by Sean Davies
Winston smiled fondly at her and gave up looking for a key. “Looks like we’re walking anyway.”
“We can change things sometimes,” Veronica told him, willing the car to change into something flashier.
A key materialised in her hand, and to the busty Vampire’s elation the old car morphed into a dark red sports car.
“It doesn’t always seem to work. Omniosis must be able to stop us some of the time,” Veronica explained as she appreciated her flashy handiwork, before entering the car.
“Hmm,” Winston hummed, looking down disapprovingly at his poor apparel.
The Book Wielder forced the image of how he wanted to appear into his mind. In an instant, his scruffy clothing had changed into a smart black pinstriped suit, and he manifested a loaded pistol in one hand and an elegant silver lighter in the other. He ran a hand over his messy hair and felt it retract, becoming his favoured style of short back and sides, and combed to the side on top. Winston attempted to bring his book into the dreamscape but to no avail, so he finally climbed into the passenger seat of Veronica’s sports car.
Veronica looked at her husband lovingly. “There’s the Winston I remember.”
Winston leaned over for a quick kiss, before Veronica reversed sharply off the drive and sped across the town to the Open Vein nightclub. He looked around at the artificial landscape in awe, amazed that he was inside his own subconscious, and kept an eye out for the Demon that was responsible for the whole mess.
They arrived on the western side of town without encountering any trouble, and could see plumes of colourful smoke rising towards the dark sky long before they saw the actual club building.
“Is it on fire?” Veronica wondered aloud as she swerved down the streets, passing by some glum looking grey-skinned residents.
“Maybe,” Winston muttered. He pondered over how he personally regarded the Open Vein, and then about how he regarded its owner, and laughed.
“What is it?” Veronica asked, before realising the conclusion that Winston had arrived at. “You don’t think that’s…?”
“Gregory’s Alchemy fumes,” Winston chuckled. “I think he’s a crazy genius when it comes to Alchemy, and a massive stoner. It only makes sense that the version of him in here reflects that.”
“Is it wrong to be looking forward to seeing this?” Veronica asked with an excited smile.
“Probably. I just hope the Archmage hasn’t made him a threat. I don’t want to fight the guy who gave me my big break, even if he’s not real.”
Veronica smile turned to a grimace as she considered this. She didn’t want to fight any form of her old friend either, especially considering how life-like the dreamscape felt.
The club came into view and the couple’s suspicions about the flagrant drug abuse were quickly confirmed. Sweet-smelling smoke of every colour poured from each nook and cranny of the two-storey building. The building looked far cooler than its run-down real world counterpart, with a black and red exterior and red neon lights that illuminated the endless torrents of smoke.
“Wow, I kinda wish Genie were here to see this,” Veronica said as she pulled into the parking lot.
Winston could feel the pounding bass through the sports car, and looked at the red and black monstrosity of a club in wonder. “I’m signing off on the refurbishments as soon as we’ve kicked the Archmage out of my head,” he joked.
As soon as they left the confines of Veronica’s car, they were hit by the booming industrial music emanating from the building, along with the nose-tingling scent of unknown narcotics.
Beautiful, half-naked clubbers congregated and fornicated outside, wearing outlandish costumes and playful plastic masks, and they eyed Veronica and Winston eagerly.
“Yep, we’re definitely in your mind,” Veronica said, stroking the bare chest of a muscle-clad hunk in a wolf mask.
“Yeah, if we were in yours there’d be more whips and chains…” Winston challenged, as he checked out a lingerie-clad cutie pleasuring herself beside the club’s front door.
“Only on a tame day,” Veronica teased with a wink. “I feel so much better here than anywhere else I’ve been so far,” she reflected.
“It’s probably the chemicals,” Winston said, wafting away a cloud of tantalising pink smoke as he approached the open entrance.
“Think we should make gas masks or something?” the Vampire Bloodmage asked, feeling lightheaded.
“Nah, it can’t be that bad, surely,” Winston said confidently. “It’s only in my head, after all.”
