The Riftguard Saga, Chapter 3: The Loud and the Quiet

Jeffrey stumbled and had to put a hand on the floor to steady himself. Jo stopped, ahead of him in the corridor, and waited.

"Guess I'm still a little disoriented, sorry," Jeff said.

"The gravity here is 14% stronger than Earth's. It's another thing you'll get used to," Jo said.

"Ah," Jeff said, standing back to his feet as they walked forward. Soon, they turned and entered a new room, the Theater.

Indeed, it was reminiscent of a movie theater in its design: Tiered seating, formed with benches inlaid to the unique material that Haven seemed to be completely made from, all facing a stage-like rise in the floor, along with a big, blank surface that could be used as a video screen; that is, if it was anything like the wall in the previous room Jeff had been in.

Crys was up front, on the platform, while the members of the Riftguard filed in one by one. They varied in size and shape, color and demeanor, motion and mannerism. A living boulder here. A hardened warrior there. Something silent and intimidating in the back row.

Jeff just tried to stick with Jo, who was walking up one of the side aisles. In the middle of one row, a reptilian humanoid waved excitedly and patted an adjacent spot.

Jo smiled and entered the row, Jeff following. "Hey Sizzle," Jo said, and waved back.

"Another Earthling? I can practice English?" the scaly being replied in a gravelly hiss.

Jo was beaming, almost giggling. "I think he'd appreciate that. Sizzle, meet Jeff. Jeffrey, this is Sizzle."

"Sizzle?" Jeff only asked, as he neared the pair.

Jo sat down next to Sizzle and nodded. "Her real name is much longer, and a lot a harder to pronounce."

"Let him sit by me!" Sizzle said, and scooted over, patting the empty spot beside her again. She had a voice like a chain-smoking lounge singer. "Here, Jeff!"

The man hesitated. He looked between the two. Sizzle was as tall as he was, but her head was much larger, with a full snout. Her teeth were almost always visible. Her eyes were a deep black. Her scales were strange; uneven in size, and set in a shifty hue of mostly green but a sort of black and blue as well. Her hands and feet were large, with long fingers topped with long claws.

He sat.

Immediately, Sizzle's leg was brushing against his. "I think you are very pretty," the lizard lady said with a nod.

"Uh, thanks," Jeff mumbled, and tried to keep his eyes forward. The lights dimmed. Chatter quieted. Ahead, Crys began to speak. Jo leaned in and started talking to Jeff in a loud whisper.

"Once most everyone has arrived, Crys starts the mission briefing. You'll see graphics appear on-screen as he discusses the objective, the layout, expected resistance, any tactical notes."

Jeff listened, and watched. On the 'theater' wall-screen, a digital model appeared of the destination. Apparently, this mission took place on a planet with thick vegetation, close to the Rift. Or was that the Anchor? He still did not quite understand how this all worked.

The target was a Dictatorship base that had popped up recently, set low in a valley. Crys mentioned intel that suggested they were conducting research on new weapons technology.

As Crys continued with specific notes on estimated hostile forces, Jo continued as well. "Most missions are just get in, wreck everything, get out. The goal is to discourage any footholds near the Anchor or the Rift."

"Right," Jeff said, and leaned forward in his seat, trying not to miss anything.

"Once Crys finishes the briefing and opens for questions, he'll select a specific task force. They'll go into the jump room, where we all have a locker. Once they're ready, Crys opens the gate and they go through."

"Like a Bifrost," Jeff nodded.

"What?"

"Nothing," Jeff smiled.

Jo frowned. "Anyway, as they perform the mission, we can usually watch feeds from here. Our badges have a camera, tethered to Haven."

"You guys have bodycams?"

Jo looked to Jeff. "Something like that. We have communicators, too, to keep in contact during missions." She returned her attention to Crys. "Showing up to the briefing is mandatory, but you don't have to watch the action. Some people just go back to their room, or watch on a tablet. Some of us stay until the squad returns."

Jeff nodded again, his lips pursed to one side.

"I can make vibrations in anything I touch," Sizzle said.

Jeff jerked his head toward his snouty seatmate and furrowed his brow.

"What?"

She placed a hand on his knee and squeezed. Jeff's breath caught in his throat, as he stared downward. Then he began to feel his knee shaking. Then he became aware of his kneecap jostling, and his skin rippling, and his tendons unsure whether to loosen up or snap apart.

"Stop!" he yelled.

Crys stopped talking, and some of the Riftguard turned toward Jeff, who tried to slouch lower in his place. He hid his face in his hand. He sighed.

"Sizzle, please," Crys said from the front.

Sizzle gave a swooping, lazy salute.

Jeff looked to Jo, who was stifling a laugh. She waved her hands in front of her, then pointed stage right toward the entrance to the locker room. Three of the Riftguard were walking in, after Crys had just selected them.

"There they go. Once they make the jump, their feeds will appear on-screen."

"Okay," Jeffrey leaned forward, and pointed to the gun-toting soldier he had seen before. "I've met that one. What's his name?"

"Huey," Jo replied.

"... Huey?"

"It's a nickname. His real designation translates to 'Unit E-,' followed by a string of numbers. We called him 'Unit E' for short, which became 'U-E,' which eventually just turned into Huey."

"Uh, okay. And the little blue guy?" Jeff pointed to a smaller blue figure with an indistinct surface, who looked something like a stubby three-armed starfish with a poor sense of balance.

"That's Zyra. She changes, but gradually. Her blue spines are her one constant. This makes her unpredictable in combat, but it's hard on relationships."

Jeff frowned. "What can she do? Is she just a big porcupine?"

Jo chuckled. "It's not like everyone has a superpower. But she does some weird things with her body."

Jeff huffed. "Okay. And the robot?" The third member of the party was metallic, with spindly limbs in minimalist array, a head more like Johnny 5 than C-3PO but human-sized in proportions otherwise. His 'forearms' were interrupted with jutting parts and accessories.

Jo nodded. "That's Popper, or Pop for short. He's an automaton that specializes in audiovisual tricks. Reliable and optimistic."

Jeff sat. As the Riftguard trio gathered out-of-sight in the locker room, he slowly scanned the Theater seats around him. Jo leaned in close, again, and began pointing out their occupants.

"You've met Aphael, and Moss. I'm sure you'll get to know them all eventually, but there's Sandy," she said, indicating the hulking, boulder-like sandstone being to the side. "She's basically made of hard rock--"

"So she's The Thing," Jeff interrupted.

The girl rolled her eyes. "But she also grows a circular bone in each of her four paws that can rotate freely, like she has her own set of wheels." Jo swung her finger to a wispy being, almost hovering over their seat, that wore a strange bright-red coat over a pale-to-transparent body with lots of skinny, floating tendrils. "That's Cy. He's very smart, and sensitive to things like airflows. He moves fast, and likes to make living things stop breathing. He also can't really die, which is nice."

Jeff blinked. Jo pointed to the other side of the room. Jeff turned his head.

She was aiming her finger at a tall alien who wore a set of blue-violet armor, the joints neatly beset with curved blades. The ensemble seemed as good for a striking impression than it did for any practical means. "That's Tylon Trillyk. We're not sure how he can fly, but he fights very well with his spear."

Jeff opened his mouth, but was unable to craft his question before Jo whipped her index finger toward another Riftguard, one that looked like the charred remnants of an ancient egg, open and left to fossilize long ago.

"That's Vaxiar Hy, apex predator of his homeworld, compelling evidence for both the existence of magic and nightmares."

Jeff snorted, then leaned back as the lights began to dim. Jo withdrew her hand and whispered, "They're about to make the jump."

Sizzle slid her hand back onto Jeffrey's leg, more on his thigh now. "Time for the show," she hissed into his ear.

Jeff grit his teeth and tried to shift more comfortably.

The purplish vortex opened and closed with a rippling fissure-crack, and the three Riftguard dropped from about eight feet in the air to the ground below onto a bed of spiraling ferns over soft, dark soil.

