Chapter Text
All the worries on my heart were lifted away. No albatrosses of demons chasing me or worlds that were simulations hung around my neck, and for the first time in, well, forever, I felt… completely calm.
I opened my eyes. With all the hindrances and burdens that were ever on me melted into nothingness, I could finally appreciate the beauty of a level wholeheartedly. I was standing in the midst of an old, dilapidated church, its ruined stone walls crumbling in quaint silence. The dry grass below my feet was not rough but soft, and above me the sky was clear as a crystal lake. Everything in this level, from the skies to the grass to the ruins, seemed to be washed in shades of grey, for no colour abode here; and the monochromic scenery somehow brought peace to my heart, and I knew that nothing would ever go wrong in my life again.
Exhaling in relief, I sat myself down on the pearl-grey grass to rest my weary feet. From above, there came a voice simultaneously distant yet close, and I realised it came from Michael, whom I had completely forgotten about.
“Adam,” he called, “What are you doing?”
“Resting,” I replied simply, looking up at him.
“We should explore this place,” he advised, “Make sure it’s really safe before we… let our guard down…”
I smiled serenely, and told him, “Can’t you feel it, friend? This is a safe level! We’ve been on our feet for so long, Michael. We deserve a rest.”
“Oh… Well, the safeness feels… like an aftertaste, almost. Like a party that’s over, and now we’re left to clean up the mess all by ourselves.”
“When did you get so philosophical?” I chided, “Don’t worry about it. Just rest.”
Michael smiled. “According to you I’m an esteemed levelogist,” he said. “We have to be philosophical.”
He lay down beside me on the soft, dried grass, and we admired the tranquil view of the ecclesiastical rubble, the overgrown weeds bursting from its ruinous form, and the ashen grey skies that stretched out like a smoothed blanket above us.
“What are we waiting for?” asked Michael.
We had lost track of time a long while ago, and neither of us had any idea how long it had been since we had entered this black-and-white landscape.
I lay on my back, feeling the soft grass like cotton caressing me, staring up at the cloudless, ashen heavens above. “We’re not waiting for anything,” I said quietly, “We’re just relaxing. Watching the beautiful grey scenery.”
The scenery? came an echoing Voice from high above, a voice that was neither mine nor Michael’s, Ah, yes… The scenery is monochromatically picturesque, is it not?
I couldn’t exactly put my finger on what this Voice sounded like. It was sort of… high-pitched, and yet it was deep at the same time; and it was shrill yet dull all at once; and seemed not more feminine than it was masculine, and vice versa. As for to whom the voice belonged… I could not see them, but I could feel their presence: like a colossal, invisible dragon beating its massive wings, sending waves of calm and somnolence rolling across the landscape.
Michael looked around drowsily. “Who… what are you?” he asked. “And where are you?”
The strange Voice seemed to chuckle. Where am I? it repeated, Well, dearest wanderers, I am everywhere. I am the grass. I am the skies. I am the ruins. I am the level.
“Well, what do you want?” asked Michael.
I simply want for ye to rest in my domain, the Voice said, spilling calmness over me, causing my nerves to relax beyond what I’d even thought was possible.
Ye must be tired from your long wanderings, it continued. Don’t worry. No harm will come to you. Ye shall be safe here. Safe from the horrors that lie beyond my monochrome citadel.
This wasn’t a false promise like the Neon Paradise, nor the rolling green dreamscape we’d just departed from. I knew with certainty that absolutely nothing from beyond would be able to harm us here.
The Voice’s monologue droned on, but unlike all the lectures and talks I’d had to sit through before, it surprisingly soothed me rather than instilling pure boredom into my heart. Now, let me see whither ye come… it mused. Ah… the call of the Wake Up. Ye must have listened to old Mister Mousworth’s talk, of how nought is real and everything is a simulation. I know not of that, personally, but if everything truly is a false reality… then ye bear all the more reason to stay here comfortably, with me. After all, wherefore would ye douse yourself in pain for a world that isn’t even real?
“Huh,” muttered Michael, “I suppose that makes sense.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “I’m convinced. Let’s stay here forever.”