A pair of athletic bikini-babes in cat masks opened the doors to the club’s interior, and Veronica and Winston were hit by a tide of thick fog. Bursts of strobe lighting flared through the clouds, and little searchlights traced through the multi-coloured mist at random.
Winston instantly regretted his bravado when his eyes teared up and his head felt like it was in a washing machine, but his concern was short lived, as he soon felt high as a kite and began dancing to the beat.
Veronica fared little better, and found herself dancing in-between Winston and another couple, completely intoxicated. The booming beat ran through her body, and she closed her eyes and felt hands gliding along her curves. She didn’t care if they belonged to Winston or not, and she didn’t care that it wasn’t real; she was hot, horny, and high.
“What is going on?” Cherriesa roared through the cloudy club’s enormous speakers. “Why are you trying to leave?!”
Veronica forced her weary eyes to open and found herself floating in a dark abyss. Her form was shrouded in the club’s mind-blowing fumes, but apart from that there was nothing else. The Vampire Bloodmage panicked, feeling as though she should be falling, and with a sudden bump her backside hit the floor of the Open Vein and she was back inside the dreamscape.
“Answer me!” the voice of Cherriesa yelled through the speakers. “Why should I struggle to keep you inside Winston when you’re trying to leave of your own volition?!”
“I didn’t mean to,” Veronica answered meekly over the din, already feeling the renewed effects of the fumes.
“Well, stop whatever you are doing!” Cherriesa hissed back, entirely unimpressed.
Veronica grunted and forced a weak telekinetic wave outward that sent the drug fumes to the edges of the room, shattering speakers and the man-sized beakers that were responsible for the room’s fog, and revealed a wide dancefloor filled with clubbers.
Winston’s mental equivalent of the Open Vein club was an orgy of excess, and groups of people were engaging in every sexual act conceivable as they doused themselves in colourful drinks and smoked joints bigger than their hands.
Veronica’s gaze settled on a curvy trans woman thrusting her ridiculously large erection into a hunky man, who was stuffed into a school girl’s outfit and bent over a small wooden table. “Hmm… maybe this is my mind after all,” she joked naughtily.
Veronica continued to look around at the masked patrons, hoping to see Winston in the crowd of faces, but without the intoxicating smog they all begrudgingly stopped their sinful activities to stare threateningly at her.
Winston grunted and pulled himself off the floor where he had been smothered by a group of Vampire cheerleaders, and was immediately shoved to the centre of the room by a woman who had been all over him only moments before.
“Do we fight them?” Winston asked his wife.
She nodded as the mob took a step towards them in eerie unison. “Guess we don’t have a choice.”
“Winston Reynolds!” a familiar voice shouted merrily from behind a curtain of brightly coloured smoke at the far end of the room.
The crowd immediately lost interest in Veronica and Winston, and continued their filthy partying even though there was no music playing from the damaged speakers. The barrier of fog receded like it was being sucked into a vacuum cleaner.
The Reynoldses saw the outline of a man forming behind a DJ stand mounted on an altar. He was wearing a sterile white lab coat, a mechanic
al backpack featuring glowing chemical tanks that were wired into the wearer’s arms and torso, and a full-face gasmask with a pair of chimney-like horns. Beside him were stunning women in identical red priestess robes.
“Winston and Veronica Reynolds!” the figure roared cheerfully. “Hey, everyone—these guys are the best! Winston, didn’t I say you’d rule the world one day?”
“Greg, is that you?” Winston asked, approaching the DJ stand.
“Who else would rock the Open Vein like this?” Gregory replied. “I’d take the mask off, but I’m sampling some killer homebrewed concoctions. Man, you got to get one of these!” he said, doing a twirl and showing off his gear.
“Greg,” Veronica began, “we’re in a bit of a weird situation—”
“Like always,” Gregory interrupted. “You just need to chillax a bit, take a load off, enjoy the club. I’ll get the speakers and beakers repaired—”
“We’re looking for Omniosis,” Veronica cut in. “Or something really, really significant. Got any ideas?”
