my impressively deep sink are filled with a tower of pots, pans, plates, bowls, and silverware that's architecture looks like what one might imagine a drunk toddler constructing out of Jenga blocks. I'll need to empty the contents of at least one side of the sink to get my bounty of white rice.

Exhausted physically from a day on my feet as well as being emotionally taxed to the breaking point, I decide it's not worth it. I'd rather just sleep and pick up breakfast on the way in tomorrow. I'll get to cleaning the kitchen tomorrow.

Yeah… tomorrow.

My room is nothing to be impressed about. Not unless you're someone riveted by how messy a living space can become by simple lack of maintenance. Two separate desks with two computers — both custom-built — stand vigil over the lonely space. Mine is tucked away into the left corner of the room furthest from the entry. Its presence invites me to play a game, watch a show, or at least do something. I decide that it's probably for the best to do at least one bit of leisure before I hit the hay.

The computer whirs quietly and my desktop background greets me within fifteen seconds. God bless solid states. A cursory browsing of my YouTube subscriptions shows nothing of particular note. A few videos look like they may be interesting without particularly pulling me in. I check for updates on stories I read to similar results. A flash of annoyance at the lack of things to do hits me before immediately fizzling out. It's not the fault of the content creators I'm so insufferably bored.

A quick glance through my overly lengthy Steam library has me throwing in the towel. Every game either fails to snare me with any allure, is something I've played five times over, or is one of the many co-op games littering the list. A glance to the battlestation on my right serves as a needless reminder that those too are off the menu.

I surrender. Lethargically clicking on the URL bar I press Y, down arrow, enter, and YouTube pops up once more. Putting on the video playlist I use to sleep I spin my chair and vacate it, turning the lights off before falling into the far right of my king-size bed. I probably only take up a fifth of the bed with how I've positioned myself — my body close to falling off the edge. While the thought to center myself crosses my mind the desire does not.

I've slept this way for years. Why would I change it now?

The energetic shouts, jokes, and songs of the edited videos playing through my speakers that might infuriate others provides sufficient white-noise for sleep to claim me fast. I'm one of those guys who could sleep through anything once they're out. The caveat to my fantastically uninterruptable sleep is that I don't fall asleep until I'm tired. That makes switching from closing shifts to opening shifts like I am tonight usually quite difficult. Fortunately, such hasn't been the case recently.

I'm always tired nowadays.

My eyes drift to the brightly lit monitor in one last vain attempt to find a reason to stay awake. Funny as watching him play Annie is, I've seen Stefan suffer through this video at least a hundred times. I make the conscious decision to close my eyes in an intentional effort to will the mental darkness of sleep to take me faster. Exhausted as I am, it mercifully obliges. The sound of my speakers gets further away and occupies a less present space in my mind.

And soon there is nothing but blackness, both of sight and mind.

Thank god.

I don't dream. I don't think. Right now there is nothing and no one as far as I'm concerned. I have no need to smile and I've no need for strength. This nothingness is honestly the most relaxing thing I can get now.

But… aren't I thinking? I don't really dream and I'm definitely asleep, so shouldn't I be enjoying that nothingness right now?

"My sincerest apologies for interrupting your intended state of being," A dulcet, deep, playful voice pierces through every thought like a well-sharpened arrow. "I am both afraid and delighted to tell you that we have something of no small import to discuss with one another."

I guess I am dreaming. Huh… that's new. I hardly dream in the best of times. To have one now? I'd stopped having dreams once I realized they could be controlled and manipulated into what I wanted them to be. The trick is to not doubt yourself when trying to do so. Once you realize you're dreaming and try to exert your authority over its contents the mind will look to have you fail. If you harbor doubts they will be fulfilled.

"Are you alright? That is quite the face you're making." The voice sounded again in question.

What a weird dream. It's completely auditory — no visuals to speak of. Being something of a psychology buff I can't figure out why my mind is choosing this dream either. The voice sounds calmly confident and in control. Is it an expression of how I once viewed myself versus how I view myself now? That sounds plausible.