Unit E slapped the grip of his rifle down into his hand, and swung around on one knee until he spotted the Dictatorship installation. All three gathered their breath and stayed near one another.

Huey peered through the digital scope of his weapon, frozen in place.

"He's waiting to see if enemy forces noticed the wormhole," Jo whispered to Jeff. "Sometimes they do, in which case we have to improvise right away. That can be intense. Crys is usually pretty good about placing them far enough away to maintain surprise while not making them go on a long hike to the target."

"Ah," Jeff said.

Huey finally rose to his feet, his sleek black body armor leading the march ahead. They walked downhill through dense cover. The 'trees' on this planet were actually similar to Earth's, although the trunks themselves were a bright green while the 'leaves' were more like typical sticks.

Soon they reached a bit of a rise, over a clearing that offered an unobstructed view to the structure. It was almost crude, in the way steel bars stuck out of concrete, like a bunker or a backwater prison. The back of the building was set right into the hill on the other side of the valley.

Huey raised his rifle, looking through the scope again. Popper moved to stand beside him.

"Mop ob?" asked the rifleman.

"Two wabs," answered the robot.

"Mi, hu mop," Huey said, his finger sliding over his trigger.

"Ba imbu?" asked the robot.

"Hap," answered the rifleman.

At the front of the structure was a big sliding door. Beside it were two soldiers, sitting on stump-stools at a simple table. Their black uniforms matched, although their helmets were off. One was roughly more insect-like, while the other was pink and lumpy and slimy. They each held several thick cards, and took turns rolling a die before moving colored pieces on a board.

The three video feeds were atop each other, three widescreen views from the Riftguard on the ground. Sometimes text would appear on-screen as well, though Jeff could not read it. The audio came in from all three personnel at once, which gave it a stereo-like out-of-syncedness that Jeff found a little strange but ultimately fine.

Jeff held a hand out in front of him, and leaned toward Jo. "Huey's about to shoot them, isn't he? Even though they're just playing a game?" He tried to speak quietly, but drew a head-turn from a couple others.

Jo spoke quickly. "They enlisted in the Dictatorship, a faction that is single-handedly responsible for eradicating entire races and taking by force every ounce of natural resource from many planets. They snuff out thriving cultures in order to install their militaristic regime wherever they go, and use the credible threat of genocide to rule by fear or ease subjugation. The universe has lost countless unique expressions of beauty and breath to their advances. They are the endpoint on the moral spectrum, and should not be afforded any comforts."

Jeff glowered, but also nodded. "Okay. Got it."

Huey squeezed the trigger.

A booming shot rang out through the valley. The insectoid's head cracked open, ejecting a chunky spurt of brown liquid. His body slumped, although two of his legs began flexing and flicking in a stuttery rhythm.

His glistening comrade hesitated, mouth-part agape. Before he could muster any real reaction, his own head burst open. Thick, clear liquid spilled all over the table, the ground, the door. The cards were scattered.

"Ip bipom?!" Pop spat in his digitized tone.

"Bo bap!" Huey shot back, and slung his gun across his back before clambering down ahead, then dashing downhill toward their goal. Pop ran beside him. Overhead, Zyra spun forward horizontally like a flying disc.

They arrived at the door, which Huey grabbed by a metal handle and grunted as he pulled to one side. They now had a nice, gaping entrance that immediately dipped into an inclined corridor. Plain metal walls were bolted into place. On on the ceiling were what looked like long banks of fluorescent bulbs, a wire snaking from one to another.

And in the middle of the ramp, an enemy soldier, pulling a handgun out of a holster.

Popper raised an arm. A flash of light burst forth from his palm, bright enough to elicit a gasp and a wince from the humanoid figure in black fatigues.

Huey had already brought his own weapon to bore. He fired a two-round burst. Their foe dropped in a heap and rolled down the incline a few yards before coming to a stop.

The floor leveled, then turned left at a right angle. The Riftguard walked forward, staying close to the left wall. Huey kept his weapon trained ahead. He approached the turn, then got down to one knee. He turned his head back toward Pop.

"Obs?"

The robot stood behind Huey. Pop held his arm above him, and out slid a length of metal rod with a lens on the end of it, facing the hidden corridor. They could all hear bootsteps and voices.

"Four wabs, bom hip pim," Pop announced.

Unit E muttered something quietly. He turned his head back further, toward Zyra, who was huddled behind them.

"Ba mam ip?" Huey asked.

Zyra's spines quivered.

Jeff turned toward Jo. Before he could say anything, Jo was already answering him.

"Huey was wondering how many hostiles were around the corner. Popper told him he could see four soldiers, with more coming. Huey is wondering is Zyra has any ideas."

Jo turned more directly to Jeff. As the two made eye contact, she gave a slight grin.

"She will."

The starfish spoke in a sing-songy tone, with intermittent chirps and clicks. "Mi. Pop hub pob-Huey, hu mo hip. Hu bim im-wib, Huey mo imbu po. Wubs pum, wu mo."

Huey looked to Popper. They shrugged.

"Mi, ap, mo," Huey said in a hush. He repositioned his legs and lowered his gun.

Popper kept the camera out, looking around the corner. He carefully raised his other arm, pointed to the opposite wall, to a spot in view of the corridor. The voices and footsteps were growing closer but quieter. One of the lights behind them was flickering on and off.

Zyra stood on two foot-arms, her foot-head facing the wall that Popper was indicating. The starfish-like Riftguard was rocking back and forth, leaning toward the wall then away, her deep-blue quills rippling in patterned waves across her body.

Everything was quiet for a couple moments.

Then Popper's forearm lit up. Across the wall, facing the corridor of foes, he projected an image of Huey bursting suddenly to the fore and opening fire, complete with the loud sound of automatic plasma-bolt gunshots.

The simulated image provoked a very real reaction: The Dictatorship forces returned fire of various calibers as the hall erupted with frenzied booms. They concentrated their attack on the image of Huey as the wall rapidly pockmarked with holes and tears, sparking and denting in a focused area.

The false Unit E stood in the corner, resolute and unmoving as he mounted a brave defense, or at least gave the impression of one.

And while the ruse still held attention, Zyra leaped into action.

She sprung through the air and bounced off the wall then tore around the corner in a midair spin. She flung one of her foot-arms ahead of herself. It made a fleshy pop noise, and the hall filled with a thick dust all around the enemy gunmen.

Popper lowered his arms, withdrawing the lens and ending the projection. He and Huey could hear the opposing combatants shouting in disarray amid the dust-fog.

Then there was a rush of hot air, and the screaming began.

Pop and Huey rushed around the corner, greeted by the sight of black-clad soldiers clawing frantically at their body armor, parts of which were on fire. The flames were bright and blue, like a blowtorch, as they ate away like acid at anything they touched. Sections of the walls were melting while floor panels burned as well.

Huey stepped forward and pulled the trigger, then stepped and pulled against. One by one, he granted a life-ending mercy to the Dictatorship troops. The hazy smoke cleared soon after as embers cooled. Zyra reattached her foot-arm and joined her two squadmates down the hall.

They came to a door, similar to the one they had found at the compound entrance. Huey grabbed a metal handle and pulled it to the side. The doorway opened to a larger room, wider and well-lit, with various machines running and scientific equipment in use. Three figures in white lab coats turned to the entryway, each distinct in size and shape.

They began to laugh.

"Crys, can you come here and give us a live translation?"

Jo spoke very quietly, but Crys turned his head and seemed to hear, because he walked briskly up the aisle and sat beside her, leaning toward Jeffrey and Sizzle.

On the Theater screen, the three feeds showed the Riftguard moving into the room, while the laboratory personnel held a boisterous conversation.

