Fic: The Science of Sleep - Part Two

[chimneythunder]

Despite everything, Frank manages to get himself together and out his flat by 8am. He only burns his tongue once on his coffee and even manages to pull out one of his darker work shirts that his tattoos don’t show through as clearly.

He resists the urge to write everything about his dream down in minute detail (“sorry I’m late, I had this amazing dream and I needed to write it down” probably won’t cut it as an acceptable excuse, especially after yesterday) and settles for scribbling down random key words on the nearest thing to hand, which happens to be the title page in his new book.

Thankfully, he’s never been too particular about keeping his books in pristine condition.

The drive to work is uneventful; he gets through three cigarettes and drives on auto pilot as his brain lingers on the dream. He can still remember it all so vividly, from the feel of the leather gloves encasing his hands to the look of fear in Ray’s eyes...

“What the fuck??”

The words shoot of Frank’s mouth as he pulls up to the car park barrier... which is down. With a massive sign on it saying “CLOSED.”

He checks his watch. Nope, on time.

The miserable security guard from yesterday is there again too, grinning.

“You can’t tell me the car park’s full already!!” Frank cries.

“Car park’s closed,” the guard says.

“I can see that!! Why?!”

“Refurb work. Didn’t you get the email?”

Frank vaguely remembers seeing an email pop up in his inbox yesterday, three minutes before he was due to go home.

Fuck.

Ignoring the temptation to ram the miserable Car Park Goblin’s booth, Frank pulls the car gear stick into reverse and speeds off down the road to the main mall car park he used yesterday. As he does, he briefly thinks that it’s a shame he doesn’t have the chauffer Korse hired here.

The rest of his day goes as normal. He slips into the usual routine of office life, completing his tasks, idly listening the gossip around the office and then discussing with Bob on their cigarette break how bitchy everyone is. After lunch, when he’s sure his boss isn’t lurking, he opens up the internet and pulls up Google. He hesitates for a second, debating about what to type. Eventually, he settles on Dream meanings, working in an office.

Much to his surprise, there are several results. He clicks on the first one.

“Offices. Places of security and order. Depending on the state of the office in the dream, it could be your subconscious telling you to be more organised. If you find yourself dreaming about your work office, it indicates you cannot seem to leave your work at the office; you are overworked and need to get away – perhaps a holiday is due.”

Frank sighs. Figures.

Really, it’s no surprise that his dream last night was so fucking boring. If your dreams are meant to be your subconscious dealing with your real life and there’s nothing interesting going on there, then how is your made-up world supposed be inspired?


~*~*~


Douchey Art-Boy is back in Starbucks, deeply engrossed in his sketchbook again.

Frank frowns and heads for a table as far away from him as possible. He wasn’t going to go for another coffee after work but there was something about the warm lights and the gentle, familiar aroma of coffee wafting out the door that pulled him in before he could question his feet.

Not that he’s complaining though. He’s got his book in his bag and a change of scenery is always nice.

He settles himself down on the wooden chair and shrugs off his jacket, and as he does, Douchey Art-Boy happens to look up and catch his eye. He grins and nods at Frank, and for one horrible second, Frank thinks he’s going to try and talk to him, but instead he goes back to drawing.

Huh.

Frank gives his head a small shake and looks down at his battered book. His notes from this morning are scribbled over the blank page.

Korse. Better Living. Ray. Zone Rat? Fun Ghoul?? 2160. PP Files? ... I read too much scifi.

He looks at his handwriting and takes a mouthful of coffee thoughtfully. It’s a shame he didn’t get to see what the PP Files were supposed to be about, they sounded interesting. Ditto for Fun Ghoul.

“Wait, Fun Ghoul?”

He murmurs it quietly to himself, and then he realises. He snorts and grabs his pencil, crossing out the question marks after Fun Ghoul.

Fun Ghoul – Italian phonetics - sounds like FUCK YOU.

Of course. Everything else was a play on words, this one just happened to be in Italian! He chuckles under his breath, suddenly thankful for his Italian heritage and being forced to learn the language to speak to his relatives. How awesome though; a bad guy with a subtly insulting name!

That said, he still has no idea what a Zone Rat is supposed to be.

He sips at his coffee and idly draws a smiley face underneath Fun Ghoul’s name. He crosses out one of the eyes and gives a jagged zig-zag for a mouth.

Motherfucking Fun Ghoul, indeed.


~*~*~


The alarm goes off and Frank shoots bolt upright like he’s been electrocuted. It felt like he’d only just closed his eyes... Scratching his head, he goes to pull the covers off his body and then realises he’s on the sofa.

“Huh?” he says with all the morning eloquence. He doesn’t remember falling asleep there last night... He shrugs it off and heads to the kitchen. He feels unusually awake and alert as he sets up the coffee machine, scooping out his usual four scoops from their red tin –

Wait. White tin?

Frank stares at the tin in his hands. It’s definitely white now and it was definitely red when he made coffee yesterday. He turns it over, looking at the label; there’s a black smiley face that stands out vividly against the white paper with the word “COFFEE” stamped underneath. He’s never even seen this brand before in his life, let alone bought it.

He opens his cupboard and his eyes widen. Every food item he had inside there has been replaced with rows of white tins with the same black smiley face and simplistic descriptions of the contents.

Frank slams the cupboard door shut and runs back into the living room, properly looking at it this time. All his pictures and posters are gone from the white walls. His overstocked bookcase and laptop are missing and his furniture’s been replaced with a grey sofa and small white table.

Frank grips at the doorframe, the entire world seeming to tilt underneath him. It’s... this is impossible.

And yet, here he is. His flat, exactly the same as it was in his dream last night.

Which means he’s dreaming now.

He pinches his arm.

“OUCH!”

How the hell do you not realise you’re dreaming?!

“Come Iero, wake up,” he mutters, taking deep breaths. “What the fuck? What the actual fuck??”

He staggers over to his sofa and sinks down on it heavily. It’s uncomfortably hard and... very real.

Fuck.

“OK, OK, let’s think this one through,” he says to himself, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers against his temples. “I am dreaming. I know this because this is not my flat. Therefore, I just need to proceed as I am supposed to in a dream.”

He opens his eyes and looks at the white table in front of him. The grey leather gloves from the last dream are there and next to them are some light grey files that he didn’t notice before.

“These will tell me what I’m supposed to do,” he says decisively, reaching for near nearest one that has PP FILE #1 stamped on the cover.

Wait, these are the PP Files?? Frank stares at the writing, trying to will it to say something – anything- else. They’re not supposed to be here. Dreams aren’t supposed to have continuity, not in the same way that real life and TV shows do anyway! Sure, there are reoccurring themes and all but he’s never heard of anyone having a dream, waking up, falling back asleep and the dream picking up exactly where it left off!

All the excitement that Frank felt last night is most definitely not happening tonight. If anything, it’s getting a bit freaky. Frank hasn’t got much to go on from previous but he’s certain dreams are not meant to go like this.

A thought suddenly occurs; if this dream is a continuation of last night, does that mean that the driver Korse ordered is still coming?

As if on cue, his doorbell goes off.

Panicked, he looks down at his clothes but he’s already dressed... because didn’t he fall asleep in his clothes in last night’s dream?

Trying not to think about this, he grabs the remaining PP Files off the table and is halfway to the door when he remembers his gloves. He runs back and pulls them on, hoping that he won’t have to deal with Korse again. This dream-stuff is freaky enough without him.

The same black car that dropped him off yesterday is waiting on road outside his apartment building. There are many people, all dressed in the same kind of dull grey suits, walking on the pavement in the same direction but they’re giving a wide berth to the car... and Frank himself too. No one meets his eyes yet they all seem to be aware enough of Frank to go out their way to avoid him.