"I do believe in giving someone three chances to respond before interpreting their silence as intentional. If you are ignoring me would you do me the courtesy of opening your eyes and saying so?"

"I'd rather not," I finally respond. "At this state of lucid dreaming, opening my eyes in a dream is more likely to wake myself up than anything else. I'd prefer not to have to try and get to sleep again," No matter how unarduous the process was.

"Oh? And have you ever thought that might be a self-fulfilling prophecy? Is it not your belief that such will happen that gives it influence over your life?"

Yeah, that sounds like something I'd have said in the past. Smug, confident, and most importantly, right. So it's a conversation with myself, then? That's an interesting dream. I wonder what I have to tell myself.

"Most likely. That it's my believing in it that makes it reality does not change that it is reality."

"Hmmm," The voice hummed. "Are you then postulating that your preconceived notions create your reality?"

I try to nod, testing a theory.

"Would that mean that a person of religion and their belief in whatever god they do adore make that god real?"

That confirms that either the voice is me and I'm read my own mind, it is a creation of my imagination and thus shares my thoughts, or this dream is also visual in nature in my subconscious. I find myself in a catch-22 as I find this dream interesting enough to want to test opening my eyes to confirm its parameters. That same interest has me not wanting to push the envelope and risk waking from some of the most interesting conversations I've had in a while. Even if it is with myself.

I don't chance it and keep my eyes closed. "That depends on what you mean by real. Does it make a deity exist in real life? I would say no. However, their belief in a higher power would make them more likely to both dream and hallucinate a religious experience were their brain to be given sufficient stimuli."

"In short, you believe that beliefs can influence the behavior of one's body and how said body will interpret situations but will not have any larger influence on the outside world?"

I pause before giving what would have been an immediate answer. That question feels like bait. "I couldn't say that's true for all situations, but pertaining to our current conversation, yes."

The voice laughed heartily. "A safe answer if ever I've heard one given. Truly, much like myself, you are a man who chooses his words carefully. For that, you have my respect."

"I guess it's good to know I still subconsciously respect parts of myself," I wasn't exactly holding the highest opinion of myself recently. A dream composed of my own thoughts complimenting me was a nice little ego boost.

"Whether you do or do not have self-respect is something entirely your own business," The voice answered. Though something I might say to another person, it doesn't sound like something I'd say to myself. The words he chose struck me as a bit odd too. "I've not come to discuss your business- rather, not simply your business. I was hoping that the two of us might go into a bit of mutual business, actually."

"Business?" I repeat back as a question, already tired of the word. "Why would I want to go into business with you?" It was me, right? I'm already my own partner for better or worse. Then again, I'm not exactly the picture of happiness here. Perhaps it is my subconscious suggesting an alternative? I can tell the voice is about to speak again, yet I stop it. "Forget I asked. What's your offer?"

"To some those questions would be very much the same," The voice responded. I can tell it's teasing me.

"The first asks the reason why I'd be interested in your offer. You could suggest that my lack of satisfaction is reason enough to take any offer. Not true, but something you could say. The second asks directly what you're offering me and not why I'd take it. I'd prefer to figure that out on my own, hence the edit."

I feel a smile and I can't tell if it's my own or the voice's. The more we talk, the less certain I am of what's happening.

"I am more than happy to oblige. However, although one should go into all aspects of life with eyes wide open, I do believe that applies doubly so to matters of business. I must be so brash as to insist that this conversation be conducted in accordance with that philosophy."

That cinched it. I'd never have taken so long to say something as simple as 'open your damn eyes'. Whoever this dream-voice was, it wasn't meant to be me. Psychologically speaking, my mind had to be suggesting this voice's persona to me for a reason if I was to be dreaming of it. Moving from there, I knew that its asking me to open my eyes must imply some sort of visual necessary for whatever point it was trying to make.

So I trusted what I was sure was my subconscious and opened my eyes.