"They're mocking us," Crys began. "They're saying, ah, you must be that teleporting kill squad. Go ahead and shoot us, get on with it. We know you operate in this region. We haven't figured out why yet, but we will. Our bosses are onto you. A lot of us are waiting for a chance to take you out. So go on, do it, get it over with. One of them is taunting the others, saying he told them so, like they made some sort of wager."

Jo sighed. "I'm telling the Council about this."

Crys turned to her directly. "It won't make any difference. You know that."

The three researchers continued chattering and gesturing.

Huey stopped his advance, and waited for the others to do the same. "Okay. I don't understand what they're saying," he said in English. "I say we blow the place and get out of here."

Popper raised a hand. "We could at least give them some kind of warni--"

One of the scientists abruptly grabbed an object from the table beside him, aimed it at Pop, and fired. The projectile made contact just below the robot's left shoulder, then caromed upward and split open a modest crack in the ceiling. Pop's arm fell to the floor.

Popper stared at his severed limb while Huey shot the shooter, than a second researcher. The third managed to dive behind a metal container. Zyra dove after and clamped onto his face. The remaining staffer's cries were muffled while his feet shuffled against the floor for a few moments.

U-E reached and grabbed an explosive charge from his back that had been perfectly contoured against him beforehand. He set a timer, then set the bomb down on a table, and cocked his head back toward the corridor that led to the ramp.

"Let's go."

"And that's it. As long as they stay close together, one of them will activate their badge and they'll all jump back to the receiving room, the same one you came through. Normally we don't have any injuries, though, so this outcome is concerning. Some of us like to be there when teammates return from a mission, for the camaraderie. Others go back to their rooms at this point, if they hadn't already."

Jeff just nodded along, listening to Jo. The feeds on the big screen cut out. The room brightened. Some of the Riftguard made their way toward the exits, while others stuck around to chat, or headed to greet the three returning from the mission.

"I think we should spend time together." It was Sizzle, who was tracing the tip of one of her claws up and down Jeffrey's inner thigh. He was frozen in place, but gave the big lizard an awkward smile. She returned a toothy grin, then got up and left.

"Hey," Jo said, in a softer tone. She stood by Jeff. "I know it's a lot. But I have to show you one more thing. Follow me."

After a couple moments of looking at nothing in particular, Jeff rose. He followed her down the aisle, out the exit. Down a corridor, then to a larger, main hallway. They passed doors at regular intervals, until she stopped at one in particular.

Like the rest of Haven, the hall had high ceilings, and every surface was a smooth, glowing white. Jo pressed a button on a panel by the door, and it slid away. She walked through the doorway, and Jeff followed suit.

He stopped, and stared ahead. This was another plain, big box of a room, like the one he had first encountered in this place. But in the corner of this chamber was a bed. Queen-sized, by the look of it, with blue-and-white covers. By the bed was a wooden dresser and a simple desk. There was an odd smaller room, off to the side, with its own plain walls and a door, like a little shed. Across from the bed was a kitchen area with chrome-accented appliances. Beside those, there was even a washer and dryer, before some floorspace gave way to a massive thick, beige rug. On that, a plush black-leather couch faced a TV that hung on the wall.

Jeffrey felt like he kept noticing new details the longer he looked, although it was also amusing to see this living space dwarfed by all the empty air around it. The door closed behind him. Jo grabbed a tablet from a slot in the wall, then stood at Jeff's side.

"If it's not to your tastes, you can always change it, but I wanted to be sure you had some essential amenities. The furnishing program on the tablet is fairly intuitive, and you can always have Crys in here to talk through the process in real time. There are also options for clothes, food, whatever else you need. You can let your imagination run pretty wild, but this place does have some limits."

She held the tablet out, where he could see, and quickly scrolled through a selection of coffeemakers before backing up to the menu of different kitchen appliances, then eventually the main menu of the furnishing program, before showing him the home screen of the tablet. She stepped over and placed it back in its slot.

The girl stood by the door, and looked up to the man. He looked at himself, and his bedraggled outfit he still wore from work. He could still see the vomit spots from his wormhole sickness. He looked back to her.

"Take a deep breath, Jeffrey Davidson," she told him. "You've had a big day today. You should get your sleep, because you have another big day tomorrow. Any questions before I leave you to get settled in?"

Jeff looked at the floor between them. His thoughts at the moment were wordless and disconnected. He felt woozy, and on the steady verge of a minor breakdown. He was not sure how he was still standing, or keeping up with any new information at all. He did not feel a sense of time or place.

He looked to Jo.

"What's tomorrow?"

She sucked in a slow breath through her teeth, and made a small click sound with her tongue.

"Tomorrow, you meet the Council."

Two Dudes & A Truck

Two Dudes & A Truck is a webcomic by Eric Bailey. The story was originally posted on Twitter June 19-22, 2018. Each strip is now archived here.

The Riftguard Saga, Chapter 2: Excessive Backstory, Lots of Lore, Redundant Chapter Titles, and a Massive Failure to Avoid Expositional Dialogue

Jeffrey cradled his face in his hands as he sat hunched on an odd sofa, a sofa far too long with a back that extended several feet above him. Across from him was the girl, Jo apparently, in a strange seat of her own, its cushioned surface mere inches above the floor. On the seat next to her was a tablet.

He turned his head and looked to the wall. Against it was something like a row of shelves. He saw a cluster of recognizable items on them, like a small pillow and a notebook. But next to those was a group of odd things, misshapen and colored strangely.

He looked to the girl. The room around them was shaped like a large cube, its surfaces glowing in a gentle white. Just like the previous room, and the hallway that connected them.

"This is unusual," Jo said. "We don't usually bring people here unless we're recruiting them. You're a unique case. I wonder what we'll do with you."

Jeff rested his chin in one of his hands and stared eye-to-eye with Jo, who continued.

"I assume he got away without a trace?"

"Yes. We were too late."

Jeff bolted upright. He hadn't heard the third person enter the chamber, and now turned with widening eyes toward a being who looked like a wireframe drawing of a character without texture, all bright red lines and angles. The body was humanoid but jagged, translucent with pink hues throughout, and narrowed at the joints. The low-poly figure had a "face" that consisted of two horizontal lines for eyes and one for a mouth (presumably), as they articulated along with his throaty, masculine speech. Jeff felt like Star Fox looking up at 16-bit Andross.

"What do you think of it?" The red one nodded toward the item that Jo held.

"You're the only one who can confirm its authenticity, obviously," the girl replied before standing to her feet and holding the artifact out in front of her. "But I don't think the outer metal ring was an original part."

Just as Jeffrey Davidson was beginning to recover from his wormhole-induced motion nausea, here he sat and watched as what looked like a sample of computer artwork accepted the object from a preteen girl. He rubbed his forehead a bit.

"Very good," the wireframe nodded, taking the specimen in question and examining it in his sharp-edged hands. "This is definitely a piece of the Key. I'm sure the Shapers will want it back, without the added ring. I think the ring poses more of a danger as an added variable than any benefit it offers as a clue. Moss should be able to remove it. I've already called for him."

Jeff blinked, breathed, slouched back into his seat, and felt like he should be taking notes.

"All right," Jo responded. "Next, I'm curious what you think of our new visitor. Jeff, meet Crys. Crys, this is Jeffrey Davidson."

"Crys?" Jeff mouthed without making any sound.

Crys faced Jeff and studied him for a moment. He turned back to Jo.

"Right. I don't understand his purpose in this. Surely the Thief could have returned the piece to us without traveling to Earth. This human is unexceptional."

Jeff frowned.

"Aphael assumed that the Thief must have chosen him for a reason," Jo replied.

Crys crossed his arms. "Either this 'Jeff' was merely a messenger, in which case he is expendable, or he is an agent working with the Thief and we have now foolishly allowed him into Haven. In that case, we should kill him immediately."

Jeff looked between the two in rapid shifts, his jaw dropping as he tried to speak but only managed to make a guttural choking sound before Crys continued.