One woman happens to glance up at the wrong moment and Frank offers a smile. Her lips twitch but then she looks the black X still prominently displayed on Frank’s arm and immediately stares back down at the pavement. Frank’s stomach clenches and his fingers automatically tighten on the PP Files he’s holding facedown to his chest. No one else around him has this kind of marking on their arm.

And - wait a second, something isn’t right.

This crowd of people walking are all clearly going to work... but no one’s talking. There’s general background noise like cars in the distance and footsteps against the pavements but the people walk in silence. Everyone stares straight ahead with blank expressions like they’re completely mindless. Back in reality, even though Frank drives himself in to work, he’s seen the morning commute on public transport and it’s nothing like this.

The car journey to work is the same as the one yesterday. The driver says nothing and makes no attempt to. Frank tries to catch a glimpse of the guy’s face but he’s wearing some kind of tight-fitting white hood and never turns around once. When Frank gets out in the car park at Better Living Industries, the car drives off the moment Frank closes the door.

“Have a good day to you too, buddy,” he mutters.

He takes a moment to properly look at the main building as he walks in. It looks exactly like every other office building except for –

Frank stops dead. The same smiley face that was stamped over all the tins in his apartment is projected on the front of the building. Even in the dull morning light, it glows slightly. If it was supposed to be the company’s attempt at a friendly reassuring mascot, then whoever designed it failed horribly. There’s something about the expression that isn’t quite right. The smile is too perfect and it feels like the eyes are staring directly at Frank... right into him... like they’re watching him.

No one entering the building is looking up at the face. Perhaps the face is why they all walk staring at the ground. With a shrug, he follows the crowds inside, determinedly not looking back up at the logo.


~*~*~


He finds the room he was in with minimal difficulty. The door code is still 2160 (he tries punching in a random sequence of numbers in the hope that the door will open but reality sticks firmly and the door refuses to open until he puts in the correct code) and there’s already a fresh pile of folders stacked neatly on the desk, waiting for him. Frank sits down and logs into the computer system automatically, exactly the same as he would in his normal life and continues as he did last night, logging the paperwork into the computer.

As the hours tick by, Frank starts to settle into the routine. Sure, the computer’s a bit more futuristically high-tech and less prone to crashing than what he’s used to but the task is fundamentally the same as what he does every day at work... which is really fucking lame when he thinks about it. What was it that dream website had said? “If you find yourself dreaming about your work office, it indicates you cannot seem to leave your work at the office.”

He’s half tempted to stand up and quit or refuse to do this stupid task but doing that runs the risk of bringing Korse into things, and... well. Frank’s not going to lie; Korse is clearly from the part of his subconscious where his deepest fears of authority figures are hiding.

The pile of work is getting smaller and by the time lunch rolls around, he’s finished the last one. As he pushes the folder through the shredder, he feels a small sense of smug accomplishment - dream or not, it’s still nice to get things done. Frank looks at his watch and his stomach lets out a loud grumble.

Surely the creepy, omniscient corporation can’t take offense to its employers being hungry?

He shrugs. One way to find out.

He remembers to grab the PP Files before he leaves the room. He still hasn’t had a chance to read them but something also tells him not to leave these files lying around.

Even without Ray Toro’s assistance, the canteen is relatively easy to locate. The grey-clad office workers in the corridors all seem to be heading in the same direction so Frank goes with the flow, hoping for the best. It pays off and soon enough, Frank finds himself in a queue for a white vending machine with that all-too-familiar smiling face stamped on the front. He hasn’t got any money on him, but he watches the person in front of him carefully as they order; they swipe their ID card in a slot and then select what they want. When it’s his turn, Frank copies them carefully. On the small display screen on the front of the machine, his name flashes up with a number next to it.

“FRANK IERO – 30 CREDITS”

He looks at the options available to order but he can’t make any sense of it. Instead of labels for snacks, there are four simple pictures and numbers. There’s a triangle that’s presumably meant to be a sandwich (but with no clue to its filling) and a 3, a bottle and a 20, a cup and a 2, and what looks like a pill with a 0.

Frank presses the button with the cup, hoping it’s coffee. The vending machine whirrs and produces a white cup with the usual smiling face stamped on it, filled to the brim with steaming black liquid. As he picks it up, the display screen’s message changes.

“FRANK IERO – 28 CREDITS REMAINING. HAVE A BETTER DAY.”

Clutching his drink in one hand and the PP Files under the other, he makes his way across the canteen to one of the empty tables. There’s a low hum of general conversation in the air which is a relief after the deathly silence of the morning commute. He sits down, takes a sip of his drink and winces; it’s coffee, alright, but it’s disgustingly weak.

Grimacing, he swallows and opens the first page of the PP Files.

The first page is a character profile sheet. There’s a photo clipped to the top right-hand corner of a man’s face; a red X is stamped over it and covering his eyes is a black bar that proclaims the statement “EXTERMINATE.”

Frank swallows another mouthful of coffee. Exterminate? That can’t be good. He reads on.


Name: --CLASSIFIED--
Alias: PARTY POISON
Gender: M
Age: --CLASSIFIED—
D/O/B: --CLASSIFIED—
Height: aprox. 5ft9
Weight: aprox. 150lbs
Ethnicity: WHITE/CAUCASIAN
Hair: RED – DYED (Original colour - dark brown)
Eyes: HAZEL
Distinguishing marks/scars etc: NONE KNOWN AT PRESENT. ALWAYS SEEN WEARING THE SAME DISTINCTIVE BLUE LEATHER JACKET AND YELLOW MASK (further detailed description and picture on Pg 3).
Location: BELIEVED TO BE RESIDING IN ZONE 6. HOWEVER, HAS BEEN SIGHTED THROUGHOUT ALL OF THE ZONES AND IN BATTERY CITY SEVERAL TIMES.
Family: --CLASSFIED—
Known Associates: DR DEATH DEFYING. KOBRA KID. DJ HOT CHIMP.
Suspected Associates: SHOW PONY. FUN GHOUL. AGENT CHERRI COLA. NEWS A GOGO. ALSO SUSPECTED TO HAVE SEVERAL AS-OF-YET-UNIDENTIFIED CONTACTS WITHIN THE CITY.


Frank blinks with a jolt of recognition. There it is, that name again. Fun Ghoul.


Extra comments: LEADER OF THE TERRORIST MOVEMENT KNOWN AS “THE KILLJOYS.” HIGHLY DANGEROUS INDIVIDUAL. ARMED. HAS LED SEVERAL ATTACKS ON BATTERY CITY, INCLUDING THE RECIENT RISE IN GRAFITI.
CURRENTLY BEEN SEEN DRIVING A 1979 TRANS-AM PAINTED WITH FORBIDDEN COLORS AND DESIGNS, SUCH AS A BLACK WIDOW SPIDER ON THE BONNET, AND PROPAGANDA SLOGANS SUCH AS “LOOK ALIVE SUNSHINE.” THIS CAR HAS BEEN IDENTIFIED AS ONE STOLEN FROM BETTER LIVING INDUSTRIES.
CANNOT BE FIXED. EXTERMINATE ON SIGHT. BODY IS TO BE RETURNED TO BETTER LIVING INDUSTRIES IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARDS FOR INCINERATION. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES IS BODY TO BE LEFT IN THE ZONES.
ANY OTHER INFORMATION ON THIS INDIVIDUAL IS CLASSIFIED AND ONLY TO BE RELEASED TO ASSIGNED, FULLY-CLEARED EXTERMINATORS.


