Ibeos: What If? "Lost in My Own Fantasy"

Chapter 1. The Unexpected Chapter

33,200 C. Aeris 20

Nothing prepares you for the full assault of a French horn symphony until it blasts you awake. Lying in bed, the glow from my computer screen dimming, the faint sound of my partner's breathing over Discord, I was half in this world, half in another. Suddenly, an uproar of horns filled the air like a thousand elephants screeching to the heavens, shattering the stillness and jolting me awake after a night of playing TFT until 3 A.M. At first I thought it was my dad using the air horn again. He did that when telemarketers called, even though it'd send our dogs into a fit.

But the noise didn't stop. Instead, it grew louder, and as I felt the unfamiliar chill of cold marble beneath me, panic fluttered in my chest. Blinking against the harsh glare, what I expected to be the sun multiplied bizarrely into two—a colossal yellow orb and a smaller, indigo twin, both surrounded by the lazy drifts of spring clouds. What the fuck—two suns? I jolted upright, whipping my head around, my heart pounding. "What the fuck is happening?" I muttered.

As I stood, my usual everyday back pain flared up. Okay, probably not dreaming, but it could still be a dream, right? How do you check if you're lucid dreaming? Right, writing—that's a thing. You can't read anything coherent in a dream. All I need to do is find something to read, and when it turns out to be some scribbled nonsense, I'll force myself awake. Easy. I scanned the alleyway where I found myself, they had a raw, unfinished look, like the backdrop of a set left incomplete.

Damn, this is a super detailed dream. My brain must be pulling from that trip to Ireland. Guided by instinct, I meandered deeper into the alley, my fingertips tracing the cold, damp stones. Their uneven surfaces whispered tales of a not-quite-familiar past, pulling me toward the crescendo of voices that beckoned from the street ahead. As I reached the end, my eyes widened in disbelief. Hundreds of people bustled along the cobblestone streets, but many—no, most—weren't even human. Towering bear-like creatures with shaggy fur lumbered by. Men and women with horns curling from their foreheads chatted animatedly, their tails flicking in excitement.

"I've been playing way too much Baldur's Gate," I muttered, half-laughing, half-panicking at the absurdity. Then, I saw it. Dangling above the street was a giant banner: 'The Festival of the Gods'. The bold, festive colors and elegant script seemed to dance in the breeze. As reality—or whatever this was—began to sink in, a familiar chill wound its way down my spine—the kind you get when a nightmare turns too real. Was this still a dream? The vividness of the smells, the sounds, and the sights around me was overwhelming. It felt all too real, too intense to be a figment of my imagination.

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. Wait a second. Festival of the Gods? I wrote that. That's... My apprehension grew as I took in the array of fantastical beings milling about. It was like seeing cgi aliens in a movie, except, these were in person, live, and not to lie, it was tripping me the fuck out. When a normal human man in a sleek black suit passed by, I seized the chance to address the question hanging in the back of my throat. "Excuse me?"

"Uh...yes?" The man paused, an eyebrow raised.

I swallowed, feeling the absurdity of my question. "This is gonna probably sound super fucking weird to you, but uh...where are we right now?"

"Maplewood Street?" His tone was tinged with both confusion and a hint of disdain, as if I were a beggar bothering him.

"No, like, what city are we in?"

He scoffed lightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Really? Cadon, obviously. Greca—ever heard of it?" His tone was laced with sarcasm, as if speaking to someone ignorant of the most basic facts.

"Oh...uh, t-thanks," I stuttered, taken aback by his rudeness.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath about 'drunkards' as he walked away. Left alone, I took a deep breath, trying to calm the continual racing of my heart. His condescension stung, sure, but it was the casual mention of Cadon and Greca—names I'd invented—that unsettled me the most.

"Okay, let's go over the facts," I whispered to myself. Pain is real, words make sense; it's probably not a dream. Could this be one of those elaborate prank shows? I mean I'm a heavy sleeper, and my family would definitely be on board with it. But the budget for this—state-of-the-art animatronics, perfect set pieces, all just to fool a guy from Iowa into believing he's in his own fantasy world? It seems far-fetched, but then, what's the more likely explanation?

I stood frozen, watching fantastical beings weave through the crowd, their alien forms both mesmerizing and unsettling. I tried my best to muster the courage to look directly at the more fantastical beings—even though they weirded me out.

My eyes darted around, searching for seams in what might be costumes, inconsistencies in their movements, or any shared glances that might suggest they were in on the prank. But there was nothing—just fluid movements and all-too-convincing details. One particularly tall creature with iridescent scales and eyes like molten gold caught my gaze, its expression inscrutable and decidedly non-human. The realism was unsettling.

Could all of this really just be a prank? The balance of probability was tipping, and not in the direction I hoped. Then it hit me—the date, the festival. Memories of the session I had written flashed through my mind: the chaos, the flames, the screaming. "Oh, fuck."

Adrenaline fired through every vein as I sprinted toward the looming coliseum, heart pounding in sync with my rapid steps. Fear clutched at my chest, not just of the impending disaster but of my own vulnerability. I was no hero; just an unathletic guy with a kidney disease, possibly running straight into my own demise.

Even without every street memorized, I followed the swell of the crowd, all moving toward the epicenter of today's events. The cityscape transformed as I neared the center. The streets grew denser, lined with imposing marble spires and Edwardian-style buildings that gave the area a grandiose yet foreboding air. Festival stalls and vendors were everywhere, the nostalgic smell of funnel cake and fried foods mingling with the scent of exotic spices. The air was thick with the clamor of festival music and the cacophony of a dozen languages shouting over one another.

As I dodged between towering creatures and overzealous festival-goers, the roar of the crowd and the clash of music grew louder, the city's pulse quickening with my own. My breathing was ragged, my back screaming in protest with every jolting step.

But urgency drove me: I had to make it in time, had to warn them. It didn't matter if all of this was real, or just a dream. Because today, at the Festival of the Gods, half of Cadon would burn to the ground.