“Hmm,” Gregory pondered, stroking the end of his gasmask like it was his chin. “No Archmage here. He wouldn’t dare,” he chuckled, as his saucy priestesses created two-metre-long blades out of thin air.
“Looks like this is a dead end,” Winston whispered to Veronica.
“What about your book?” Gregory asked. “That might lead to what you’re after.”
“I can’t, uh… find it,” Winston replied, wondering how much the dreamscape’s inhabitants knew about their fake environment.
“Try the used books store,” Gregory said, clicking his fingers and repairing his sound system. “If you do track it down, fish me something tasty out of the Gloom. Then we can party all fucking century!” he roared as the music thumped back through the Open Vein.
“Cheers, Gregory!” Veronica said as she led her husband out of the club before the intoxicating fumes claimed them both again.
“Yeah, thanks Greg!” Winston called.
They exited the building just as a tide of fresh smoke bellowed out of the building, and they hopped into Veronica’s car and drove to the book store.
Veronica noticed that the few people they passed on the way looked pale and lifeless, dull just like the boring houses around them; they were nothing but background characters compared to the vibrant and scantily dressed patrons of the Open Vein club. Then, as they pulled onto Woodsholme’s sad excuse of a high street, she saw that the only shop that stood out was the used book store, with its lively sign and outdoor displays filled to the brim with interesting books and magazines.
They were hopeful that Gregory’s insight would prove fruitful (despite how drugged-up the imaginary version of their Mage friend had been), as they didn’t have many other leads. However, after a long methodical search of the entire shop Winston still couldn’t find his book. Even Veronica tried manifesting it, but only managed to create a dusty old tome filled with scribbles.
“’Autocrat Ernestina Delacroix’s Memoires’… ‘Tropican Cuisine for Beginners’…” the Vampire Bloodmage reeled off, searching yet another shelf.
“Do you think there even is a Gloom in this place?” Winston asked, rubbing the dust off some leather-bound books.
“Probably,” Veronica replied, as she drank in the detailed minutia of the dreamscape. “This place just seems like the old Mydia, but with a dash of Winston,” she mused, flicking through the recipe book.
The kindly old man who owned the store saw them struggling and offered his assistance. “Are you looking for something obscure?” he asked as Winston rummaged through a basket of bargain books.
“I’m looking for my book,” Winston admitted, not bothering with roleplay. “I found it here in the real world, so I thought it might be here…”
“Here in your head, yes, very astute, lad!” the old man concluded. “I’m sorry to say you won’t find what you’re looking for here,” he told them in a whisper. “Try in the Capital, but be careful—he will try to stop you.”
Winston gave Veronica a confirmatory nod and shook the imaginary man’s hand, finding it rude not to do so even if it was all in his mind.
Not wanting to waste any more time, they drove off towards central Rura for the old Capital, Imperia City. Veronica chose the quickest route through the mountain pass, and it wasn’t long before they entered the long tunnel that would take them west through Rura’s dividing mountain range.
“I don’t feel as good now,” Veronica remarked, as the yellow lights on the tunnel’s ceiling passed by in a hypnotising rhythm.
“Probably the comedown from Gregory’s drug-club,” Winston chuckled, although he too felt rather drained. “I’m surprised he hasn’t tried making a backpack and gasmask like that in real life.”
“Don’t tell him about it. He’d definitely try it.”
Winston blinked his eyes slowly and conceded that what he was feeling wasn’t just his fading high. “I think the places I like are different to everywhere else.”
“They’re definitely more pleasant,” Veronica replied, looking at the detailed yet uninspiring tunnel walls. “We seem to have more control in them, and the people seem less threatening and more helpful too. I’m sure Omniosis forced me to turn Feral before I found you, and there was this creepy family that’s going to haunt my nightmares for the next millennium,” she said with a shudder.
“I’m surprised Omniosis hasn’t popped up.” Winston looked around for any sign of a Demon.