A chill runs through Frank that he’s pretty sure has nothing to do with the air conditioning. He looks back at the grey photo of Party Poison, trying to see any more details that aren’t obscured by the red X. Even though it’s meant to be a mug-shot, Party Poison’s head is tilted back defiantly. The black “EXTERMINATE” bar obscures his eyes, but the other details on his face are visible, such as his pointed nose and how the corners of his mouth are turned downwards. If Frank really stares, he can just about make out a red tinge to the straggly, dirty hair.

Frank skims back over the description and several words leap out at him.

Dangerous. Terrorist. Armed.

And yet... Frank re-reads the description again. What do they mean by “forbidden colours” and “propaganda slogans”? And what on earth are the Zones?

And why is so much about this man classified information?

Frank’s shifting through some of the papers, catching glimpses of cars and clothes when a shadow falls across the table. He looks up, alarmed – Korse?! - but then realises it’s Ray Toro, standing awkwardly a few feet in front of him.

“Ray!”

Frank can’t keep the delight and relief out his voice.

“Hey Frank,” Ray says, looking nervous. “Mind if I – uh. Can I sit here?”

“Sure, sure!!” Frank says, quickly closing the PP Files (Oh. PP. Party Poison. Right.) as Ray sits down. There’s an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds as Ray unwraps a sandwich.

“Is that from the vending machine?” Frank asks, pointing to the sandwich, trying to start up some kind of conversation.

“Can’t you tell?” Ray asks with a wry smile, holding up the white wrapper with the usual Better Living Industries logo Frank’s come to expect on it.

“How’s it taste?”

“Disgusting,” Ray says, taking a mouthful. “I’m not even sure what flavour it’s meant to be.”

“As long as it’s not Solent Green, I’m fine with it.”

Ray snorts, laughing but with no real humour.

“So,” he says after a few more mouthfuls, “What you reading up on?”

He seems a lot more confident and relaxed today, though that could just be to do with the lack of Korse’s presence.

“Just catching up on some light reading,” Frank says, shrugging.

“Anything interesting?” Ray asks casually.

Too casually.

Frank suddenly realises; the PP Files are clearly classified on several levels. He’s got access to them because he’s on a similar level to Korse but Ray’s nowhere near that. And yesterday... didn’t he catch Ray in an area he wasn’t supposed to be in??

Frank’s curious. What’s Ray up to? He didn’t notice it yesterday but now, he’s alert and aware. Can he even trust his old school friend?

“Not really,” Frank says, making sure the names on the folders are hidden by his arm. “None of it makes any sense.”

At least he’s not lying.

“Really? What doesn’t make sense?” And there, it’s now clearly genuine curiosity as opposed to a hidden agenda. Frank resists the urge to roll his eyes or say something; Ray was a terrible actor in school and he’s apparently not improved.

“Well... code names and terminology mostly,” Frank admits. “I’m not sure who came up with half those names but I want whatever they were on!”

“Or whatever they weren’t on,” Ray mutters, so quietly that Frank’s not even sure he’s heard him properly.

Another awkward silence falls. Frank takes mouthfuls of his coffee and Ray picks at his sandwich. Finally, Frank can’t stand it anymore.

“OK, well my lunch is up,” Frank says, giving Ray a friendly grin as he stands up quickly, remembering to grab the PP Files. “Was great to see you again –”

“Be careful, Iero.”

Ray speaks so quietly that again, Frank’s not sure what he’s hearing.

“What?”

Ray’s eyes dart around the canteen quickly, making sure no one’s listening to them.

“You heard me,” he says, focusing intently on his sandwich. “Be careful. Whatever you’re doing... Look at the people around you. Don’t make it obvious.” Ray looks up, meeting Frank’s eyes and clears his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says in a louder tone.

Cryptic warnings have never been Frank’s specialty. He hates it when he’s reading a book and the hero immediately understands the mysterious bullshit that Frank’s still trying to get his head around. Therefore it’s something of a surprise to realise he actually gets what Ray’s trying to tell him.

Look at the people around you. Don’t make it obvious.

He’s being too cheerful. Everyone else he’s seen around this entire dream universe looks like they’re three shades off the apocalypse and only vaguely care.

He walks back to his familiar working room on auto-pilot. Like this morning, people seem to be getting out his way as he passes them, trying to avoid eye contact.

Frank frowns. It might be a good idea to look into what his role in this company actually is.

Much to his dismay, there’s a new pile of folders waiting for him on his desk. Someone’s been in while he was gone and emptied the bin and thoughtfully put a glass of water out for him too. The back of Frank’s neck prickles. Perhaps it’s paranoia but there’s that constant feeling in the atmosphere that he’s being watched and monitored. It’s like at his work in reality where the computers are monitored in the office. If anyone looks at any websites with “inappropriate content,” their computer is flagged up with their department boss and they get a warning (or fired, depending on how frequently they do it). Of course, it’s never specified just what counts as “inappropriate content” – porn is generally accepted as a no-no but no one can agree if social networking counts as well, or eBay, or any page that might contain a swearword. The result is that new people at the office spend their first few weeks living in fear and getting on with their work and only their work, until after a while they reach the same general state of disaffected apathy as the rest of the office and keep a facebook tab open in the background while they work.

However, in this company, Frank suspects that no one ever reaches the “disaffected apathy” stage.

He sinks down in his chair with a heavy sigh, hearing the door close, sealing him in the room. He looks up around in the corners of room for the first time and is not surprised at all to see a security camera affixed in one corner with a perfect view of his computer screen and the room.

Well, at least that explains how they knew he needed more work to do.

“Hello Frank,” the computer says in a pleasant female voice when he moves the mouse to wake it up. “I hope you enjoyed your lunch. Have you taken your medication today?”

“... and that’s just creepy,” he mutters.

His afternoon passes slowly. The PP Files remain on his desk to his side, unread as he continues to log the paperwork. He loses himself in his work, the familiar monotony of a mindless task, focusing on the numbers and words he’s logging. He doesn’t really understand what he’s logging but he doesn’t really care either. It’s exactly the same in reality; you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in the office who really knew or understood the finer details of what they were doing.

By the time he’s finished the last piece of logging, Frank’s feeling as brain-dead as if he’d had a normal day at work. He groans and looks at his computer screen and blinks in surprise; the usual Better Living Industries logo is displayed with a message underneath that says “Thank you for your work today, Frank.”

Frank doesn’t care if it’s meant to be inspirational or terrifying. Either way, he’s grabbing the PP Files and is out the room within a minute.

The car is waiting for him outside. Frank gets in and he doesn’t question why he hasn’t seen any of the other workers driving to or from this building. As usual, his driver isn’t very chatty. Frank rolls his eyes and looks out the window at the street. There’s nothing particularly notable about any of the buildings that line the roads, they’re all identically non-descript and grey.

Frank unconsciously runs a finger under the edge of one of his leather gloves as he looks out the window, his breath fogging up the glass. He hates how they feel against his skin, uncomfortable and suffocating.

Then, something unusual happens. As the car slows down for a red light, there’s a flash of colour on the sidewalk. It’s so unexpected that Frank’s not sure what he’s seeing at first. He blinks and gives his head a shake.

It’s only some graffiti, he realises. In bright red paint that jumps out from its dull surroundings, someone’s sprayed onto the side of a building a red pill with an X underneath it. It’s a wonky, simplistic design but something about it holds Frank’s attention and he’s still thinking about it long after the car’s driven off and he can no longer see it. Something... there’s something about it. Frank can’t quite figure out what it is but it feels like he’s seen the design somewhere before.

