I sit at the computer looking at the challenge on the screen ….

It sits there in bright bold letters, a random pop-up screen that’s so tempting to click on.

“Have a character? Have a dream? Ever wanted to meet your character? Do battle with them for real. Just click here.”

I click.

And then the details come up. I scroll through quickly.

To do battle with a character, any character of mine. It would be a battle, not to the death, but for pride. I would be given my dream power - that would be fun. The challenge, though, would be what my dream power would be, and who I wanted to verse.

The possibilities:

Quinn Shadows. I’d first created him for the LP, what should have been my epic anti-romance romance, except I’d screwed up the plot creation and allowed too much scope creep. Scope creep… as you can (or can’t) tell I’m a chemical engineering student… or what one of my lecturers said – a student engineer.
But back to Quinn boy. White hair, purple eyes, I created him to be like me, only wilder more free. He was the subconscious of Joe and was ripped out by God so that Love and Death could get together; when that story failed I hauled him out of there and brought him to Psycho – my pre-book for my masterpiece. I assumed he’s succeeded and wrote him in as Love’s apprentice to help the character of Keida grow. Instant success.

The problem would be… could I beat someone who would think like me.

The next choice would be Satan Embers – ultimate bad boy with a soft heart… the man who came through two stories to land himself in one where he gets shot, blow up and chased repetitively.
Would he be happy to meet me? No. Would I be able to beat him? No. His persona is one where he trains to make everything about himself perfect, from his all black look, to his gun skills and his fire skills AND his ability to turn into a gargoyle. Would it be fun? Yep. And I always like a challenge. That’s why I chose a chemistry basis instead of a maths. That’s why I’m a part time writer when I got 39% in my overall English Lit mark.
Fighting him would be like Highway to Hell, it would be Elevation on drugs. But then there’s still more choice.

Keida…. Too whiny.
Corlin… now that I’ve added voices to uncontrolled.
Cara… Too hot. I mean she’s a stunner.
Viola, James, God…. I have way too many characters.

The Jack? No. Not Andrew-Jack from my matchmaking piece but my fuzzy bit of code… The Jack – a hyped up AI who is so much fun to write. I mean taking him into that RP was fun… and I really don’t know what he’s capable of yet.

But there would be a twist to this tale as there always is. And I don’t realise mine until I reach this point and I look down to find my feet dissolving into a small black portal that’s opened up beneath my feet. Oh well. Here we go.

-----------------------------------------------:: )) -------------------------------------------------------

I suppose, as I fly through this void of nothingness, that I should introduce myself. It’s only manners, and I live for those.
Hello my name is Steven, Stevo, Feral, Ferrett they are just some of what you could know me by, and that won’t be the end to that list. I live in Perth, and have my whole entire life. My entire knowledgeable life I’ve lived in the one house – a nice one in Joondalup, right near my primary school and everything. I have no job, no lifelong friends (a fairly loyal high school one but that’s still 50% short of my whole life.), a dead cat that ignored me when I was alive, a functional family, dysfunctional extended family, B class bookworm, B class maths nerd. Basically I’m everything the AVERAGE 19 year old is not. And yet that makes me happy.

Not that I’m not hypo 24/7, but being me is important to me. I once tried to be like someone else, to fit in with the crowd – didn’t work. I have to say that the crowd then opened their arms when I returned to normal. Sure, I know that there are things that make them snigger things behind my back – but that’s life.

Oooh look. A light. Let’s drop that way.

-------------------------------------------------Weeeeeeeeeeee!------------------------------------------------------------

So I land, and I’m looking around at this thoroughly depressing landscape. I mean its black sand intermingled with white sand to make a shade of grey so bland that it fits in with volcanoes, and apocalypses but you never want loaded into your washing machine with your whites. Not much to do but trek… at least I have with me my Rockit shoes. Hehe they survived being lost at Rockit and then being found at the top of the shoe pile plus two more years. They’re comfy and they are sturdy on this oddly spongy sand.

Now I’m going to skip past the walking and the talking to myself and the singing and the whistling AND the public rocking because lets face it, me plus MP3 player equals public rocking. Not that there’s much public here but….