"But. He is also the first person to see the Thief in three years. He was close to him. He saw his ship. He may be the best lead we have if we decide to track our quarry any further."

Jo smiled. "Also, you said yourself that he is clearly unexceptional -- he poses no threat to us. And if there really is a reason the Thief chose him, it's better to have an opportunity to figure it out eventually than lose our chance altogether."

A corner of Crys's mouth pulled upward almost imperceptibly. "I agree. But I also suspect you just want to have another Earthling around here."

Jo furrowed her brow and crossed her own arms. "Would that be so bad? If you're so worried, you can always tag 'im."

Crys laughed at this, giving a synthetic sort of rounded chuckle. "An hour ago we had no idea who Jeffrey Davidson was. And now you want to give him a badge."

Jeff's ears burned at this remark. He could feel blood rushing through his cheeks and a knot forming in his gut.

"Ah, there you are."

"Hi Moss!"

Jeff yelped and pulled his legs up onto the seat-cushion beside him. The three now moved their attention to the floor in front of the sofa.

There was a small, flat, rectangular thing crawling there. It looked like a dingy-gray carpet sample, or maybe an ironically weird, unappealing hairy cell phone cover. It moved like a creature somewhere between an inchworm and a millipede, its body undulating as a whole across the floor yet twitching at the corners sometimes as well. This was Moss, apparently.

Crys knelt, and placed the Key piece onto the floor in front of Moss. Jo leaned toward Jeff and explained, "Moss might be the most powerful member of the Riftguard. Moss... absorbs things. Anything."

Jeff nodded, with some hesitation. All watched as Moss crawled onto the artifact. His body appeared to stretch somewhat, then contort, as he wrapped himself against the silvery ring around the item. His body pulsed. There was a modest puff of smoke, and some hissing sounds.

Then Moss crawled off the Key piece, and it looked as though the metal ring had never been around it. There were no weld marks, or other burns. No cracks, dents, or discolorations could be seen.

"Thank you Moss," Crys said as he retrieved the piece. Moss had already begun crawling back out of the room.

"Jo, you know I have to tell the Council about this," Crys said, as he held the object aloft.

"Ugh, do we have to involve them?"

"Yes. And they may have an opinion about Jeffrey, too. I'll let you know."

Crys exited the lounge with silent steps, overtaking Moss well before the doorway.

The girl sighed, and retook her seat across from Jeff. She massaged her temples for a second, only to clap her hands onto her knees and address Jeff in a mild tone.

"Hey. How are you holding up? Would you like some water?"

Jeff gave a breathy laugh. "Sure. Why not?"

Jo grabbed the tablet that was next to her and began flitting her fingers across its screen. It really did seem pretty much like a typical iPad. Then, as Jeff watched transfixed, a perfectly circular portion of the floor between the facing sofas rose upward in a smooth, seamless motion; like an object pushing against an elastic plane, only without stretching it. The column then receded back downward partially. The part that sank had left behind a perfect glass of clear water, like an advanced 3D printing.

Jeffrey sat for a moment. He pointed to the cup, and looked to Jo. "That was really cool," he said.

The girl shrugged. "Yeah. I don't understand how it works, completely, but every square inch of this place seems able to form itself into anything. If you're here for long enough, you'll start to notice all the multi-colored bits of material that float around just beneath the glowing surface. They move, like schools of fish, toward spots where new structures are built. It's almost eerie."

Jeff finally grabbed the glass, and brought it to his lips. He took a sip. He swallowed. He took a fuller drink. He gulped. He sighed. ... He kept drinking.

"Uh, anyway," Jo said, and swiveled toward the wall that was wholly featureless and bare. "Let me explain a few things."

She tapped her tablet screen a few times, and the room went dim. Jeff shifted more comfortably in his seat. He had finished the water. He spent a quizzical moment searching for a spot to place his glass, and ended up setting it on the floor. Jo began to speak.

"There is a small group of beings called The Council. They live on a planet by themselves, and have volunteered their lives to the purpose of monitoring the universe for threats to its survival and offering their services to help solve problems brought to them by any race advanced enough to make contact. This assistance could be anything from counsel on a trade issue to intervening in natural disaster relief. They represent considerable resources, both in their knowledge and tangible materials."

As Jo spoke, a wide section of the wall showed accompanying video footage, like an enormous flatscreen television. The members of the Council filed by quickly, a handful of beings that varied in their appearance, from an unstable pseudospirit to a fearsome beast. They met in chambers that appeared rather rustic and wooden, like they lived in connected log cabins or conducted business inside of a giant tree.

"One day, they were contacted by a Shaper. The Shapers are a reclusive, ancient race, probably one of the very oldest in the universe, and possibly the most advanced. With nothing but their bare hands, they seem able to create new matter from nothing, even in sophisticated technological arrangements. They have not shared how they are able to do this, and are very quiet in general. They conduct their research in an almost religious fashion, with ritualistic elements."

The wall showed the Council seated in a half-circle, facing a single humanoid being. Their visitor was clad in plain, earthtone clothing. A simple tan tunic over pants and soft shoes was capped off by a head totally wrapped in light fabric. Not a square inch of skin was visible.

"The Shaper explained that their race had been working on a new technology for a very long time, one that would enable them to transport anything in the universe from one place to another without needing to be near its point of origin nor its destination. But during a critical operation near the end of its construction, something happened to one of its components."

On-screen, a half-dozen Shapers were marching across the barren surface of a dry, arid planetscape, rocky and cast in sandy hues beneath a hazy yellow-gray sky. They carried an instrument that was as large as any of them were. Behind them trailed dozens of other Shapers. They advanced in uniform silence.

Suddenly, a figure crash-landed to the ground close to the procession, with enough force to send out a rumbling shockwave and a cloud of dust. In the short moment it took for a handful of Shapers to regain their composure and draw weapons, the newcomer had already swung a staff to hit the two whom still carried the instrument. They dropped it, so he grabbed it, and leaped straight up into the skies above.

Jeff took a deep breath and scooted closer to the wall-screen. He recognized this interloper as the same alien he had encountered outside his apartment building earlier tonight.

The display continued, as the saboteur tore higher into the atmosphere as bolts and rays of energy fired at him in vain from below. While the Shapers were still scrambling to find their starships, the one who interrupted their ceremony was escaping low orbit and flying into the darkness of space.

The video scene returned to the Council meeting room.

"The Shaper, named Rorrund Laeh'nai, explained the component that had been stolen was something called The Key. However, it was not yet finished, and what happened next would alter the course of the universe forever."

Back over the Shaper homeworld, the Key-stealer was moving into the vacuum of space. He held the Key, and began trying to do something to it, manipulate it somehow. But there was a flash, and then there was darkness. A globe of impenetrable blackness now blotted out even the stars behind it.

"This is the Rift," Jo said. "It is an expanding sphere of nothingness. Not just empty space, and not a black hole, but something that shifts all it touches into non-existence."

On-screen, the initial globe indeed began to grow. While it was difficult to 'see,' given that it was a pocket of non-space, its boundary cut a dramatic swath as it ate away at the Shaper homeworld, the planet silently sliding into nothingness within the maw of the Rift. A few ships were able to escape this fate, but not many.

The scene transitioned back to the Council, as they listened to Laeh'nai's tale.

"The Shaper representative explained that the Rift threatened to swallow the entire universe, everything in existence; however, there was hope. The few remaining Shapers had succeeded in the one task they were all-consumed to now complete: Building something called the Anchor which, as long as it was intact, prevented the Rift from expanding any farther."

Jeffrey chuckled at all the self-important titles given to everything. Key this, Rift that, and now: The Anchor.

"This is where things get a bit tricky," Jo said.

"Ah," Jeff said.