When he gets back to his apartment, Frank decides the best thing to do might be to make dinner. It’s such a mundane task, particularly in a dream, but he’s at a complete loss of what else to do. He’s already tried wandering around his apartment a few times, trying to force himself to wake up but to no avail. He slapped his face a few times, hoping the shock would jolt him out of it, but all that did was cause unnecessary pain. He tried lying in his bed, closing his eyes and then forcing them wide open. He tried to catch out the dream by pretending to walk to his kitchen but then abruptly changing directions... but that just resulted in him slamming straight into a very solid, very hard and very real wall.

“I am so fucking bored,” he says, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet of his apartment. Where’s his CD player? Where’s his guitar? His laptop? His TV? Where are all his cigarettes?! He’s not craving one but he just wants something to do.

He flings open the kitchen cupboards and looks at the rows of white tins, wondering what to make. For whatever reason, the only thing in his fridge is two bottles of water (with, as expected, the Better Living Industries logo stamped across the labels) and there isn’t even a proper stove or oven in this kitchen, just a microwave. The food on offer is just as inspiring; it’s all canned vegetables and processed meat. Frank’s nose wrinkles in disgust as he looks at the tin; what on earth possessed him to buy meat, processed or otherwise?! He shoves the tin of meat to the back of the cupboard and spots another tin which apparently contains “power pup (c) – pre-moistened kibble.”

Frank doesn’t have a dog and there’s no sign of a pet in this flat. Weird.

Discouraged, he settles for opening a tin of carrots and sitting down on his sofa with the remaining PP Files. There are six of them, creatively labelled numerically. Chewing on a carrot that’s completely tasteless, he opens the file nearest him. He doesn’t care if it’s labelled as Number 6, he figures it’ll probably make about as much sense as Number 1.

It’s another report. The familiar Better Living Industries logo is at the top of the page and it seems to be detailing “Incident #X18112019FG, reported as it happened to by –“

The tin of carrots falls the ground.


~*~*~


Report.
INCIDENT #X18112019FG
LOCATION: Zone 5
TARGET: Individual known only as alias Fun Ghoul.
EXTERMINATOR: Frank Iero
ASSISTANCE: 3 Draculoids #37432, #73827, #01828

EXECT. SUMMARY: After studying the movements and previous attacks by Fun Ghoul, a pattern began to emerge. Following this pattern, it became likely that the terrorist’s next target was to be a Better Living Industries (hereafter referred to as BLI) warehouse of seized illegal’s in Zone 5. A BLI Cleanup Crew consisting of a Grade 5 Exterminator, Frank Iero, and three Draculoids for backup was sent out with the intent to either capture or exterminate.

RESULTS: When the BLI Cleanup Crew arrived at the warehouse, it transpired that Fun Ghoul had apparently been deliberately creating the pattern as a trap. Upon arrival, Iero and Draculoid #01828 circled the perimeter of the building while Draculoids #37432 and #73827 were sent inside. However, this set off a tripwire that had been laid out and linked to several explosive devices that completely obliterated the warehouse. As the explosion went off, Iero and #01828 were attacked outside by Fun Ghoul and one other as-of-yet-unidentified Killjoy. Iero managed to wound (possibly fatally) Fun Ghoul with a shot to the chest but was knocked unconscious by a blow to the head from Fun Ghoul’s accomplice. When he regained consciousness, he found #01828 was dead from several gunshot wounds to the head, and their bikes had been intentionally destroyed by having gasoline poured over them and lit (Fun Ghoul’s trademark) with Fun Ghoul and his unknown accomplice gone, thus making pursuing impossible. Iero radioed Battery City for support and medical help, and was collected by a BLI Assistance Team shortly.

COLLATERAL DAMAGE: 3 Draculoids and 4 Better Living Industry standard motorbikes.

CORONER NOTES: Draculoids #37432 and #73827 were both entirely eradicated by the explosion in the warehouse. Only fragments were found, nothing to make up a complete whole body.
Draculoid #01828 was killed by several raygun blasts to the head, including several that appear to be have been done at close range, suggesting that whoever shot him continued to do so after he had been initially immobilised. The eyes and brain were completely destroyed along with basic motor functions, thus rendering #01828 useless for any further use, including the most menial tasks.

FURTHER NOTES: It is entirely possible that Fun Ghoul was fatally injured, having been shot in the left side of the chest. Before being knocked unconscious, Iero saw Fun Ghoul collapse to the ground. Although there is not solid evidence, it is incredibly likely that #01828 was exterminated by Fun Ghoul’s unidentified accomplice. (A description of the accomplice is on page 2.)


Reported as it happen to by Frank Iero, S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W/ Exterminator, Grade 5, with coroner notes from Better Living Industry Morgue.


~*~*~


Frank feels a chill deep within him. So that’s Fun Ghoul? A terrorist?! A terrorist that he, Frank Iero, went up against and apparently shot?!

The air feels too thin and his head is spinning. There’s a very high chance he’s killed someone.

He flicks through the remaining paperwork in the folder, desperate for more information but all he’s treated to are photos of the charred remains of what was presumably the warehouse and a body lying on a slab -

Frank feels sick.

He reads over the page again, new details screaming out from the page at him. He’s an Exterminator. He doesn’t know exactly what that means or what S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W/ stands for, but he’s got the gist. He “exterminates.”

His hand immediately flies up to the black X on his sleeve. No wonder people are scared to look at him, why Ray acts so hedgy around him... he’s a fucking hitman, but it’s ok because he’s apparently endorsed by the company to do so!!

What kind of nightmare world is this?!!

He stands up and paces the tiny floor space in his apartment, taking deep breaths and trying to Not Freak The Fuck Out. He can’t be a hitman... he can’t be capable of killing people in cold blood... he’s a fucking vegetarian, for crying out loud!! He won’t allow animals to be killed for food, how is he supposed to kill people for shits and giggles?!

Suddenly, he stops, mid-step.

“Oh. Dream. Right.”

As he says the words, he’s hit with an amazing wave of sudden calmness. Of course. Freakishly real dream does not make for genuinely freakish reality. He sinks back down onto the sofa, relief rushing through him. He’s not a killer. He’s dreaming. He’s –

He’s giggling.

“Oh good lord,” he says before dissolving into maniacal laughter.

It takes a while before he can stop laughing like a mad man. He takes more deep breaths to get a grip on himself. Seriously, this dream stuff is fucked up. He makes a mental note to look up what the fuck this all means when he’s back in his own plane of reality.

Frank picks up the PP Files again and heads to his bedroom, stretching out on his bed to give it another read-over, this time where he’s not hyperventilating.

Korse wasn’t lying when he said the report was “riveting,” Frank thinks. The whole thing actually sounds quite exciting, if you look at it from that angle; he’s one of the heroes and he goes out to capture the bad guy but it ends in a dramatic shootout! There was even an explosion, he thinks, mournful that he didn’t get to come in on that part of this dream timeline.

He tries to picture what Fun Ghoul looks like. Unlike Party Poison, there’s no picture in any of the folders. The best he’s can find is a profile sheet with a fairly detailed section on what Fun Ghoul wears but the majority of the fields are answered with “UNKNOWN.” Apparently, Fun Ghoul is suspected to be an associate of Party Poison... but no one really knows. The only things really known for definite about this guy is that he seems to have a penchant for explosives and he wears a purple Frankenstein mask.

Frank grins. He likes the sound of this guy, he sounds like the cool kind of villain, like the Joker or Dr Doom.

He looks back over the report for the umpteenth time, trying to pick out more details. Now that he can distance himself personally from it, it reads more like an awesome plotline... although he still can’t ignore the fact that he’s supposed to have written it. He touches the back of his head, expecting to feel a bruise or some kind of tenderness from where he was knocked out but all he can feel is his own hair... which is in dire need of a wash, he realises.

