03 - Visceral Terror

At the sound of the voice behind me, I jump literally a hundred feet in the air. My skeleton literally leaves my body.

(Note that I don't mean figuratively or metaphorically. No—I mean, I'm so startled that I actually fly exactly a hundred feet in the air, and my skeleton tears through and exits the flesh cage that normally envelops it.

… Matter of fact, I want you to picture the rest of this story as me being a literal skeleton. Unless you're one of those aphantasics, of course. In which case … Hey, look! An apple! A perfectly ripe, red, shiny apple! Sitting atop a mahogany table! Spin it around three times in your head, now. The apple, not the table. Actually, you know what? Fuck it. Spin 'em both.

… I mean, next thing you're going to tell me, you don't even have an internal monologue. Saa-aaay, can you read this next part in the appropriate actor's voice? 'Like a submarine, Mr Wayne. Like a submarine.')

After landing back on my feet, I spin around.

Black pencil skirt. Plain white blouse under a tailored blazer. A pair of corporate-standard heels. Brown hair tied up in a tidy ponytail. Clipboard and pen. A practiced smile, behind which I am unable to detect any trace of real warmth.

If I could describe the woman standing before me in one word, it would be …

… Run.

(… As in, Run. Run, as far away as possible, and don't look back. This is your autonomic nervous system speaking, please for the love of all that's good please don't ignore these warning signals. Fight-or-flight has been activated except it's just flight there is no fight in you please we need to leave the vicinity NOW.)

Buu-uuut, if I could describe her a bit more objectively, for the sake of visual illustration, I might choose …

… Professional.

Appearance-wise, she kinda reminds me of some of the managers I've had. (… Of course, none of them had this same effect on my lower extremities, which have now retracted so far into my body that I can just about feel them cresting my uvula. Okay, actually, I lied—my old boss C***** actually did have this exact same effect on me, back when I worked in Accounts Payable. Man, can you believe she used to time our bathroom breaks? Seriously. There's micro-management, and then there's … whatever the hell she had going on. It's like, 'No, C*****, I'm getting paid to poop. I'll take all the goddamn time I want.' … Of course, I never actually said that to her. But I did think about it a lot, seething quietly as I ate lunch alone in the darkened 2nd floor stairwell.)

The goddess's apparent manager continues smiling at me. I really wish she would stop.

She says, "My, my—it seems we have a dissatisfied customer on our hands, don't we?"

I don't even realize it until now, but cold sweat is running down the back of my neck. Something tells me she won't put up with my bullshit the way the goddess (kinda) did.

Against my better judgment (POV: I have none), I give it my best shot anyway. Gulp. Here goes.

"Y-yes," I stammer, "… In fact, I would like to file a formal complaint against your subordinate"—I point to the goddess, who flips me off in return—"who wants to send me to yet another Diet Fantasy world, where I'm supposed to become a toilet seat."

"A bidet," corrects the goddess.

"Ara," says Ms Instills-Me-With-Genuine-Atavistic-Primal-Fear, "that's quite the dilemma. Please rest assured, dear protagonist-in-waiting, that we here at L.I.M.B.O. take complaints of this nature with the utmost gravity." She sweeps a loose strand of hair, and tucks it behind her ear. "I will personally see to it that the matter is resolved to your satisfaction."

"'L.I.M.B.O.' …?" I repeat, like I'm a stealth game protagonist.

"Correct, sir. My name is Jessica, and I'm the Central Administrator here at the Logistics for Isekai Migration and Boundary Operations."

I stroke my chin sagely. "That's pretty good, but I think you could do better," I say. "How about … 'Limbo for Isekai Migrators, Between-worlders, and Others'? You also get a recursive acronym in there, which is all the rage these days for self-satisfied douchebags who think they're being cute."

Jessica's smile remains unperturbed.

(… Dammit. No hint of suppressed irritation. No visible anger vein on her forehead. No blood pressure spike. … I'm dealing with a real pro here. The goddess was cake in comparison. … Clearly, I need to go dumber. Be more annoying.)