"Laeh'nai explained that the Anchor was very fragile, extremely delicate in its high-precision workings, and relied on avoiding absolutely any interference in order to operate. The Shapers were too few in number to be able to protect it while also work on a solution to close the Rift permanently. At their current pace, they were spread so thin that the Anchor would inevitably fail before they could finish a solution. This quandary led them to make contact with the Council."

On-screen, the lone Shaper was still addressing the seated Council, but conversation was getting more involved and animated, as Council members began waving their appendages and otherwise voicing their feelings. Jeff only now realized that the footage had all been silent, and Jo was providing the only soundtrack.

"After discussion, recess, and a chance to verify the status of the Rift independently, the Council and the Shaper came to an ambitious accord. The Council agreed that it served the universe best for the Shapers to be able to focus entirely on sealing the Rift. In order to do so, the Council would create the Riftguard, an initiative to form an elite combat unit recruited from throughout the universe to counter any threats to the Anchor. In return, Laeh'nai would remain with the Council to oversee this new project and assist in constructing Haven, the new Riftguard headquarters, along with lending the services of Moss, an artificial being the Shapers had created as part of the development of their original teleportation technology but whom would now be on loan until they could return to that process. He also created Crys, and the two would exchange regular contact."

Jeff nodded, and blinked, and really tried to remember everything. Jo continued.

"The actual location of the Anchor is kept a secret from the members of the Riftguard, but they are frequently sent on missions to discourage certain factions or powerful individuals from gaining a foothold in any nearby sectors. There are a few primary groups that we encounter frequently, such as the Dictatorship and the Lo'kythians. The A.I. collectives usually aren't so aggressive, surprisingly, and besides, they... unlike the, say, um... the..."

Jo's voice grew quiet, then silent. Jeff had furrowed his brow, focused on watching the images on the screen. The scene had shifted. No longer were there peaceful beings holding conversation in Council chambers. Instead, that vision had been replaced with up-close clips of battles and skirmishes.

The monk-angel, drawing an enormous blade and mowing down a formation in precise, brutal strokes. The soldier Jeff had met earlier, now shown in action, popping off shot after shot of plasma that burst through the flesh of violet-skinned aliens, operating with cold efficiency, dropping two more before he knelt behind cover. A reptilian warrior, letting forth an open-jawed roar before using nothing but claws and muscles to tear a larger opponent into two ragged-edged halves. A piece of rock caving in someone's skull. A cloud of gas descending on an encampment. Someone being chased in the dark.

Jo turned to Jeff, who kept staring at the unfolding vistas of raw violence.

"We kill a lot of people," the girl said. "I think it's worth mentioning. And it may be best to remember that we are a combat unit, and to think of these engagements as part of a real war. I believe our cause is worthy, and the stakes cannot be higher, but there is a cost."

She looked down, to the floor. At that moment, she appeared in the video. On-screen, Jo's small body emerged from the tight squeeze of a metallic shaft and fell onto an imposing foe below. She grit her teeth and strained as she brought an object beneath his chin and locked it there, pulling from behind. The item she used for strangling was long, thin, and flexible yet sturdy. On closer view, it was also hairy -- a leg she had torn off something else from an earlier encounter.

She applied a choking pressure, the beastly target growling and flailing his arms, trying to get her off of him. She had kicked against the wall beside him with both her feet. The two tumbled to the floor. Jo leaned to one side and crossed her wrists over each other, making the giant-insect leg press visibly into the tender neck of her target. He began to panic, kicking his legs and clawing at the exoskeleton limb at his throat, even as his body weight threatened to crush Jo.

Soon, he was moving no longer.

"Anyway," Jo said from the sofa, "You're not a normal recruit, so we can skip a lot of this." She tapped her tablet screen, and the playback began to fast-forward. Still, Jeff could detect fleeting images here and there. Anatomy diagrams, text descriptions, presumably more information on the enemies they encountered most frequently.

"In fact, let me just show you one last thing to bring you up to speed." On-screen, the being who stole the Key was surprised by a portal opening in front of him. The Riftguard began pouring out, although there were only a handful of them back then.

"We assumed the Thief was lost in the Rift, so we were surprised when Crys found him one day. Haven was still so new, and there were not many of us at the time. Recruitment had hardly begun. But we had our chance, and took it. Still, even with Aphael and Moss leading the charge, the Thief escaped unharmed."

Indeed, a clip played that showed the Thief moving with unnatural speed, evading any of the Riftguard's attempts to close their distance. He leaped over buildings, he dashed around tight corners, he flung his body through impossible gaps. Soon he escaped their sight fully.

"That was years ago. After that encounter, the Thief faded back into obscurity, presumably now tipped to our attempts to track him. Which is why you're here. Not only have you had contact with the Thief, but he even left you a piece of the Key. We had assumed that was lost in the Rift, too. How can we be sure of anything, anymore?"

She shook her head, and tapped her tablet a couple times. The wall-screen went blank, now appearing as a normal part of the room around them, which now also lit up to its standard brightness.

Jo looked to Jeff. "I know it's a lot. Thanks for listening. Do you have any questions?"

Jeffrey laughed a sputtering, boiled-over kind of laugh. "Yeah, just a million or two, y'know." He smiled, though, as he looked back at her. "How old are you?"

"Ten years," she replied.

Jeff nodded, and looked around the room at nothing in particular. "Yeah, that's. Okay. I don't understand a lot of this, but I don't think I'm a complete idiot. You're telling me about the end of the world, and this Riftguard here to protect it, like the Avengers in space, and it's made up of all these different badass alien mercenaries or something. And then I come in. I'm unusual, not a 'normal recruit' as you said. Except, I'm not even the only human here. There's two of us from Earth, me and you. Me being here, that's just random, nobody knows why I was chosen and it's confusing people. But, you? You were here first."

He spread his arms to his sides and frowned at the air around them before returning to eye contact.

"How did you get caught up in all this?" Jeff asked.

They were interrupted by a gentle, repetitive tone that emanated throughout Haven.

Boop! ... Boop! ... Boop!

The sound effect was accompanied by a flashing band of red on the walls in a circumference around the entire room, about six inches tall and about six feet above the floor.

"That's the convening signal," Jo said, and got up to her feet. "Now we all gather in the Theater for the mandatory mission briefing. If you were tired of my talking, you're in luck: We're about to see some action instead."

She walked away, out the door.

Jeff frowned, again. He sighed. He hesitated. He got up, and followed her down the hall.

> Read Chapter 3

The Riftguard Saga, Chapter 1: A Visitor Drops In

Jeffrey Davidson parked his car. He stepped out of it, and had every intention of walking into his apartment building. He was stopped, however, by the growing sound of a low vibration and the distinct sensation of a large object's approach.

The object swung into view and slowed to a stop, hovering a few dozen feet above a patch of grass and the walkway that ran through it. In the evening light, its shape was formless and void; smooth yet jagged, rounded here and angled there, slipshod yet uniform all at once.

Davidson stood at the edge of the parking lot. Ahead of him, he could see the entrance to his  building. He craned his neck and peered at the ship above. A hatch opened, at its rear.

A figure fell from the opening and crashed to the ground below.

Jeff winced at the clatter. He reached out with a hand and opened his mouth. Then he closed his mouth, and withdrew the hand.

The figure was clad in dark clothing, rather loose and excessive, like he was wearing an oversized garbage bag bodysuit-and-cape combo. Then he began to stand to his feet.

Jeffrey felt his heart begin to race and pound, but could not compel his feet to move. He just kept staring. He could see a face, or at least something like it, as though this stranger wore a pale-green mask with blank spaces where the eyes should be.

The stranger bent over, and picked up a sort of staff with objects tied to the end of it. He tapped on one of them a few times. It began to blink with a dim red light.

Jeff slid his foot forward. He tried to start walking in a wide berth around this visitor from the sky, only to freeze when the visitor turned his head from the staff and the two made eye contact. That's when he spoke.

"Wait!"