So, tell me about yourselves, coaxed the Voice, Oh… nevermind, I am telepathic. How easily can one forget that?
It laughed merrily yet somewhat uncannily to itself. Thou, Adam Myers, it said, and for some reason I was not surprised nor shocked that it knew my name, Thou art a clerk for the M.E.G., and… oh, how interesting. A thrall of the Beast. I knew something here reeked of false liberty. Well, worry not, for the wicked things cannot follow thee here, not even that fell archdemon…
Suddenly, Michael became far more alert, as if he had just snapped out of a trance. He stood up so quickly I thought someone had just fired a bullet at the ashen sky. “What was that?” he asked the Voice, “Adam is a thrall of the what?”
The Voice seemingly pretended not to notice Michael’s words, and began to analyse him instead. Michael Eague, it said, what a jest of a name. Thou, too, art a clerk for the M.E.G. in the Neon Paradise, though thy heart yearns for greater horizons, I behold… Worry not of that, dear; just stay here and relax with me… And, what’s this? Thou…
For the first time since it had begun talking, the Voice halted. It was a pause of uncertainty, as if the invisible higher being had just realised something terrible.
Oh dear, it finally started to murmur, Oh dear Broken. Nay, nay, nay, this cannot be… Nay, of course it cannot be… I’m sure ’tis something else. Forget of it.
A twinge of worry crept back into me, and I was about to ask the Voice what was so out of the ordinary about Michael (partially because I was curious about it, mostly because I was eager to draw the attention away from my case), but Michael insistently inquired, “What is Adam a thrall of? You have to tell me. He’s kept the truth from me for s—”
I do not have to do anything, Michael Eague, the Voice told him, I am a higher-dimensional being who doth as it pleases. But I shall tell thee, so then perchance thou shalt think twice about leaving my humble abode…
Michael breathed a sigh of relief at the higher being’s compliance to tell him the truth. I, meanwhile, was, uncharacteristically, nearly unaffected by the fact that the secret I’d kept for seven years was about to be spilt. Perhaps it was the overall tranquil nature of the level, but it was almost alleviating, as if something bottled up within myself had just burst free, flinging the cork somewhere where it would never see the light of day again.
Adam Myers is a thrall of the Beast, repeated the Voice, The Beast of the Terror Hotel.
“What?!” exclaimed Michael.
Relax, youngling, said the Voice soothingly, though I thought I sensed something strained about its serenity, Thou bear’st no need to fret. Sit.
My companion crossed his arms. “I won’t relax or rest or sit down until you’ve told me the whole story. How did Adam come to be… enslaved by that… that monster?”
Under regular circumstances, I would’ve probably done anything I could to stop any of this information being revealed. However, as I’ve mentioned before, this situation was far from a regular circumstance.
Ah, a tale to be told! came the Voice, I quite enjoy storytelling. Let me begin, then… Thine acquaintance Adam Myers no-clipped into the Wake at the age of thirteen. After a while of aimless wandering ’thru the mono-yellow halls of the Lobby, the endless humidity of the Parking Zone, the claustrophobic corridors of the Pipe Dreams, and the lonely isolation of the Abandoned Office… he came to the Terror Hotel. And there, he forsooth did come across the Beast, who offered him seven years of safety and freedom, I do believe, in exchange for his own very soul.
“And now the seven years are up,” I found myself concluding, “The Beast of Level 5 is on the hunt for me. He’ll stop at nothing… well, nothing except this place, though I don’t know why… See, Michael, this is why we’ve got to stay here forever! We’re safe here! We’r—”
I looked over at Michael, and was immensely surprised to see his colourless eyes dancing with rageful and passionate flame. “How could you, Adam?” he asked, “How could you sell your soul? Your very essence itself? And why?”
“Look, Michael, I was young,” I defended. “I was foolish. I wasn’t brave or confident like you, and I still am not. Plus, he probably would’ve eaten me or something if I didn’t—”
“Adam! Listen to me!” shouted Michael, “You’ve got to confront the Beast! Don’t listen to the Voice above, and let yourself waste away in this land of colourless torture!”