By the time I reach the outskirts of No-wheres-ville the music machine is dead; my feet are full of sand. Ok so my shoes are full of sand but I was making a list. Shut up grammar check of the brain. As I was saying, machine dead, shoes sand, and I am parched. I didn’t manage to grab my bag before I was sucked through. Wow. That would mean the folks at home would think I’ve been kidnapped or ran away. Well once this is finished I have something else to attend to – making people realise I’m still alive.

But you – you person who somehow manages to read my brain, you want to know what No-wheres-ville looks like. Ok go towards a window… see that. That is NOT what I’m looking at. Picture a sheep – nope just joking. Picture a wreck – a car wreck. Now picture buildings made out of thousands of those. THAT’s what I’m looking at. Utterly depressing for someone who knows nothing about cars. I walk straight in, no doors on this car fortress, nod to the scantily clad guy, whistle at the reasonably hot peasant chick that walks past nude, and walk straight to the Tavern. Luckily it’s the first establishment within sight of the entrance.

-------------------------------------------------:: ))-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Whisky please.” I say. (I want to drink all the traditional drinks before I die, but that’s a sidenote.)
“5 silvers.” He says.
“5 silvers?” I say.
“5 silvers” (If you can’t tell I have the drink to my lips, no silvers and he’s glaring at me.)
“0 silvers and 15 minutes washing up.” I counter getting desperate.
“2 hours washing up and I’ll follow your whisky with water and 1 silver.” He counters. He has himself a deal.

I take a sip of my whisky, pale, cough, cough again and then take the water. The guy next to me takes the whisky and hands me a copper coin which is about the size of my puny fist. For reference, my fist is about the size of an A5 pad. I skull the water, pocket the cash and then head to the back of the establishment.

And that’s when I meet my competitor…. Who has suds up to his armpits and is struggling with a pot twice the size of us both. His black jacket is laid on a grimy stool and he has water stains over his perfect pants. He turns a scowl on his face.
“Stupid competition could’ve at least put us on some island that takes our money. I am so not cut out for this.” He says before cocking his head to a towel that’s hanging up on a shiny white hook.
“Hi I’m Steven. And you’re Satan.” I say, taking the sticky, icky towel that is really not hygienic.
“You’re stating the obvious author boy.” He growls, plonking the large saucepan on the wooden countertop, before wrestling with an even bigger one.

“So where do you think we are?” I say starting to rub vigorously at the pot in front of me… I love dishes; I mean we only recently got a dishwasher so I’m expert at them.
“Does that matter.” He says continuing to growl and get himself wet. Oooh I’d forgotten that anger streak. I’ll have to include that in later chaps if I get back. Ok chapters, the crazy person might think that I have bad English. Being Australian of course I have bad English. I have flawless Australian though. Yes, score 2-0 for the lame joke party.
“Yes it matters; I can’t call this No-wheres-ville forever. And do you want me to take over washing?”
“Bugger you.”
“I take that as a no.” I say drifting off, oddly enough, while here I’ve been going less daydreaming than I usually do. But that is beside the point. Waiiiiit. What is the point? Maybe the owner can tell me.
“Hey owner dude… What is the point?” I call out none too softly.
He bursts through towards us with a pale of grimy, originally white plate that hides everything of him but his flabby brown arms. “More.” He growls sloshing them into the water before rushing out. The water soaks Satan through before pooling on the floor.

….. Pooling on the floor…. Only hours ago had I been sitting at a computer writing about something else pooling on the floor, and now I am standing in a pot on the counter, using my own shirt to dry these dishes.
Oh you want to know what I look like and how I got inside the pot. You’ll have to excuse me; I don’t describe myself when I’m thinking all that often. Anytime anything become too close in my daydreams I become a he. Then it’s HE kissing the girl, HE falling in love, HE saving the world. HE living.

I close my eyes at this thought. Maybe this is just another HE moment. Maybe I’ll open my eyes and I’ll be back, because this is too surreal. And that I guess is the meet.