His voice was hollow, reedy, like an old man speaking while inhaling. It was almost grating to the ears in its oddity. Davidson had little clue how to react, but kept his attention locked on the visitor as his vehicle hovered over their heads.

The traveler flicked a too-many-fingered hand across a few items hanging from the top of the staff, moving them aside, revealing a metallic box with a number of dials set into its face. He began strumming his fingers across the dials, spinning them, making a sound like someone using a few rotary telephones at once. Next, he pulled a small lever on the box. The box began to buzz. After some buzzing, it began to speak. The tone was smoother than the earlier 'wait!' had been, and easier to listen to. The monologue crackled and popped like an old tape recording.

"Hello. I am give you thing. Do not lose! They will come soon. Do not fight! They are good. They will take you. They will take thing. You must earn a badge from them. This is most important."

The words, the buzzing, all stopped. Jeff stood, as he just tried to process, and hardly noticed the alien approaching closer. The alien was quiet. He extended an arm, with its many fingers; dozens of them, knobby and gnarled and blackened. They held a small artifact that glinted in the parking-lot light.

As the extraterrestrial tucked his staff under his other arm, he used his hand to spin the dials on the odd box again, and pulled its lever a second time. The voice was more feminine now, with the measured cadence of a GPS navigator.

"Take this. I cannot stay. But you must give this to them. You must earn a badge from them. And you must not tell them I told you this. If they ask what I said to you. Say nothing. Tell them I said nothing. The survival of the universe depends on this."

Jeff inhaled, then exhaled. He managed to hold a hand up, but hesitated to actually touch the item in question. That's when the alien shoved it into his grip. Jeff gasped, but clutched it nonetheless. The thing was warm as he held it, small and smooth except for some features along one side.

"I—"

He just wanted to be at home, in his apartment. This was surreal, and he had no idea where to begin. Even as he tried to ask something, the alien figure stepped back, then abruptly leaped straight up into the air. He flipped deftly back into the hovering ship, through its opening, which immediately slid shut.

And then the ship was off, accelerating away toward the horizon.

Jeff watched its silhouette until it disappeared altogether. He looked down at the object in his hands. He kept a gentle grip, and turned it over, squinting at its details.

"Bro!"

Jeff whipped his head around to the source of the voice. Namely, Scott. Scott wore an orange beanie. Scott stood at the apartment-building entrance. Scott ate a lot of Doritos and played his music a little too loud and always had thoughts about what the government is really up to.

"Were you just abducted by aliens?!"

Jeff blinked. He looked at Scott. He looked down at the object in his hands. He looked back up to Scott.

"No?"

Scott scoffed. "I saw that UFO! Tell me you got that on video!"

Jeff shook his head. Scott sighed.

"I gotta go but that was sick, man. Look out for the M.I.B.!"

Scott laughed, and returned inside the building. Jeff only stood there. Then he heard a noise like something out of science fiction, a weird distortion of explosive warbling right behind him.

He turned to it. His eyes widened and his body went stiff at the scene: A group of people (shapes, more like—vague and indistinct) emerging from a shrinking portal of swirling blue-violet. They were fanning off in all directions, two flinging themselves into the sky while the rest sprinted or rolled or scuttled across the ground.

One of them was clad in full body armor, glossy and high-tech lookin', mostly black with neon-green accents, like he was a space marine from Tron. He raised a hefty rifle and pointed it in Jeffrey's direction. Jeff held his hands skyward, clutching the foreign artifact in one of them.

"Pum! Bomi hom?"

Jeff... squinted.

"What?"

The soldier thrusted his weapon forward a couple times as he barked.

"Bab pu i hu im ba!"

Jeff felt his breath quickening as his chest tightened. He noticed a second person facing him ahead. He looked like a tall, bald man in white robes that glowed with a dim white light. His eyes themselves emitted this gentle light, too. He looked somewhat like a monk, or an angel.

The glowing man placed a hand on the soldier's shoulder and spoke. "Pum, ub. Po bo hom Bomi, o English."

After a moment's hesitation, the soldier lowered the barrel of his rifle. The glowing man removed his hand from his partner's shoulder, and turned toward Jeff. He held both his hands out, palms-up and empty.

"We mean you no harm," he addressed Jeffrey. "But the item you have is important to us."

"Wu ap op im po, ma bab," the soldier muttered.

The glowing one turned his head just a bit toward the soldier, and spoke to him in a quieter voice.

"Bab-ma' mam i bom, po." At 'po' he pointed a finger at Jeff before continuing. "Wu mam ip-wob. Wu bap po, u om ip-wob." The soldier shook his head and mumbled under his breath.

Jeff shifted his body weight from one foot to the other. "Uh, look guys, I don't know wha--"

The soldier snapped the rifle back up to bore toward Jeff, who stilled. The angelic one kept a stoic expression as he reached over and pushed the barrel back down gently.

"I don't want to scare you," the 'monk' said. "But we need to leave soon. And we need you to come with us."

Jeff raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't want to go?"

The glowing one drew his hand back. The barrel of the gun rose to its prior aim.

"Right," Jeff said, pursing his lips as he nodded and began lowering his hands. "Guess I'm comin' with you guys! Awesome."

The pair seemed to calm at this. "Wu bap mo hab, bopim," the glowing monk-angel said to the one at his side.

Jeff held the prize in his arms. The other two advanced. Once all three were in close proximity, the space-marine wannabe reached up and began fiddling with something on his body armor, just below his left shoulder.

Then the trio were sucked into a wormhole.

Jeff fell to his knees and vomited. He was able to steady himself on one hand, while the other kept the important artifact held against his body. The mostly liquid mess he puked managed to only splash a few droplets onto his light-blue dress shirt and khakis.

He heard the soldier laugh as he and the angel-monk walked away. He heard the glowing one say, "He's all yours."

Jeffrey was hunched over, focused on trying to breathe and not panic. His head was swimming and spinning. He felt like his guts and his brains had switched places for a split-second.

As he tried to calm himself, he only noticed that he was in a bright white room, sterile and plain. The entire floor seemed to be one smooth surface, and every square inch seemed to emit its own glow, similar to his robed captor. He looked about, his chest heaving and his mouth thick with spittle as he looked upward. The whole space was set like the inside of an enormous cube of soft light.

There were other mini-explosions, quick openings and closings of portals, all with that distinctive distorted warbling sound. Jeff looked back downward, and even closed his eyes, as he heard others around him move to the same exit that the first two had taken.

In the commotion, he felt a grazing touch at his backside. He looked back, and was startled to spot a girl, brown-haired in a red sweater and blue jeans, sitting cross-legged behind him.

He turned his body enough to awkwardly one-handed crab-walk away from his puddle of smelly barf and keep his eyes on the girl, the girl whom he now noticed was holding his wallet.

"Hey!" he cried out, pointing at her. "That's my wallet!"

The child rolled her eyes. "I know," she said, and continued searching its contents. "Getting information this way is easier and faster than having to ask you for it."

She rifled through his driver's license, his credit card. She counted his cash. She looked over the order on his Burger King receipt. She ran a set of fingertips over the black leather.

Then she looked right at him. They stared each other down; the girl, leaning forward slightly, while Jeffrey leaned back on one planted hand, his legs bent in front of him. The air around them held a sudden quiet.

"What did he say to you?" she asked.

Jeff shifted to lean on his elbow on the floor, running his bottom teeth against his top lip as he looked away for the moment. He looked back to the girl.

"Nothing. He didn't say anything," he said.

"You're lying," she replied.

Jeff looked down. He tried to run through all the recent events and words in his mind, but he still felt nauseous and generally out-of-place. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Yeah, uh. Okay. He did say one thing."

He looked back up to the girl before he continued.

"He showed up, right in front of me. Fell out of a spaceship that hung in the air. I tried to walk around him, but he yelled at me. Just one word: 'Wait!' That was it," Jeff nodded. "Then he gave me this."