"There, that's better," The voice almost purred. "I welcome you to my domain."

And an interesting domain it was. My first assessment had it pegged as a library due to the bookshelves lining the walls. Thick, leatherbound tomes with gilded pages ornately decorated one while another was entirely devoted to books bound with string and tanned hide. So interesting was the choice to sort books by aesthetic over topic that I didn't notice the bookcases formed a rectangular box. I sat at one end, back to the singular bookcase that composed one of the two small sides of the rectangle, and the voice had floated over the black and red checkered tile on the floor from the opposite end. Unlit candles were mounted from end to end on the thick joinings of the shelves. The only light in the room was a single lamp next to where I sat.

For a dream, everything looks incredibly detailed and in focus.

Save for the series of bookshelves overhead that comprised the ceiling, books seemingly suspended in place on their shelves.

"I'd be delighted to give you time to admire under a more normal circumstance. As such, I do regret to inform you that this particular instance is not one of my more normal dealings. Time is something of a factor in this case and I would be bereft could we not strike some sort of bargain within this window I've created for myself. Once more I must be so pedestrian as to insist we continue with our business."

The way he says that word and continues to say it niggles at my mind yet is ultimately drowned out by a greater curiosity. The voice — the man as my eyes can somewhat reveal to me — seated across from me looks incredibly far away and yet sounds no more than four feet from my face. All I can see of him is the golden and ornate feet of his chair, his polished and pristine black dress shoes, and the beginnings of a crimson pantleg striped with gold.

"Do forgive this impertinence of mine, but are you there? There are discussions to be had and I cannot perform a two-man show by my lonesome."

"Yeah, sorry about that," I apologize reflexively, a byproduct of years working with customers. "Now that my eyes are open, my question?"

The man smiled. I don't know how I could tell that without seeing his face… yet I knew it as a fact. "From what I've learned of you I do believe you are a man who values getting to the point. Much as I'm one for the scenic route myself, I will acquiesce with your desire. I am dreadfully disinterested with my current state of being and desire a decadent distraction on the double. I can tell that is something the two of us share a mind on. As two gentlemen desiring a change of pace, I propose a deal that will allow both of us a reprieve from this mundanity."

That one word hit me with everything my life had become. Dull, disinteresting drudgery without the desire for anything more. This conversation was a dream. I knew that. It was idiotic fantasy to use this dream to hope for anything more. But if it was possible…?

"I'd be interested in such a deal."

"Most splendiferous! I knew you would be willing to listen," The man coughed to clear his throat. "What I propose is thus;"

"I will find — and more to the point have found — a proper venue for both of us to enjoy ourselves. The two of us may revel as we will, but neither will be allowed to interfere with each other's revelries. We will work closely with one another — and that is non-negotiable. And when all is said and done, I will promise that I've given you the most excellent opportunity to recapture the wonder you once held for life and living it. That is my guarantee."

I'm not so naive as to ignore the sirens blaring in my mind. I know more than a fair share about contracts and achieving one's own goals with them. There are many businesses that grow with one another through contract, yet there are possibly even more who treat them as a zero-sum game. I can't deny the allure of his proposal though, no matter how much it reeks of a devil's deal.

"And what would my end of this contract be?"

"Quite simple, really," The man assures me. "As I said prior, you shall not interfere with my revelry. I only have one other demand of you in exchange for all that I've offered. You must let me in."

"Why would you need that?" I ask. I try my best to keep my mind sharp and focused. "You are choosing the venue, as per your own statement, so why would you need my invitation?"

The man's laugh was like dark chocolate mixed in with amusement. "A fair question, to be sure. While I might be able to pick a place I lack the ability to travel there. I require an invitation from one willing partner in order to travel. You are in possession of a vehicle which I have not, and so I need your compliance in order to journey with you. Does that answer your question?"

It did. It did entirely. And somehow in doing so, it revealed nothing. It answered my question without providing a single detail. I didn't trust it as a statement and I didn't trust him for saying it.