He leans back on his bed, the file resting on his chest and glances out the window to the side; it’s completely dark outside. He can’t help but feel a bit irritated with the version of him that wrote this report. Anyone with half a brain would have realised the “pattern” was a trap. If this Fun Ghoul guy was as bad-ass as he sounded, then he wouldn’t have done things by accident, not unless he wanted to be seen... Perhaps Frank had already suspected that though? That explained why he’d sent the Draculoids into the warehouse first.

And speaking of, what on earth were Draculoids anyway?! Some kind of high-tech robot, Frank assumes, going on the casual tone in the report about their destruction...

Frank snorts, chokes – and his eyes fly open.

He’s in his bed, warm sunlight streaming through the window. His hands are resting on his chest but the PP Files were under them a second ago, when he just closed his eyes for a second, just to get some rest – and now they’re not.

He jumps out of bed, making a dash to the kitchen – the tins!! The best way to see if he’s dreaming or not is by the contents in his kitchen cupboard! – and nearly kills himself tripping over his guitar, which is propped carelessly against the foot of the bed. He stumbles into the living room, barely upright and crashes into the bookcase, making the shelves rattle and he’s almost in the kitchen before he realises and stops blasting through his apartment – his glorious, real apartment – like a hurricane from Hell.


~*~*~


“Dude, are you OK? You’ve barely said two words today.”

Frank snaps out of his funk long enough to realise that Bob is talking to him. They’re on their third cigarette break of the morning, mainly because Frank can’t stand to be sitting at his computer for more than 40 minutes having fucking dreamt about doing the same menial task all night and then having to do it in reality for two days now.

Bob stares at Frank, taking a long hard drag on his cigarette. From experience, Frank knows this means Bob is concerned.

“I’m fine,” Frank says, shrugging. “Just a bit... I slept weirdly.”

For a second, he considers telling Bob about his dreams but then decides against it. He’s not too sure how to describe it, not without sounding like a total lunatic. But maybe he can ask a few “safe” questions?

“Do you... do you dream in colour?” Frank asks, trying to sound casual.

“And the relevance of this is...?”

Frank grins sheepishly. “Nothing at all, I’ve just been thinking lately, you know about dreams and what they signify and if they could be prophetic or -”

“You’ll go mad if you focus on that kind of stuff too much,” Bob interrupts.

“I think I’ve already gone mad from this place,” Frank says, leaning against the wall and looking up at Bob. Frank’s always had the urge to leap on Bob in a surprise-piggyback-attack but he’s never quite had the courage to do so; while he figures that Bob would probably just bear it in his usual unshakable manner, if the act was spotted by some boring jerkoff who reported it, Frank would probably find himself being hauled in for a disciplinary with his boss about “appropriate office behaviour.”

“Touché,” Bob says. “So, dreams, huh? What you dreaming about?”

Frank takes another much-needed pull on his cigarette, feeling the nicotine soothe his nerves.

“There’s this scary bald guy, and this bad guy I’m supposed to have killed... and everyone’s got really stupid names and it’s all in grey scale. It doesn’t really make sense,” he says.

Bob nods. “Sounds about right.”

Frank’s not quite sure that’s true but he doesn’t voice this. Instead, he takes one last drag before crushing his cigarette under his heel, suggesting they should go back inside as they’re really only supposed to have two breaks a day anyway.


~*~*~


Franks stops in Starbucks on his way to the car park again. If this is becoming a habit, it’s one he’s OK with developing – it’s not like he’s got anything particularly exciting waiting for him at home. The girl behind the counter recognises him and greets him with a smile and a “the usual?” as he walks in, which makes up Frank’s mind; if he’s found a place where they already know his coffee order before he’s said it, then he’s found a keeper. He’s not even surprised to see Douchey Art-Boy sitting at the same table, completely engrossed in his sketchbook as usual with his greasy black hair falling over his face.

He sits down at a table, ignoring his surroundings and pulls his trashy Sci-Fi book out his bag. He really wants to read some more of it - he’s been ignoring it lately and the plot was just starting to pick up - but then his attention falls on his own scribbles on the front page and before he can help himself, he’s grabbed a pen out his bag and is writing down more details in the tiniest handwriting he can manage.

He’s so absorbed by this task, trying to remember every single word of the PP File reports, that he loses track of time and his surroundings. The bustle of the coffee shop around him fade into nothingness, just meaningless background noise...

He notices, though, when a blank piece of paper slides across his table towards him.

He looks up, blinking against the light, to see Douchey Art-Boy standing in front of him with an amused smile on his face. He’s got his sketchbook tucked under one arm and a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.

“You know, some people would call that a hangable offence,” he says.

Frank blinks, staring at him, completely lost. Douchey Art-Boy nods towards Frank’s book and suddenly he gets it.

“Thought you might like something a bit bigger to write on,” Douchey Art-Boy continues, pushing the piece of paper further towards Frank; Frank can now see the torn edges where it’s clearly been torn out of a sketchbook.

“Oh. Thanks,” Frank manages to say. He’s a little bit disorientated from having gone so deeply into his thoughts only to abruptly come out of them and find himself staring into the most disarming set of hazel eyes Frank’s seen for a while. “Sorry, I’m a bit –”

“No no, it’s cool, I totally get it – you go deep when you’re working. Like, when I’m painting or drawing, I get so lost in what I’m doing that I forget everything around me and then suddenly, I’ll realise ‘Oh god, I’m starving!’ or ‘Fuck, my bladder’s about to explode!’ So, you’re a writer?”

He says all this very quickly, that amused smile never leaving his face. Frank needs a second to try and catch up, and then is able to respond with the amazingly eloquent “Sorry, what?”

Douchey Art-Boy’s smile grows even wider.

“Are you a writer?” he repeats, gesturing to Frank’s graffitied book. “You seemed pretty focused on whatever you were writing. Don’t you hate that when that happens though, you’re out and suddenly you get the BEST idea in the world and then you realise you’ve got nothing to draw – or in your case, write – it down on, so you just end up scribbling down on the nearest thing you can lay your hands on? I end up sharpie-ing up my arm most the time and then forget it’s there, fall asleep and wake up with it printed all over my face! So, what you writing?”

“I’m not a writer,” Frank blurts out. He suddenly wishes he was and he’s not sure why. “I just... I had something I needed to remember.”

Douchey-Art-Boy nods understandingly. “Must’ve been important.”

“It’s... kinda. Not really. It’s... more an idea.”

“Ahh, I see,” Douchey Art-Boy says knowingly. He pauses as if he’s waiting for Frank to say more but when Frank doesn’t, he awkwardly jerks his head back to his table. “OK, well, I’m just gonna –”

“It’s an idea. For a novel,” Frank blurts out. It’s a bit of a risk, talking to a complete stranger, but he wants to. He wants to talk to somebody about this weird-ass dream life he’s been living for the past few days, he wants to speak it all out loud, and he also gets the feeling that if anyone is going to even vaguely understand what he’s on about, it’s this guy.

Douchey Art-Boy’s eyes widen with excitement and he sits down immediately at Frank’s table, setting down his sketchbook and coffee in front of him. Generally, Frank would be irritated by the invasion of his own personal space, of how this person just assumes he can sit down and join him, but this guy seems to be the kind of person who is completely oblivious to accepted social norms.

“What for?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested.

“Well, I’m not sure... I’m not sure on the finer details. I just... I have this... character. And he’s... he gets these weird dreams. Like, they’re weird in the way that they’re completely normal, like his day to day life. It feels almost as if he’s genuinely awake for these dreams, that’s how real they feel.”