“But—”
“It’s time you faced your fears! You can’t spend your whole life running away from him, nor can you spend your whole life locked away from the rest of the world just to distance yourself from him!”
I had to admit, his argument was pretty convincing. In the back of my mind, I heard the Voice — noticeably less audible and more distant — screaming, What?! Nay! This cannot be happening! What art—
“And you,” said Michael, addressing the unsettled Voice, “I’ve figured you out. You’re nothing but a con-man. You promise a life of safety and freedom, but what is there here to do but wither and die?! There’s no food or water here, and the only shelter is this ramshackle excuse of a church!”
In the corner of my eye, I began to see what appeared to be cracks in the very essence of the black-and-white landscape, visual distortions causing brick and weed to waver unsteadily. The Voice continued shouting, Nay, nay! This cannot be! Cease thy foul sorcery, black warlock!
Ignoring its pleas, Michael continued furiously, “I’d venture as far to say that you’re even worse than the Beast of Level 5! At least he lists his terms and conditions, and is true to his word; but you, you snivelling, deceitful little demon…”
The world around me began to crumble even further, wavering in and out of existence, its dimensional tapestry untangling and reworking itself under our feet. The Voice, now thoroughly mortified as he seemed, persisted in wailing, This cannot be! No mortal can escape my clutches! No, none shall ever escape! The last time this did happen— two hundred and fifty-five years— the smiling abnormality, the son of the priest… Oh dear, oh nay! What occureth?! Mercy— I beg of thee, aberration of the darkest depths, have mercy upon me!
The entire form of the level seemed to shudder even more violently. Michael looked towards the grey skies, his grey-eyed gaze seeming to rip more holes in the fabric of this realm.
“Mercy,” he scoffed. “Of course I shall grant you mercy. Don’t you know that ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves?”
With a deathly shriek, the entire level shattered.
I stood up groggily. Michael was still standing there, breathing heavily, and we were still in the same monochrome level; so I guessed I hadn’t been unconscious for very long.
“What… what happened?” I asked him.
“Well,” said Michael matter-of-factly, “I gave it what it asked for. And now, this entire level is under my control.”
I stared at him unblinkingly. “You must be joking.”
“Of course not,” he laughed. “The Voice is but a mental manifestation. In overpowering it via mental strength, it is now powerless. And since it could manipulate this level to its will, I now can do that too.”
“Sooo… you’re an esteemed entitiologist now, too?”
“The term is entitatologist,” he corrected. “Now, we can set about confronting the Beast now.”
My eyes widened. Now that the Voice’s power had been depleted, I could experience terror and anxiety again, and — naturally — I felt a lot of it.
“What?!” I exclaimed. “How— I can’t do this! It’s an eldritch, Lovecraftian demon, Michael! It’s just going to laugh at me and then rip me to shreds!”
Michael grinned cunningly. “Ah, but I can harness the power of a higher dimensional being beyond the comprehension of H. P. Lovecraft, Adam. Watch. Ahem, gently punch yourself in the face.”
I gently punched myself in the face.
“Oh… I suppose that would help,” I muttered, “but, uh…”
In that moment, I somehow couldn’t think of any other downsides to confronting my fear — I didn’t know it then, but Michael was using the Voice to manipulate my mind.
Seeing that I could formulate no response, Michael continued, “Well, let’s carry on then. I suggest we confront him in his own domain, Adam. We should go to Level 5.”
I frowned. “Are you— Wouldn’t that be… unideal?” I asked.
“Sure it would,” said Michael, “But it’d be fun. Come on, Adam! Onward to new horizons!”
I smiled, convinced once again by both Michael’s unending optimism and the mental distortion of the Voice’s might. Despite the fact that he’d just single-handedly prevailed in a literal battle of wits against an incorporeal being that consisted of only psychic energy, Michael was still truly a bundle of sunshine.
There was just one thing I was unsure of, though.
“How are we going to get there?” I inquired.
He chuckled jocularly. “Watch and learn, youngling. Bring us to the Terror Hotel.”
The grey world tilted and collapsed in on itself, and I felt myself falling down, down, down a deep dark hole into an ever-growing cloud of redness far below.