"You said you needed me to 'let you in'. That's an odd choice of words."

"My apologies if you did find them disturbing," The man smiled. How did I know that? "It is due to my manner of speaking that I chose them. I need transportation and a vehicle to ferry me to the places and people where and whom I will do business with. I can assure you that my dealings will not harm you-"

I immediately interrupted him. "Can you assure me the results of those dealings won't subsequently harm me?"

The bawdy laughter that ensued was like the cork popping from shaken champagne. It was deep decadence crossing the piqued pleasure of a man whose pleasure was rarely piqued.

"No, I suppose I can't. I would not wish to harm you directly, yet I cannot promise no dealing of mine will impact you negatively. This world's a big place, after all. Hard to say what will or won't inadvertently affect you," The man paused for but a moment before continuing, his voice smugly amused. "Would it satisfy you were I to add a clause that I would not harm you intentionally?"

I think about it. It takes me equally long to respond as it had for him to think of the offer. "No."

Plenty of things happened in life that people didn't mean to. Showing up late to work, missing a date, your car breaking down on a train track. Not meaning for something bad to happen didn't mean it wouldn't. I knew better than that.

"I'd instead ask that in addition to that, we share ramifications equally. Whatever I suffer through as a result of your dealings, so should you."

Some companies were founded under that exact premise of sink or swim. Founders couldn't sell meaningful amounts of stock or fall below a certain amount of ownership without expressed agreement from all those investors present at the time of the company's founding. It was an idea based on the understanding that everyone would prosper together, or everyone would fail. Tying your ship to someone else's was a great way to make sure they didn't try and make you sink.

Which was why his response surprised me. "I do happily accept that change to the agreement. Such was my intent in any case. I must have forgotten to vocalize it."

Did he really? Or was I missing something? I didn't know, wasn't sure. Right as I was about to review the verbatim of the contract again, a book fell from the shelf on the ceiling at the end where he'd sat. A bright white light shined through it like a beacon.

The man stood, and as he did the optical illusion of him being both far and close was over. He was inarguably close now. No more than two tiles each a foot long separated us.

And still, I couldn't see his face.

"You've made your concerns known and I've given you my offer. Do we have a deal?"

Another book fell from the ceiling cases, accentuating the urgency his previously placid voice now held.

"Hardly. There are far too many details to work out and you've been nothing if not vague about what exactly we'll be doing," I chuckled. Books continued to fall from the ceiling at an increasing rate. More and more light began to suffuse the shadowy room.

I wondered if one would reveal his face.

"I would indeed oblige in walking you through this under normal circumstances. However, as I informed you, this is a time-sensitive offer. I'd hoped for more time to explain it to you," He muttered, evident agitation in his voice.

"Sorry, I can't say yes," I shrugged.

The books had continued to fall on the furthest shelf until there were none left. Then, only when the last book had fallen, the shelf itself fell and that entire section of the room was bathed in that white light, expunging all the shadows with a hissing finale.

"Can't say yes, you can't say no!" The man spoke in fast, hurried words. His previous candor fast disappearing. "I am offering you a fresh start. A clean slate for you to re-etch the carving of your life onto. All I need is for you to let me in!"

"And I'm saying there's too much that could go wrong. I've made my fair share of uneven contracts before. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is."

A clean slate? God, I'd kill for one of those. What a tease of a dream.

The books were falling like rain at this point. The second shelf crashed to the floor with a resounding crack, the light bathing the wreckage and chasing the shadows towards me as it had before. Wait… were those shadows actually moving towards me?

"That makes no sense! What do you care if there is a modicum of risk? Fearing loss is for those who have capital left to lose!"

His words struck me like a mallet with the sound of another falling bookshelf serving to drive it home.

Was he right? Did I have nothing to lose? No… that wasn't even a question at this point. I'd lost it already. It wasn't a gamble if you knew you were going to win. That was something I'd said many times in the past.