Douchey Art-Boy nods, listening intently.

“And,” Frank continues, unable to stop now. “These dreams, they’re realistic in the way that they feel real but there’s also something off about them too, like he’s missing some vital piece of information... and... well, that’s where I’m stuck.”

Douchey Art-Boy nods again, biting on his lower lip as he thinks.

“Well, I suppose the question you should be asking at this point is if the character in control of the dream or not,” he says after a moment’s thought.

Frank frowns. “Explain.”

“OK, so put it this way – your character is in his dream and he’s walking along a road. Can he make someone come towards him, conjure their appearance out of nothing and will them into being, or does he have to wait for them to come to him of their own accord and with him having no idea when they’ll show up?”

“The latter,” Frank says immediately.

Douchey Art-Boy grins widely, revealing his bizarrely tiny teeth. Oddly, Frank finds this flaw endearing. “OK, OK, good, that makes things a lot more interesting.”

“How?”

“Because... if your character isn’t in control of his own dreams, then it suggests there’s something bigger going on. He might not be dreaming at all.”

There’s a pause.

Oh.

“But that’s – that’s impossible,” Frank says, more to himself.

“Not really! It’s science-fiction, anything’s possible!” Douchey Art-Boy’s grin is excited and his enthusiasm shows all over his face. “OK, even in the weirdest of science fiction... or even fiction in general... the one staple rule is that dreams are significant. Now the average person has the average dream which generally makes little-to-no sense, OK? But in comics, whenever a character is dreaming about something, it’s because it’s something that the writer needs the reader to figure out along with the character, so dreams work as a really good plot device but they can also be used as the plot because if a character’s subconscious is no longer controlling their dreams then it suggests that either something else is controlling their dream, like in The Matrix where they can manipulate themselves but not the world around them or there’s the even bigger idea that the world they think they’re dreaming about is actually reality. So if that’s what’s going down, then is that the world your character thinks is real isn’t and the dream is actually reality, which implies mind control or manipulation from a higher power, or is that both worlds are real and one is a parallel universe which your character is now stuck in?”

He says all this incredibly quickly, his face getting more and more expressive as he talks and waving his hands around for emphasis.

“A parallel universe?” Frank eventually asks.

“Exactly!! ... Hey, are you ok??”

Frank’s head is spinning. A parallel universe?! It’s not possible.

Although there is that saying stranger things have happened...

He suddenly remembers the giant MRI machine he saw in his first dream. And he’d been strapped down to a table there too. What if that was what brought him there?! What if he wasn’t dreaming?!

“Hey, hey man, you’ve gone really pale, are you OK?” Douchey Art-Boy asks, sounding panicked. “Here, drink this!!” He pushes his coffee cup towards Frank.

Frank looks up at him; whatever he’s thinking must clearly be displayed all over his face because Douchey Art-Boy’s eyes are wide and alarmed.

“Did I say something wrong? Are you ok?!” he asks again.

“I’ve... I’ve just had a revelation,” Frank says, getting to his feet. “I gotta go.”

And without another word, he grabs his bag and heads out the door. It’s not until he’s halfway home in his car that he realises he left his book on the table.


~*~*~


So, there are three logical answers, Frank reasons. He’s pacing his apartment again, a habit he likes to do when he’s thinking. He’s just had a shower and his hair is damp as he lets it dry naturally.

Number one. It is really all just a dream. OK, so it’s an incredibly intense dream but hey, even science has struggled to properly find a reason for why people dream. It’s possible that Frank’s brain is just wired a bit differently so his dreams actually follow some kind of logical progression and apparently play out in real-time.

He frowns and pulls his fingers through his hair, feeling where it’s already starting to curl at the tips.

Number two. It really is an alternate-parallel universe, or something equally weird lifted straight from a science fiction novel. This would explain the vivid reality and how the basic rules of reality, such as the laws of gravity and social norms, are being obeyed. However, this theory does not explain why Frank’s jumping between this world and his own every time he goes to sleep.

Frank looks down at his coffee table, where the PP Files are scattered. Party Poison’s partly-obscured face frowns off into the distance.

Number three. He’s gone crazy and is currently in the middle of having some kind of psychotic breakdown.

Worryingly, that one actually makes the most sense.

“Oh my God,” Frank groans and sinks down on the sofa, covering his face with his hands.

Waking up in the same dream for a third time pretty much cements the idea that there’s something else going on here, but he still doesn’t want to accept it. The idea that something interesting is happening to him, that he’s in such a weird situation... it’s completely unbelievable.

It’s too much like something out a comic book. These things don’t happen to people and if even if they did, they wouldn’t happen to people like Frank. He didn’t ask for it, he didn’t want it. He was content to get on with his everyday life, to keep getting up every day and going to the office. Perhaps one day, he’d do something about his job, like get a promotion or quit. Or maybe he’d get a new hobby to keep himself interested, or maybe he’d meet someone new. That was about as much excitement as he was hoping for in his life.

But being sucked into a parallel world? That just makes no sense. It’s too much a departure from reality. In fiction, these things happen to heroes, to people who are interesting, brave and clever. These kind of people – characters, Frank corrects himself – figure out exactly what’s going on immediately and don’t let someone like Korse intimidate the crap out of them.

Frank’s not a hero. He doesn’t have ‘main character’ qualities, not like someone like Bob. Bob would be a good hero in this kind of story. Bob’s huge and tough and works out. He doesn’t take shit and probably wouldn’t freak out the point of hyperventilating at every new discovery, like Frank is right now.

Bob is the kind of person this should happen to, not Frank. Frank’s the quiet nerdy guy in the office who was reads rubbish books and gets sick about six times a year.

No, Frank’s not a hero... so why is this happening to him??

He looks at his watch. It’s 6:19AM – the car to take him to work will be here soon. There’s no point in questioning things right now. He’s not going to get any answers sitting around his apartment. Best get dressed.

Frank’s not exactly sure what the dress code is at Better Living Industries but from looking inside his wardrobe in this world, he can guess, if the rows of grey and white shirts are anything to go by. That ominous black X is present on all his shirts but Frank takes some comfort in that all the shirts are high-collared so his neck tattoos will be hidden. Clearly, he had no intention of getting rid of them and it’s nice to know that the version of him who lives in this world felt as strongly about his tattoos are he does.

If, you know, this actually is a parallel world. Frank’s still trying to hold onto the hope that this is just a dream.

The car journey to Better Living Industries is uneventful and in silence, as usual. His attempts to create some kind of conversation with the driver go completely ignored. Frank’s not even sure if it’s the same driver every time or not because he’s still yet to see the guy’s face; all he’s ever seen is the back the skin-tight white hood from the uniform they’re wearing.

When the car pulls up outside the building, Frank joins in step with the rest of the workers going inside. Like he’s done for the past two days, he goes straight to his usual working room, keys in the code and takes his place at his desk, next to the fresh pile of files already waiting to be logged. He ignores the camera watching him and gets on with his work, and by the time he’s finished, it’s time for lunch.

Perhaps he should be worried at how easily he’s slotted into the routine here, he muses as he walks to the canteen. There’s something comforting in routine though and if Frank takes pride on anything, it’s his ability to fit in immediately anywhere he ends up. He gets another disgusting coffee from the vending machine - oddly, he doesn’t have much of an appetite here - and sits down at the same table he sat at yesterday. When Ray shows up, he sits opposite him without hesitation.

“Hey Frank,” he says with something that could even be a hint of genuine friendliness. “How’s the coffee?”

“Disgusting. How’s the sandwich?”

“Disgusting. Have a better day, eh?”