“He’s probably going to pop up when we least expect it,” Veronica said, half of her anticipating the Archmage’s appearance as soon as she finished the sentence.
Winston spotted the end of the mountain pass in the distance, and was surprised to see the light of day shining into the tunnel’s entrance. “Well, time’s fucked,” he commented half-heartedly.
Veronica thought nothing of it as she eased her foot off the accelerator in preparation for the winding open roads that awaited. Then her perfect, pale skin began to sizzle and burn. The Vampire Bloodmage had grown accustomed to living in the light, from the years of easy access to Sunshield potions and the recent change in Mydia’s atmosphere, but she learnt the hard way that the dreamscape was playing by the old rules; the sun was once again her mortal enemy.
The car veered to the side, but Winston was quick to grab the wheel and spin the car around. The manoeuvre slowed the sports car slightly, but they hit the wall hard. To make matters worse, they were still fully exposed to the sunlight radiating in from outside the tunnel’s entrance.
Winston was quick to act, and while his beloved wife was screaming in agony and catching aflame in places, he smashed his way out of the ruined car and scooped her up in his arms. He sprinted back the way they came, under the safety of artificial lighting, and thrust his wrist in the scorched Vampire’s mouth.
Veronica savagely tore into Winston’s wrist and gorged herself on his blood, using its fresh energy to heal her unbearable burns.
Winston barely registered the pain; his eyes were having trouble making out the rest of the tunnel, which seemed to be shortening before his very eyes.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Veronica said, fully healed and as gorgeous as ever.
She gave her husband a kiss on the cheek and left his embrace to stand on her own two feet. “How are we going to get past that light? Do we go back, or should you risk going on alone until I can catch up with you?”
Then the Vampire Bloodmage’s eyes registered the change in the mountain pass and watched in horror as it shrank towards them, leaving them confined in a wide archway of darkness with blaring sunlight only metres away from them on either side.
“Guess we’re not going back, then…” Veronica mumbled, miserably.
Winston stuck his hand out into the light for a moment and winced when the intense sunlight scalded his hand. It was nowhere as severe as the damage his wife had sustained, but it still felt like he’d reached into an oven.
“Shit,” he cursed. “Neither o
ne of us is going forward.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Back in the real world, outside of Winston’s fragmented mind, Daedrian Darkheart looked out the café’s grimy window at Worfington Station, watching as her loyalists did their jobs and put the final parts of her colleague’s grand plan into place. She was in her natural form of an auburn-haired girl in her early teens, and she played with her long hair as she stirred a cup of tea aimlessly with her telekinesis.
“Are you feeling okay?” Corriztis asked from beneath his hood.
Daedrian looked wearily across the table at her colleague—or at least one section of him—who was inhabiting the body of a brown-haired man in his early forties. “I’m still thinking about the poor sods frozen solid in Barraham. It’s just like Abilton all over again.”
“The lengths the tyrants will go to disrupt our efforts are truly obscene.” Corriztis said in a sad tone, before sipping at his tall strawberry milkshake through a straw.
“I can’t believe they’d go that far just to stop us,” Daedrian said as she snapped a piece of toast with her mind and levitated it into her mouth. “And the way they killed the Manager just to implicate us…”
“We’ll find another source of funding,” Corriztis said nonchalantly. “Not that it will matter for much longer.”
Daedrian frowned. “That wasn’t really my point.”
The Demon shrugged and gave the café’s owner a cheerful thumbs-up as he finished off his milkshake, and then gestured for a refill.
Darkheart tried to poke around in the Demon’s head, to see if Corriztis’ stories about the Justiciars and their oppressive cruelty against those they accused of harbouring them weren’t blown out of proportion, but as normal all she could read were the host’s wishy-washy thoughts about how they wanted more sugar. Daedrian wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or not, but she also felt as though it was getting harder to disagree or question the will of her demonic comrade in arms. She privately hoped she hadn’t put her faith in the wrong being; not just for the sake of herself, but for her loyal followers all over the planet.