He held up the artifact. It looked even stranger in the light. It had a sandy sort of color to it, with tiny ridges running along its length. It was concave, with one side bulging out, but another lobe extending on its own. The lobe had a hole in its center. Around the middle of the whole thing was a thin silvery band.

The girl cocked her head to one side, and held up Jeff's wallet. "I'll trade you?" She smiled.

Jeffrey narrowed his gaze. "This is crazy. You know that, right? Like, am I dreaming? I don't understand what's going on."

She nodded. "You want answers. If you're up for it, I'll explain everything. Right now. But first, you need to give me that," she said, and held out an open hand.

Jeff sat there. He tried to think about this. Thinking was very hard right now. He grumbled and leaned forward, depositing the artifact into the girl's hand.

"Great!" she said, and stood up. She dropped his wallet to the floor beside him. "Thank you, Jeffrey. My name is Jo. You'll get used to the motion sickness from the jumps. In the meantime, follow me."

With that, she walked past him, until she was standing in the doorway that the others had exited through.

"Welcome to Haven," she said. "We have a lot to talk about."

> Read Chapter 2 

The Doorway

This story is in response to a @JibenNoDensetsu prompt.

The young man sat atop the smooth peak of one of the obsidian pillars, the world beneath them obscured by the cover of thick gray clouds. He leaned back, propping himself by his hands and turning his torso somewhat, his taut upper body exposed over tattered pants.

“Why is it so warm up here?” He squinted, and craned his neck, but saw nothing around him except endless black-and-blue sky. “The way the wind whips up, I should be freezing. Right?”

The being facing him was much shorter, only a few feet tall, like a child; although, as far as he understood, she was at least a few thousand years old. He thought of her as a “she,” but truly, this was just for the efficient convenience of his own mind, as her general form was difficult to describe, much less comprehend. Her body was a translucent gray-green in color, and appeared paper-thin like she had been stamped from some great sheet, yet she possessed remarkable stores of strength. He was also unsure whether her faceward protrusion was a white mask with black eye holes or, indeed, part of her actual ‘face.’ She had arms and hands (well, tips, at least, to her arms), sure, but usually hovered a bit over whatever surface she was traveling. Her ‘feet’ were typically blurry and not easily counted.

“Do not vex yourself,” she assured him, in that distinctively musical tone of hers, like a master’s blend of piano notes and cat purrs. “It would be best if you remain calm and still.”

He would try.

She hovered in front of him, rather closely. She looked to his chest, then to his eyes. “Are you ready?”

He sighed. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suspect.”

She nodded, and looked back to his chest. There, square in the middle, was a door. A miniaturized version of a common, plain wooden door, brass hinges and knob and all, about four inches tall. The skin immediately around the frame was smooth and pinkish, uneven, like scar tissue. She leaned in even closer. With one ‘hand,’ she opened the door. With the other, she began shoving her arm deep inside the young man.

He winced, a bit, and shifted his body weight slightly from one side to the other. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” he said, quietly. He tried to describe the sensation to her, once: “It’s like someone reaching right into your stomach and twisting it all about, except that it now feels like your stomach is thirty feet behind you. It’s really intense, and weird, but not painful. Not at all.”

So she continued, this ‘twisting’ treatment. She kept reaching her arm inward, impossibly, more and more. He thought he could feel them, this time – the little fingers, the tiny palms, all the flesh constantly rubbing together in its sweat and heat, thousands deep.

“Here we are,” she whispered.

Then, as always, it happened so quickly: She suddenly clamped her free hand onto his shoulder, and yanked back with her other arm. There was a sound, like denim being torn. Then the sight, of a baby-like hand, wriggling and writhing, its form a mass of fingers at one end and a set of spindly, ancient roots on the other.

This one was spattered in lesions. Deep, violet marks all along the skin. As soon as he saw them, his nostrils felt assaulted by an odor, rancid and sour in its bloom.

She hunched down, holding the item in one hand, shutting his door with the other. Then she tossed the item skyward, remarkably high, hundreds of feet above them in a spinning arc. In an instant, something tore through the air, a blurry mass that snatched the root-hand away almost imperceptibly.

He sighed, and even smiled, as he rubbed the front of his door. “Thanks… again,” he said.

“My duty,” she said.

Keeper of My Shadows

On Twitter, I noticed a writing prompt, asking for versions of the "Monster Under the Bed" or "Monster in the Closet."

The following is my response. Although I believe this story strays from the intended spirit a bit, I appreciate having a prompt to work from nonetheless.

I did not expect this blog to take this tone for its first story, but here we are, in a couple thousand words.

I am home.

I am home, and I am in bed, and I am lying down, and I am safe. The day is done, the blanket is warm, the room is quiet, my eyes are closed, and I am breathing steadily.

I am relaxed -- until I am not. I am resting peacefully, until I feel a tightening in my chest. My heart begins to beat more strongly. I now feel like I am laboring to suck in each breath yet failing to fill my lungs.

I need most of my willpower, my focus, just to avoid the sensation intensifying; this feeling of a teasing panic, something more nervous on my peripheral. I know it is already too late to avoid, completely, what comes next. It is, at least, a sequence that I am familiar with. The wheels have already begun to spin. The gears in my brain are turning, clicking into place, only to set more tumblers into motion.

He lies down behind me, in the bed. I can't tell if the room is getting colder or hotter, but the air changes.

I hear him sigh. It is a smug, contented sigh, as he takes his sweet time to shift more comfortably. This is all part of it, the pacing. He feeds on the energy it takes for me to maintain my composure, second by second. By second. By second. By second.

Then he speaks, which is his favorite thing to do. I listen, which is among my least.

"Hi there! You weren't getting too comfortable, were you? I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

He speaks in a cheery tone; a little too loud, almost cocky. Sleep is a fantasy, now, for a while at least. I'm in for the ride whether I want to be or not. I have to almost amuse myself, trying to crawl deeper inside my head, wondering what tactics he will try tonight, trying to foresee how this will go, running all the scenarios and trying to anticipate his next moves.

"It's just that I miss you already. I know I already visited you once today, but I just had to see you again, as soon as I could!"

Oh, of course. Of course he wouldn't let that go. It's true: After weeks of silence, he suddenly showed up this morning in a surprise attack. It was awful. Do we have to relive this?

"Don't you love how easily I can affect you? All I have to do is pluck at one string in your mind, tug at one loose thread, and I can set off a chain reaction of insecurities. It's remarkable. Your entire self-worth is built on a foundation of dominoes, waiting to fall at any second. Your self-esteem is the most fragile thing I have ever seen."

I feel a hand gently land on my upper back. I don't gasp audibly. It's a little victory, but I don't give him that pleasure. The gentle hand moves a soothing warmth into my body, and begins caressing in a slow, broad circle, over my shoulders before dipping below their blades. It is my mother's hand. It is just one of his many tricks.

"You do remember it, right? How you walked into your boss's office this morning? But your allergies have been acting up lately, and you're so self-conscious of the symptoms. Heaven forbid someone should spot a used tissue in your wastebasket, let alone notice the change in your voice when your sinuses are clogged. Today was especially difficult, yes? Everything above your neck this time, really. You were obsessing over every detail, trying to present your best self, like your life depended on it."

Do we have to go over this? I try to think of something else, anything else. I think of the scene from the movie Orange County, when Jack Black's character runs toward the pool, only to stop to remove his socks before jumping in to save his friend. I think of a childhood family vacation to Carolina Beach State Park, and the saltwater scent in the air along the sand. I think of the moment I broke my arm. The time I moved out of my parent's house. An idea for a medieval fantasy novel.

None of it matters. I am already reliving those moments earlier, my fear and my nerves. He knows this. It's like being told not to think about a purple elephant. My mind's eye will keep snapping back to the same things. It is just one of his many tricks.