Frank snorts.

“I think Power Pup tastes better than the food here,” he says, watching Ray’s reaction carefully.

“Definitely,” Ray says, taking a bite out his vending machine sandwich and wincing. “You know the world’s ended when vegetarian dog food tastes better than people food!”

Huh. That wasn’t quite expected.

Wait... vegetarian dog food? Frank nearly chokes on a mouthful of coffee. Is that why he’s got it in his cupboard?!

He’s got so many questions, so much he wants to ask Ray, but he bites his tongue and focuses on general chitchat. He’s still not sure what exactly counts as “normal” conversations here but he has a feeling all the questions he wants to ask won’t come under that heading, and if it turns out this world is real, he’s going to have to be very careful. Frank’s not exactly sure what’s happened here or the finer points of the social order but he can tell it’s a place where asking the wrong questions and drawing attention to yourself is a bad idea.

Instead, they stick to “safe” topics. Frank discovers Ray works in the production and development line of robotics, testing out new chips for flaws. This is a bit of a surprise, mainly because he’s surprised to discover this company actually has a robotics section... Food, coffee, hitmen that take down terrorists and apparently robots - what does this company actually do?

Ray’s job just chalks up the probability that this isn’t a dream. Frank’s certain that in his own dream, he wouldn’t give everyone else much cooler jobs than him while he’s stuck doing data-friggin’-input.

Frank also discovers that Ray lives alone in a company-owned apartment, “like everyone who works here,” he says, giving Frank a funny look when he asks, which explains the somewhat muted colour scheme in Frank’s own apartment.

Frank and Ray are just finishing up their lunch when there’s the sound of a disruption from the far side of the canteen. Automatically, Frank looks over, not noticing Ray’s looking firmly down.

Three guys have just walked in. At least, Frank assumes they’re male but the masks they’re wearing make it difficult to tell. For some bizarre reason, they’re wearing white monster masks with vivid red mouths painted on and even from across the canteen, Frank can see rows of fangs displayed. Tufts of black hair stick out at all angles in weird hairstyles. They’re dressed in matching white suits, with loose, casual blazers and the collars turned up. Weirdly, despite the matching outfits, they’ve all styled themselves slightly differently; one has its sleeves rolled up, another has more hair on its mask and the other has painted its mouth a shocking pink. They’re talking loudly and cheerfully, drawing attention immediately to themselves... and yet, no one in the canteen has even reacted to their disruptive appearance.

“Don’t look at them!” Ray hisses, staring at the table.

“What?? Why?” Frank asks, tearing his gaze away. “Why are they dressed like that?!”

“Because they’ll come over!”

Frank risks another look. The three masked guys are now crowded around a single woman who was sitting alone. They’re clearly mocking her, talking directly to her and lightly shoving her, but she continues to sit calmly and chew on her sandwich.

“Why isn’t anyone stopping them?” Frank asks, completely confused.

“Draculoids,” Ray says, sounding disgusted. “Trigger-happy sleazebags, the only people ranked higher than them are Scarecr- oh.”

Ray stops talking abruptly and goes bright red. Frank’s completely confused and looks back at the three Draculoids (seriously, ‘Draculoids’?? Whoever’s coming up with these names is either a lunatic or genius) and feels a pang of horror in his stomach when the shortest one with the sleeves rolled up also happens to look up from tormenting the woman at the same time. Even though it’s wearing a mask, Frank feels their eyes lock, and sure enough, a second later, it elbows the other two in the sides. They all look at Frank.

Suddenly, Frank realises that the low mumble of conversation in the canteen has completely stopped.

“Shit,” he hisses.

“Iero!!” the tallest one with the hair says loudly as all three walk over to Frank and Ray’s table.

Frank’s suddenly reminded of how in high school when the bullies would spot their target and hone in, like wolves in a pack descending on their prey. As the short nerdy kid with the reputation of constantly being sick, Frank was often a target and while he’s pretty sure that these three Draculoids aren’t about to shove him inside a locker and steal his lunch money, all his instincts scream that this can’t be a good thing. He seized with the mad urge to tell Ray to run and save himself.

“Iero!” the tallest one says again cheerfully as they get close enough.

“Nice pet!” says the one with the pink mouth, gesturing to Ray. They all burst out laughing but Ray keeps his stare firmly fixed on the table, ignoring them.

“Yeah well, nice mask,” Frank replies, sounding a lot cooler than he feels.

That shuts them up. Frank’s not exactly sure why. He tries to keep up with the poker-face.

“So,” says the tallest one, who’s clearly the leader of the group. “Heard you had a nice little run in with Fun Ghoul a few days back.”

“You heard correctly.”

“Impressive.”

Even with his voice muffled by the rubber mask, there’s no mistaking the sarcasm.

“You know, there’s meant to be a party out in Zone 2 tonight. Zone Rats running everywhere. You in?” says the one with the pink mouth.

“Can’t. I’m washing my hair,” Frank says. Any kind of social gathering with douchebags like this is bound to suck.

Also, he has no idea what half those words even mean.

The tallest one snorts. “Your loss.”

“I’ll live.”

The Draculoids stare at him for a few seconds. He’s clearly said the wrong thing.

“Watch your back, Iero,” says the tallest one quietly, leaning in so only Frank can hear him. “Your little grade only keeps you safe in the building.”

And without another word, they turn around and leave the canteen. As they do, Frank suddenly notices a detail he missed earlier; on their left arms, they’ve all got the same black X in a box displayed.

The same black X that Frank has on his own arm.

He swallows. That can’t be good.

It takes a few minutes before normal chatter resumes in the canteen after they’ve gone. With a deep sigh of relief, Frank turns back to Ray.

“Phew, thought they’d never leave!” Frank says, trying to play it off lightly. “What?”

Ray is staring at Frank with a very odd expression on his face, like he’s trying to work something out.

“They... they threatened you,” Ray says slowly.

Frank shrugs. “They don’t scare me. I’d like to see them try to actually do anything.”

Ray’s eyes widen. Again, very clearly, Frank has said the wrong thing.

“Frank,” Ray says after a moment’s pause. “What’s wrong with you??”


~*~*~


By the time the end of the day rolls round, Frank can feel the motherload of all headaches coming on. Seriously, he can’t keep up with this world. The people are miserable and scared. There’s no colour. There are guys who run around in masks and no one thinks it’s weird at all... and everything has a fucking stupid name.

It’s almost a relief to be locked away in his work room; at least in there, he still knows what he’s doing and the computer seems to vaguely like him.

“Hello Frank, did you enjoy your lunch?” it asks in its usual pleasant voice when he sits back down. “Have you taken your medication today?”

“Sure thing, Hal,” he mutters and picks up a fresh file. He might not understand exactly what he’s doing but that’s the same back at home.

The day passes quickly. Soon enough, he’s down to his last file of the day. He recognises the basic template as a report, but as for the rest of it...

Code 3. Colours: Orange #4638 Description: WHAT WILL SAVE US? Eradicated. Suspect unknown.

Frank sighs and logs in the information in the correct fields before shredding the paperwork. He has no idea what a code 3 is or what the colours are supposed to stand for but maybe that’s the point. He’s only an office monkey. He’s not supposed to understand what he’s doing, he’s just supposed to do it.

It isn’t until he’s on his way home and the car pulls up at a traffic light that Frank remembers the graffiti he saw yesterday. He looks at the building but the strange symbol’s gone; the wall is completely blank... but if Frank really stares hard, he can see there’s a patch that’s a slightly fresher white than the rest, like it’s just been painted.


~*~*~


When Frank goes into Starbucks after yet another day of the exact same task in a different world, he automatically looks over to Douchey-Art-Boy’s usual table and is surprised to see it’s empty.