"I appreciate the suggestion, valued protagonist," she says. "But if you don't mind, let's try to focus on the matter at hand. Why don't you bring me up to speed on the situation so far?"

So I do.

I describe how I was born in a hospital in the city, on a snowy winter's day (Jessica: "There's no need to go that far back, valued protagonist."); and how I collapsed at my office desk, and ended up here. I explain how the goddess was incredibly unprofessional right from the start, already smoking a cigarette and reading a dirty magazine on her lap. (Goddess: "Lies. LIES!")

I explain to Jessica how tired I am of the genre. And how I don't want to be a bidet. And how all isekai worlds are just the same recycled tepid flavor of bland. And how sometimes at night I lie on my arm until it loses all feeling, and then stroke my own (thinning) hair with the numb hand so that it feels like somebody else is doing it while I play ASMR videos of a mature-looking woman whispering in my ear that I'm a good boy and that everything's going to be okay. (I don't even remember how we got on that last topic—but I do notice that it was the only time Jessica wrote anything down in her clipboard.)

Her face doesn't even budge. That same smile with no warmth behind it.

Like I said. Professional.

"Thank you for sharing your experience, dear protagonist," she says. "This will all be very helpful in addressing your needs. … Ah, by the way—I can't help but notice the way you're standing. Is something the matter with your foot, by chance?"

"Uh—n-no. Nothing wrong with my foot." I lower my foot with the shattered toe, swallowing the pain that shoots up as I put weight on it. "See? Perfectly—perfectly fine." Tears welling up in my eyes. (Not crying.)

Jessica places a hand on her cheek, tilting her head slightly. (Is it just my imagination … or is her smile growing a bit … more sinister?)

"U-fu-fu," she giggles. "That's good to hear, honored protagonist. Because I would hate to hear that you had, in fact, tried to attack the goddess's chair with your foot. Because we don't take kindly to violence against our workers, or damaged property. In fact, our policy is to …"—she leans in close to me—"… punish such actions, accordingly."

I gulp. "N-nope. I did nothing … of the sort." I nervously glance over at the goddess, worried that she'll rat me out. But to my surprise, she looks just as terrified as I feel.

Seems like I'm safe from the goddess's blabbering, for now—but so then why doesn't that fact make me feel any better?

Oh, wait. I know why. It's because Jessica is looking at me the exact same way your neighbor's cat might regard the pristine, untouched leg of a brand-new sofa that you just bought. (… Seriously, never agree to pet-sit, folks. No matter how hot the owner might be.)

"Hu-fu-fu," giggles Jessica, her pupils narrowing into the shape of butcher knives, "then, with that being the case … it shouldn't hurt at all, when I do … this," she says, as she brings her heel down on my shattered toe, digging into it like she's putting out a cigarette.

My mind goes blank. My vision, white. The pain is so overwhelming I completely forget how to even scream. It's all I can do, to not crumble into a sobbing heap on the floor.

"Ara," she says, in a mock-surprise voice. "What an interesting face you're making, cherished protagonist."

I make the mistake of looking up at her. Her fake corporate smile has been replaced by a look of sheer ecstasy. Her face flushed. A sadistic glint in her eye.

"Now, then," says Jessica, still grinding her heel into me, "we'll have to take our lovely, esteemed guest to the usual place, won't we?" She's addressing the goddess. "Since he doesn't want to become a bidet. Isn't that right?"

I hear the goddess stammer out, "Y-yes, Central Administrator. Th-that's right …"

My nerves are still on fire. Pure agony. I hardly even register the moment when Jessica's clipboard is replaced by what looks like a … cast-iron frying pan??

But I don't understand. This is clearly a terrible time for cooking. And there's no stove around, so … Oh. Oh, wait. Oh, no.

Her smile grows wider. Her breathing, heavier.

With her shoe still crushing my toe, she winds up, raises the frying pan above me, and—

BONK!!!!!!

—brings it crashing down on my head.

I hear a loud crack, my skull fracturing.

My eyes roll to the back of my head.

I crumple to the non-floor of the black void.

Everything goes dark.