It also wasn't a gamble if you had nothing to lose.

"A clean slate?" I asked, finally revealing the interest I'd been concealing from him and myself this entire time.

"Yes! A clean slate and a new adventure. I can guarantee excitement long past your appetite for it is fully whetted. All I need from you is to let me in."

Another bookshelf crashed to the ground with a sound like a grenade going off. My ears were ringing as I ran over it one last time. The deal was too good for me. I had to be getting used somehow. I knew I was getting used somehow. But did I care? Maybe he was right. Even if I got screwed over somehow, what did I have to lose?

"If we do this, we do it together," I remind him of my editation.

"Yes! Together!" He shouts his agreement as one more bookcase falls after emptying its contents onto the ground. The light blasts through brighter than I've ever seen light before. Part of the man's elbow is caught in it and I can see the fabric of his crimson suit smolder.

"Fine… I'll let you in," I give my consent. When did I stop treating this as a dream anyways? This was a fun mental exercise in my sleep. I can't be bothered to think about this anymore… real or not.

"Shake on it!" The man sticks his hand out, the remaining shadows that have been chased towards us congregating around his body, completely enshrouding everything but his outstretched hand from my view.

I look at his hand and wonder if I'm doing the right thing. As bad as my life is, I've dug my hole. The choices I made were mine and mine alone. Even if he can offer me a clean slate, do I deserve it?

"SHAKE ON IT!" The man bellows as the books begin to fall upon him.

Even if I don't deserve it can I keep doing what I'm doing?

That was the question that had me reach my hand out to his. He grabbed it forcefully — all his desire to make this deal clear in the strength of his grip. And at that moment as the bookshelf fell down to crush him…

I think I grabbed back.

The books and shelf stopped falling like some surreal painting on abstract reality. They floated formlessly in the air, unable to find the ground. The point our hands joined at felt hot, burning, even. And suddenly I feel a searing heat from his hand.

The shadows once cowed by the light explode from his body. Like a dark sludge, they lift the bookcases back up from the side opposite us and reconstruct the room section by section. Only taking seconds to rebuild and restock each fallen shelf, the unlit candles in the room blaze to life. Same as the light before it, the candles chase towards us as each section is rebuilt.

"From this moment forward, you and I shall fulfill the terms of our contract to one another. From this moment forward," The man repeated once more with slow emphasis. The final bookcase replaces itself and all the remaining candles in the room burst to life. I see his face.

"We have a deal."

It's my face.

And then, like a shutter being pulled, my vision blacks out. Unlike before, I'm desperately trying to open my eyes. I'm trying to pull the covers off my body so I can bolt out of my bed. No matter where I reach there's nothing I can grab. No matter how hard I try to open my eyes there's nothing I can see.

And then there is. Color and light assault my eyes with the stimuli I was so desperate for, except not in the way I was desperate for it. A field of reeded grass standing like wheat fills my sight with me lying at the top of a small hill overlooking it. My tight grip grabs grass and dirt so harshly that the cuticles on one of my fingers starts to bleed. It smells like outside, the breeze bowing down the grass feels like outside.

I am outside.

"Where… am I?" I ask the open emptiness. Is this some hyper-realistic dream? Is this some sort of sequel to what just happened? None of my knowledge of psychology can make any sense of-

You are in the jewelry box filled to bursting with untapped treasure I happened upon. A familiar voice fills my head.

I balk. "W-where are you?"

What do you mean, 'where am I'? We made an agreement. I would provide the venue, you would provide the vehicle.

It hits me all at once. The exact words of the contract. More importantly, the exact meaning of his contract. Wherever I am, wherever we are, he didn't need help getting there.

He needed someone to let him in.

I look forward to our continued collaboration. The voice sounded from my head once more, smug amusement dripping off each and every word.

Partner.


Well, that was fun to write! Time to finish up the other works I've got in the oven for the spookiest of Halloween releases. Does this concept interest or appeal to any of you? Please, give me your thoughts. See you guys next time!