Chapter 2: Mr. Enter Gets Drafted

"MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM," the microwave said. There was a burrito cooking inside. Mr. Enter glanced at it, eyebrows raised, as he had not put that there, much less the microwave itself. Suspecting it was the act of his roommates, he opened the door, where an unpleasant surprise struck: The door was locked.

His small apartment contained the bare essentials for life. Storage space, living space, beds and all that, and of course: a computer. His whole job was talking about cartoons on the Internet. It didn't make much money in the long run, but his few donations kept the place in check.

He had shelves recently rearranged but still crowded in the same gaming consoles and cartridges. Call him old fashioned, but it was the sentimental value that kept it there. The same could be said for his old drawings, scattered on a desk where some of his favorites hung above. A poster hung above the desk where his computer sat, showcasing an array of his characters in a novel he planned to release soon.

It would be better than his last, he told himself time and time again. Bookmaking was a hobby, something he could fall back on and relax with. No fretting with deadlines, no fear over the money or reputation he could lose, both of which fed into the other, setting him back on rent.

Rent. Money. The problems. The stupid door which got stuck again. They all were interconnected in his small life, which made the inconsequential things stick out like a sore thumb. Mr. Enter continued to tug on the door to no avail, his hands slamming it with one final act of desperation. He'd have to unscrew it later in the day.

Just as he turned, a series of knocks struck the door. Mr. Enter narrowed his sight, frustration building, before rolling his eyes to reply, "Who is it?"

The stranger at the door spoke back in a commanding voice. It was clear from his inflections and the tiredness clouding it that he had to be in his forties, which would bounce Mr. Enter's suspicions to a higher plane. No one of that age, much less older, would have the need to confront him directly without a call. "John. We need to talk."

In five words, no, at the mere mention of his name, Mr. Enter's eyes shot up. He turned back to the door, once more twisting the knob, and, against his expectations, the door opened like its hinges were cleaned. Standing with his eyes partly obscured by the shade of his top hat stood the Old Man. His face held no readable expression; from the shadows of his hat stared the blank blue eyes Enter had seen time and time again. His ghost of Christmas future, if he could describe it. "What?"

The Old Man stepped into the room as Enter walked to the side. As a sign of courtesy, he removed his top hat to place it on the coat rack. His hair, though thin and gray, had not balded yet; Enter sometimes wished he looked anything but that in his 40s. With the shade removed, Old Man's face showed a few more signs of emotions, weary at alert, his stare embedded in Enter's. "There was a disturbance. A sign that the future is falling."

"In what way?" he remarked, "I'd been through hell and back and society is holding together," he sighed, "even if it seems the last threads are unraveling."

"This isn't a bad movie or show I'm talking about," Old Man continued, his voice stringed with concern. His long gray coat covered even his hands, falling down to his boots. It covered him in a mystery, leaving the Old Man as cryptic as his warnings. "This could alter reality as we know it. I sense a danger in my beard."

"Then get it straightened out," Enter said, turning his back on the Old Man. "How can this end the world worse than 2020? Or 2012? Or 2000? I'm not in the mood for this," he shook his head. A beep startled him and left the Old Man in indifference; Enter cursed as he struck his finger against the "Stop" button.

"How long have you had a microwave for?" Old Man posed the question Enter had on his mind, less with the cynicism and more with concerned curiosity. The Old Man saw reality in a lens different from anyone Enter had encountered. He'd pushed Enter through his worst, dropping by his door at least once a year to check in on him.

"Since today," Enter rasped, his voice quivering from the alert noise. "Probably the result of my roommates, if I had to guess."

Old Man shook his head, coated in his signature "I'm right, you're wrong" answer. "That is not true. You questioned where it came from, but not where it was, did you?"

Enter turned his back on the Old Man like so many times in the past. He always grew from these encounters, and so if he waited long enough, and the Old Man walked away, Enter would learn something new and the world would keep turning. He could die today and no one would care; those close would follow the same fate. Earth didn't revolve around him. He could afford to be wrong.

"I see. 'How does it matter?' is what you're thinking," the Old Man bowed his head as he averted Enter's gaze, returning to the door whence he came. He left the door ajar with his palm firm on its knob. "Get dressed and meet me outside. You should have a robe designed for this situation in your closet; tug the string on the ceiling to reveal it."

"Now hang on a moment," Enter objected, taking hold on the door as the Old Man began to exit. "You're not going anywhere until you explain yourself."

Nothing was spoken to him in return; the Old Man used an extra push of force to close the door, and between the time Enter opened it, he vanished. Mr. Enter headed towards his closet, taking a glance at the still-hot microwave before turning away. He opened the door, eyes scanning for the aforementioned string until he spotted it, tied up neatly on the ceiling.

Tugging it down, Enter watched as a secondary door opened in the closet, a cloud of dust piling over the floor. Coughs echoed in the silence; Enter marched on. In the smaller compartment stood a clothes rack and some sort of object holder. One contained a set of long robes, dark gray in color with a light gray rim on its split and edges. A hat rested on top, pointed at the tip with a clear fedora shape on the bottom. It looked stretched to reach the pointed top.