Frank’s not sure what emotion he’s feeling at this. He’s not even sure why he’s feeling any emotion over this.

It’s the same girl behind the counter and she smiles at Frank warmly as he approaches.

“Usual?” she asks.

Frank nods and clears his throat. “I - uh – I left my book here yesterday. I was wondering, has anyone handed it in?”

The girl shakes her head. “Haven’t seen one. Are you sure you left it here? I cleared up your table after you’d gone and I didn’t see a book.”

Damn. All his notes about his alternate dream-world were in there.

And he never even finished the actual book either.

He ponders for a minute about asking if she’s seen Douchey-Art-Boy today but then thinks better of it. After all, he’s got no reason to be interested in where the guy is. Frank is not even remotely bothered or disappointed that he’s not here today, and the only reason why Frank spends his entire time in Starbucks today thinking about the possible conversations they could have been having about parallel universes is because Douchey-Art-Boy seemed to know an awful lot about how they worked.

Of course.

And he most definitely does not kick himself for not getting Douchey-Art-Boy’s name when he had the chance.


~*~*~


Frank starts to find himself settling into a routine which goes as so:

He gets up. He goes to work. He completes his menial task. He eats lunch with Ray. He goes back to his logging. He goes home. He wanders around his apartment aimlessly. He goes to bed.

He gets up. He goes to work. He completes his menial task. He eats lunch with Bob. He goes back to his logging. He goes to Starbucks. He does not look around hopefully for Douchey-Art-Boy. He goes home. He wanders around his apartment aimlessly. He goes to bed.

He gets up. He goes to work...

He finishes up the week in this manner and by the time Friday afternoon rolls around, he’s about ready to collapse with sheer exhaustion as he pushes open the door to Starbucks. This is apparently becoming a habit but he needs a coffee to help perk him up after a day at work and so what if it’s cheeper and easier to make it at home, he likes Starbucks, OK?! He’s given up looking out for Douchey-Art-Boy anymore (and he keeps telling himself that he’s not disappointed by this) and he’s even bought a new book to replace the one he lost and even a new notebook to make more notes about Better Living Industries. He takes his usual seat by the window and takes a sip of coffee when he hears the door open. Automatically, he looks up –

“Oh!” he gasps.

Douchey-Art-Boy has just walked in.

His hair is even greasier than usual and he’s carrying a massive portfolio folder over his shoulder. The bags under his eyes are worse than Frank’s ever seen them and he’s got a few spots dotted on his chin. He looks tired but there’s triumphant smile on his face.

“Heya!” the girl behind the counter says brightly. “Long time no see!!”

He grins at her. “Deadlines. All done now though! Can I get a triple-shot latte?”

The girl sets to making it and when Douchey-Art-Boy starts to get out his wallet, she waves him off and tells him not to worry.

“On the house,” she says with a warm smile. “Welcome back.”

Frank wonders how long he’s going to have to keep coming in until he starts getting free coffee.

As Douchey-Art-Boy waits for his coffee to be made, he leans casually against the counter and Frank’s trying not to stare too much. He’s kinda cute, if you like the whole ‘unwashed stereotypical art-student’ thing. There are splashes of paint and ink all over his clothes and he’s got grey smudges around his face and in his hairline, where he’s clearly forgotten he’s been using charcoal and rubbed his eyes or ran his hands through his hair. His portfolio case is hanging off his shoulder and Frank wonders what kind of art’s inside; he imagines arty charcoal sketches of nudes and still-lifes with lots of abstract uses of lines and smudges that all have deep, significant meanings...

Douchey-Art-Boy abruptly looks up and catches Frank staring. Frank jumps like he’s been caught doing something wrong and immediately focuses intently at his new book, pretending not to be there.

“Hey, you forgot this on Wednesday.”

An ink-splattered hand is holding a familiar looking book in front of Frank. He follows the arm attached to the hand all the way up to Douchey-Art-Boy’s face and Frank’s relieved to see he’s smiling and not looking like he about to kosh him over the head with his portfolio case for being a weird-ass creeper.

“My book!” Frank says, unable to keep the delight out his voice. “Where did you -?”

“You left it here when you ran off,” Douchey-Art-Boy replies, sitting down opposite Frank again without asking, like Frank’s already offered. Like they’re friends. “Must have been one hell of an idea you had!”

Frank stares at him.

“For your novel?” Douchey-Art –Boy continues. “The one with the Fun Ghoul?”

“How did you know about Fun -”

“Sorry, I read your notes.” To his credit, he looks sheepish. “It sounds interesting though! How’s it going anyway?”

Frank blinks. “I – I – Where were you? Like, yesterday and the day before?”

Frank didn’t think it was possible but Douchey-Art-Boy’s grin gets wider.

“Heh, yeah, I had a deadline,” he says, pulling his hands through his hair. “I had to go into my publisher’s office, didn’t see daylight for three days!”

“You have a publisher? But you’re so –” Frank stops himself from saying ‘young.’ “That’s great! What kind of stuff do you do?”

“Comics, mostly. I mean, I’m just getting by as a freelancer mostly; it sucks but it pays the bills. Here, I'll show you!"

Douchey-Art-Boy unzips his portfolio case and pulls out a laminated folder that he hands to Frank. Frank's mouth drops as he opens it; it's a comic strip, boldly inked with the colours vibrantly clashing off each other. The people are drawn in a very distinctive cartoon style but there's something in the lines, in the way they're drawn that seems to bring them to life, to make them appear as if they're actually moving.

It's so quirky and so weird and so not what Frank was expecting.

"This is amazing," Frank says, unable to look away. "Seriously, you've got talent! What's this for?"

"That's just a random panel," Douchey-Art-Boy says with a grin, but he's blushing slightly. "Like I said, I work freelance mostly. I mean, I've got my own stuff I'm working on but until I actually make it as some world-famous artist, I've got to keep taking whatever kind of work I can get! Mostly, I work on extra inkings and random pages; like if there's a comic that needs another artist to fill in the backgrounds or draw in crowd scenes, or if the art’s already done but they need someone to ink it in, then in I step and hey presto!"

"Does that pay enough?" Frank asks, surprised. "That doesn't seem like very much work..."

"Generally, it doesn't but I do a lot of it. Most the time, I can get it done in a few days but I've been a bit lax lately and then suddenly I had all these deadlines and my publisher had to pretty much break down my door and drag me to her office to make sure I actually got on with it! So what about you, what do you do?"

"I work in an office. And... that's about it."

Douchey-Art-Boy nods understandingly. "I tried that once; when the whole artist-thing really wasn't working, I took up temping." He shudders. "Most soul-sucking thing I've ever done, and I've worked at Cartoon Network!" Frank laughs along, though he doesn't quite get the joke. "I swore I'd never do that again, it's just not worth it. I'd come home and just feel so UNINSPIRED, you know? Like, I'd get up, go to work, then go home and sleep, then get up and repeat it all again."

Frank blinks. "It pays well," he says, slightly stung.

"True, true. I guess that's what it boils down to though, isn't it?" He shrugs. "It's either happiness or money. Apparently you can't have both!"

"Yeah, I think I've chosen money. Does that make me an asshole?"

Douchey-Art-Boy laughs, a loud honking laugh. "Only slightly. But hey, you're talking to a guy who likes to sit in Starbucks and draw, so I think we're as bad as each other!"

They both laugh.

"I'm Gerard, by the way."

"Frank."

Frank reaches out shakes Douchey-Art-Boy – Gerard’s - hand; it’s slightly damp and warm, and his nose crinkles when he smiles.



Part Three