With each blink, Aaron’s eyes felt like sandpaper rubbing against his corneas, forcing him to squint, adjusting to the invading sunrise.
He stared up at the tennis-ball-sized hole in the ceiling, his gaze drifting from the destruction to his own body.
Instinctively, his right hand moved to his left shoulder.
He winced as he touched the blistered, throbbing burn mark that still lurked there.
Last night hit him in fragmented, surreal flashes: the alien artifact, the wraith-like, mystical smoke, and it—the presence now coiled inside him.
A General.
A sorcerer.
Magic.
The sheer insanity of it made his head spin, but beneath the fear, a growing thrill spiked.
If he truly had a magical soul sharing his body, could he tap into that power?
Could he perform actual magic?
That would be awesome!
Aaron didn’t imagine using the magic to slay dragons or defeat evil; he thought of an empty laundry basket.
He could almost feel the phantom spark in his fingertips—one snap to scour the dishes or a flick of his wrist to instantly clean the mess in his room.
He’d conjure a doppelganger to endure the endless drivel of the history class teacher, Mr.
Whipple, while he hit the Internet Cafe in the mall.
Even better, with a subtle psychic nudge, every jump-shot in basketball would find the net, turning him into a local god.
In a world that felt like it was spinning out of control, magic was the ultimate cheat code.
Aaron’s magical fantasies were surprisingly domestic.
Why battle dark lords when you could enchant a vacuum?
He’d outsource his entire life—schooling, chores, the works—to a magical clone while he disappeared into a neon haze of video games.
On the field, he’d be a telekinetic ghost, untouchable and unbeatable.
To Aaron, sorcery wasn’t just about fireballs; it was the ultimate stress-relief valve for a reality that wouldn’t stop pushing him around.
In his mind’s eye, the mundane became miraculous.
Aaron saw socks folding themselves in mid-air and a “spare” version of himself sweating through an English exam while he happily tinkered with building rockets and writing code for a video game he was thinking of developing.
He imagined the roars in stadiums as his telekinesis guided the ball over towering uprights or into a net—a rigged game for a perfect life.
Magic was his fortress, a way to grab the steering wheel of a world that usually felt like it was careening off a cliff.
He relished the thought!
***
While Aaron was lost in magical thoughts and simultaneously rummaging around for his clothes, a distant glimmer of pale light broke through Rykker’s dark prison, catching his attention.
It was a cold light—bitingly white and harsh in a way that wasn’t natural.
Even the magical lights he could conjure felt softer.
An underlying thrum, a ghostly whisper and whir, seemed to pulse from it, calling him forward.
His need to investigate and his earlier successful use of qi, coaxed his substance-less body to drift toward the light source.
As he neared the source, the void melted away, revealing an amazing image; a scene.
No…
A place—Aaron’s room!
“Young Aaron…hear my words.
A most peculiar, perhaps impossible, event has occurred.
I am gazing upon your chamber, yet I am not within it.
It appears…
yes, I fear it is so…
I am witnessing the world through your own eyes.”
Aaron paused, his breath hitching in his throat.
He shifted, turning toward the door.
“What do you see?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.
“Alas, it’s… well, I reckon it’s a door,” Rykker chimed, his voice a mix of curiosity and excitement.
He described its peculiar features, specifically the paint, which was peeling away in flakes that curled like dead skin, and the strange, complex, metallic handle.
Finally, he encouraged Aaron to scan the entire room.
To Rykker, the small bedroom felt claustrophobic, a tight, rectangular space dominated by chaos.
Pulled from the wall on the far end of the room was a tiny twin bed lost beneath a mountainous tangle of crumpled sheets and blankets that looked like a linen landslide.
Draped over the foot of the bed were mismatched clothes, creating a colorful, chaotic sculpture.
Near the window, which was dressed in faded, ugly green curtains that seemed to strangle the early morning light, sat a flimsy, worn dresser made of cheap brown balsa wood.
On top, several shiny, bronze, silver, and gold high-school scholar awards in chemistry and physics, along with a few competition trophies, stood in neat opposition to the room’s overall disarray.
Among these shiny prizes lay folded scholarship acceptance letters, their crisp corners untouched by the dust that settled elsewhere.