"You became vividly aware of the crane of your neck, the angle of your chin. You wanted to be sure you appeared confident, but not above your rank, but more equal than subservient. But was your head tilted to one direction, slightly? That's a problem you've had before, you know. Someone had to tell you, once, that your head was tilted, when they were trying to take a photo of you. You remember that, don't you? I digress. There you were, in your boss's office this morning, abruptly aware of how frequently you were blinking, the extent of the clench of your teeth and how it affected the visual slope of your cheeks, trying to discern just how much mucus was in your nostrils and how noticeable that could possibly be. You even stopped breathing, remember? You held your breath. Because you know you breathe too loudly, sometimes. It's audible. People can notice."

I can't help these things, sometimes. He knows this, of course. His hand continues caressing my back as he goes on.

"And then you tried to talk! Remember that? Oh god, you were so pitiful. Using every ounce of your mental faculties to script your words, and focus on your enunciation, and determine your cadence, and make sure your tone is just right, and your volume is okay, your pitch, and try to keep it all in concert, just to meet the minimum threshold of sounding normal. Normal!"

Just as I'm becoming accustomed to the hand on my back, it leaves. I know it's hovering close by, but I'm not going to look back. I wouldn't dare. He continues.

"Do you realize how easy it is for everyone else? They never have to spend a single second of their lives being actively aware of how they conduct themselves. They just do it. They weave effortlessly in and out of every social situation. They flirt with pretty people, they crack jokes with their coworkers, they make small talk with neighbors, they manage themselves politely at family functions. They spend their whole lives enjoying the fruit of relationships that come naturally to them. And it's not because they're good at any of this -- it's just because they're normal. That's the norm. That's how it's supposed to be. But not for you. You're a freak."

Okay. This is another small victory. He hasn't used that word in a while. I'm numb to it, almost. It used to have a much larger effect. Now, in this context, at this age, it sounds almost humorous. He takes a moment to chuckle quietly. Then, he continues.

"Then your boss would speak in turn, and you would catch yourself being unsure of which of his eyes to look at, and then catch yourself wondering if he could tell you were unsure, and if you looked crazy, looking from one eye to the other so much. Because you don't want anyone to think anything's wrong with you, right? But maybe your posture is a little unnatural. Did you have any idea what you were doing with your hands? You walk weird, too, you know that? Even babies learn how to walk without a problem; but not you, you have to consider your gait and how your feet land and how much to bend your knees, the motion of your hips, and how much to swing your arms at what speed and to what extent, and how much to curl your fingers and where to look as you're walking down the hall and how sharp of an angle to take into any given doorway. You're so pathetic!"

He laughs; harder, this time. Louder. Meaner. Some nights, he'll pick one insecurity and take it apart, like an autopsy, examining every possible facet of it until I feel like my skin has been peeled off of my body. Other nights, it's more of a scattershot approach, where he'll see how many of my idiosyncrasies he can pick on and pick apart before he leaves. While the effect is always similar, the approach can vary, which makes him even more unpredictable, which adds to his power. He knows this. It is just one of his many tricks.

"I mean, wow, you're lucky you've gotten this far in life. Don't get me wrong, you're not successful by any measure, not like you want to be, but at least you're holding a job now. You should be ashamed of yourself, being in this position by pure luck, finding a place where people have enough pity on you. You should feel guilty. There are people so much smarter and more talented that would be so grateful to be in your place. You know nobody there actually likes you, right? Outside the office, there's no reason they'd ever want anything to do with you. Why would they? Why would anyone? Remember that time, as a child, when you walked by your brother's room, and he had a friend over, and you overheard him mention how annoying you were? They both laughed. That's the typical response to you, you just don't get to hear it usually because it's behind your back. Imagine what else everyone says behind your back!"

I am beginning to feel worn down. My eyelids begin to moisten with reluctant tears, the kind you apologize for, the kind about which you say to people, "I don't know why I'm crying." Just before they inevitably say, "Aww, hey, it's okay, let it out," and move closer to you, and try to encourage you.

My breath is halting.

Then he places his hand over mine. I freeze. He begins to trace the tip of his thumb over each of my fingernails. This is a taunt, perverting one of my behaviors. Sometimes when my mental state is at full cacophony, I think of the surface area of my fingernails like a measurable grid, and track the progress of my thumb as it traces over every section. Fully covering my nails in this process feels like completing a task. There is a mathematical symmetry to it, that serves to center my attention and help calm myself.

He knows this, and he is making fun of it. He is taking one of my helpful acts and making me feel like it only reinforces how broken and 'wrong' I am, rather than how it helps. It is just one of his many tricks.

"What is wrong with you, anyway?"

His voice has lowered to a whisper, right in my ear. I just lie there. I try to let the words wash over me like lukewarm water. I try to disassociate completely. I try to simply not pay attention. I try not to let every little implication take root in myself and lead to more doubts and vulnerabilities.

"Do you think if anyone really knew what you were like, inside your own head, they would ever like you? Love you? Want to be with you?"

His thumb stops swiping over the nails on my hand. Instead, he is sliding his hand over mine altogether, interlacing our fingers. Holding. He gives a single, soft squeeze.

Some nights, it's just my body he likes to talk about. How the webbing between my big toe and the next toe is so much longer than any of the others. How there is no possible way to look in the mirror and be happy with the shape of my arms. How much better everyone else's hair looks than mine. The pouch of fat over my crotch, or sitting on my hips. How my eyes are green but people think they're blue half the time. He will just focus on my body, and that alone will make me feel terrible. Tonight, he hasn't even mentioned it, but his presence brings bad memories of his past visits. This, too, is part of his power. It is just one of his many tricks.

"Just think," he whispers. "You will spend your entire lifetime exerting yourself strenuously, just to appear like a functioning adult, while everyone else gets to live in peaceful ease without even trying. No matter what drugs you try, no matter what therapist you see, no matter what coping mechanisms you foster, no matter your outlook, no matter how old you get, you will always have one thing holding you back from happiness and peace. Do you know what that is? Hm?"

I mouth the word, "What?"

He replies, in a rumbling growl, in my own voice:

"Me."

Welcome to Neural Dispatch.

Straight from my brain to yours.

###

I like writing.

I have for a long time now, even if I go for long stretches where I do not exercise this desire. I like stories, and characters, and cool little moments and scenes. I like cheesy sci-fi. I like lightsabers and robots and starships and the endless maw of the space beyond space.

In 2018, my biggest goal might be to complete a novel in November, as part of the annual NaNoWriMo event. This is a daunting, terrifying task. I truly do not believe I am capable of this, at the present time.

So, I'll need some practice.

Neural Dispatch is going to be the little space online where I try to quell my insecurities long enough to publish bits of flash fiction here and there, and hopefully a serialized tale as well (I'm not sure what to call it yet, but it's about a genius 9-year-old girl leading a band of intergalactic warriors on missions to save the universe until they are suddenly joined by a very average clueless dude). I used to write a lot of fiction, believe it or not. This will be my own speculative short-fiction spot where I hope to get back into the habit.

Especially if I expect to sharpen my skills enough to feel confident in tackling a full-length novel!

I think, by now, I have a knack for realistic expectations. It is very possible that I will chicken out altogether and post nothing here, or maybe a couple things and then stop, or the stuff will suck and never get any better, which would just be so awkward yet so beautiful. I expect this whole project to be a wonderful exercise in vulnerability. Mm!

But, hey, it's what I want to do. No fancy graphics, no big press release, no massive collaboration. Not even a dime spent on a new domain. Just me, a keyboard, and a surplus of ideas that are going to eat their way out my skull if I don't let them out through my fingers instead.

If someone out there gets a kick out of the stories in here, I will be delighted. You can even follow a dedicated Twitter feed, @NeuralDispatch, if you are so inclined. In the meantime, I'll be thinking about lasers and black holes and big explosions and whether or not you can ever possibly be sure your mind hasn't already been taken over by an alien entity capable of manipulating your perception.

Thank you!