Beside the clothes rack, on the object holder, rested a long wooden staff up to Enter's head in height. Its own tip is a curl with a split piece of wood sticking out to form a circle in the spiral. It appeared to be that way to hold something, though it was Enter's best guess as to what. The wood itself was dark with ripples going through it, but the condition, for where it had been sitting for who-knows-how-long, was fair.

The entire room reeked of dust, so much so that each movement, as slow and careful as it was, sent gulfs of it around. Enter took the robes and hat and staff before leaving the room, sneezing as he exited.

"Alright Old Man, I'd like to know what I'm supposed to do-" Enter began, only to pause mid-sentence as he stepped into the empty room. Grasping the staff like a sword, Enter neared the desk where the microwave sat. Inside, not a sign of food remained, not even the empty microwave.

His first thought was that the Old Man ate it, but surely he would have heard the squeaky door open. The moving shadow of a figure raised Enter's alarm, making him spin to catch a glimpse of someone. The stranger lurched forward, his own staff glinting in the light and giving its appearance away. Rolling, Enter blocked the swing before swiping the intruder's legs, echoing a BANG! through the room as the figure struck the counter side.

Adrenaline burning, Enter twisted himself onto his feet, preparing his staff were the intruder to strike again. He watched the stranger dart forward at inhuman speed, swinging the staff equally so. Each block succeeded at first before Enter missed one, at which time appeared to pause until the hits became painful.

The opponent's staff glowed, at which point Enter noticed the orb in the center of the curve. It appeared to float, not held by any of the curled wood, though any other details were caught in the blur of the swinging. Finally, Enter fell to the floor, his enemy looming over, cloaked from head to toe in shady black. Sharp highlights were on his clothes, like his shadow had come to life to kill him.

The door creaked open, and the Old Man stepped in, grabbing the hat he left on the clothes rack. Bowing his head, he wore it once more, and the rim cast a shadow onto his face. The mystique returned, coating his face and hiding his eyes. "By the way, Mr. Enter, I forgot my hat on the way out. You found the robe and staff, I assume?"

He gazed at the unfolding scene, a veil of uncertainty falling on the small apartment floor. The moment was short-lived; the fight resumed. Enter endured the striking of the staff, and as the blows were dealt, the red glow of the orb grew brighter. Immediately, the Old Man sprung forward, pulling a similar staff of wood out of his cloak.

This orb shone a dark blue, and its glow was the same. The fight resumed as the two swiped and struck, attempting to one-up each other with the same moves. Enter could only watch, the bones in his body misplaced and shattered from the impacts. Blood already pooled on the floor, not enough to deplete him of life, but enough to raise concern.

A hiss sounded from the red orb, pushing the shadow figure back as he pulled the staff to his chest and, raising it high and angled, swung down. Fire roared from the red orb, casting the carpet close to Enter on fire. He flinched as the flames touched enough to cause burns, though his disheveled beard remained intact.

Old Man combatted the attack with his staff, glowing blue as it was, by performing a similar move. Water gushed around, distinguishing the fires and sweeping the shadow into the current. When the Old Man dispelled the water, the shadow figure had vanished.

"A shadowman," the Old Man said with the shake of his head. "I haven't seen them in years."

He fiddled with the orb on the staff, twisting it up then down, bringing it through an assortment of colors. Blue, red, green, yellow, white…. On white, he twisted it sideways, and letters of an ancient-looking script flickered on the orb's swirling surface. It matched no language Enter was familiar with.

"They only appear when someone offers money," the Old Man explained, "or they are recruited from alternate galaxies, sold to those with the highest bid. I would say someone has a bounty over your head. Did you get caught up in any controversies lately?"

His wounds were flaring as hot as the distinguished flames; his head spun. Enter barely mustered the answer to the question, groaning a weak, "No."

Old Man pointed the staff at Enter, flashing him with spirals of white and cream. The orb gave a friendly feeling in this way; no aggressive or competitive positions, just a mere point-and-watch. Part of his wounds were better as the spirals split off into smaller strands to enter them. His bones creaked like the door as they moved into place.

Blood stained his clothes despite the diminishing pain, although moving remained a challenge. Whatever spell the Old Man cast had not healed everything; it felt like he would fall apart with a sudden jerk. The Old Man helped him up, watching as he struggled, before explaining, "Healing magic. You'll be needing it where you're going. It's one of the major spells you'll be learning to cast."

"So I'm a wizard now," Enter coughed, his body too shocked for sarcastic remarks. The Old Man took no notice of that. He brought the robes to Enter.

"We'll be training somewhere they can't find us. The sooner you learn, the better. Now, you'll be needing more… fitting, clothes, so put these on."

At this point, Mr. Enter was not alive enough to argue. If he was about to be drafted into wizardry, he'd have to suffer the consequences later.