Beside the bed sat a small, battered nightstand; on it, a half-glass of lukewarm water sat next to a strange, dented black orb that looked like a fallen piece of heavy machinery, and a glowing smartphone that lay half-buried under a stray sock.
A dark, wooden desk stood against the opposite wall, almost entirely consumed by a jumbled landscape of crumpled, white paper balls and a few, scattered pens and pencils.
Tattered textbooks were stacked high on one side, resembling an unstable tower of knowledge, with a dormant desk top computer monitor staring blankly at the disorganization.
On the closed closet door, a long, body-length mirror hung askew, reflecting only a partial view of the surrounding clutter.
The carpet, a muted, neutral color, was barely visible, acting as a base layer under a sea of fabrics, with mountains of mixed clean and dirty clothes covering nearly every square foot of the floor.
The entire room appeared frozen in a moment of frantic activity, a testament to a mind focused far more on science than tidiness.
***
Aaron was in the middle of explaining the inner workings of his cell phone when the shrill, melodic chime jumped from it, echoing through the room.
“Ugh!” He whined knowing that the sound was commanding him to begin his day.
He hunched defeatedly, letting out a long, dramatic groan as he clamoured over to the nightstand, grabbing the noisy device.
“Oh, my gods, that alluring sound,” Rykker murmured, reaching for his heart, only to remember he wasn’t a touchable, physical entity.
“It sings, Sir Aaron. This story is hosted at g.com.
But why did you groan as if it had sentenced you to death?”
“It’s my alarm,” Aaron grumbled, tearing his school-embossed jacket off the singular hook behind the door.
“It’s telling me I have exactly ten minutes to finish getting dressed and cook breakfast before my stepdad starts acting like an angry, hungry—um…creature.”
Aaron purposefully gazed into the floor-length mirror hanging on the closet door and scowled.
He grabbed a wire brush and attempted to rein in the snarled coils in his long, red hair.
Rykker tentatively watched Aaron wage a losing war against his own reflection.
His stubborn, mahogany-red mess of tight curls had turned into a matted web, and Aaron was tangled in it, his fingers diving into the mess in a pressing, frantic attempt to gain control.
As Aaron fought with his mangled mane, Rykker inquisitively studied Aaron’s features.
Aaron had a stunning symmetrical face featuring a razor-sharp jawline and a youthful, radiant glow.
But it was his eyes that truly arrested Rykker.
His eyes were vivid—a deep, piercing aquamarine hue framed by thick, ink-black lashes that spoke of a quiet, intense intelligence.
In contrast, Rykker felt that Aaron’s stature was decidedly willowy, a silhouette of sharp angles and elongated lines that seemed to stretch toward the ceiling.
While not fragile, his lanky build lacked the traditional athletic bulk, giving him a distinct “beanpole” aura that commanded attention through height rather than mass.
He possessed the classic traits of an ectomorph, characterized by lean, slender muscles and narrow shoulders.
His slight build meant he occupied space thinly, navigating rooms like a reed in the wind—steady and tall, yet conspicuously unmuscular.
Despite his thinness, there was a hidden resilience in his posture; he wasn’t sickly in any way, just built from a finer, more extended blueprint that favored length over breadth.
After a few minutes fighting with his hair, Aaron glanced at his overall look.
Satisfied, he straightened his school uniform, tugged on his tie, and grabbed his school bag.
***
Remembering what Aaron had mentioned earlier about an “alarm” Rykker asked, “Sir Aaron, You said the music was an alarm?
A warning?
Are invaders expected to breach the perimeter?
Are they coming for the rations?”
His hand on the door, Aaron paused, “It’s not that kind of war, General.
It’s just…
a reminder to do stuff.
Like right now, I have to make breakfast, or I get in trouble.”
Rykker wrinkled his invisible eyebrows, letting out a soft, confused sigh.
“Hmm,” he said, not knowing what to say.
It seemed to Rykker that the Earth was…
aggressive.
The sounds here didn’t resonate—they shouted.
There were noises that demanded attention and action, not harmony and relaxation.
This world was not a peaceful place, if it were, music would never be used as a siren.