The Man and the Pocket

Suddenly, a marble table materialized out of nowhere. On it sat a see- through pitcher filled with little plastic spheres.

— Pick one. Three are empty. Three hold weapons that might help you survive. And the last three? Total wildcard. Could be garbage. Could be magic. Who knows.

— What is this, a loot box from hell? Woman, have you seen a therapist lately? — Alenari blinked.

— Never. — The banshee replied without hesitation. — Back in my day they hadn’t invented that crap yet. Now hush up and choose your orb, honey. You’re gonna need all the help you can get out there.

She wasn’t wrong. It’s hard to fight what you don’t even understand. Alenari sighed and stalked over to the weird plastic capsule pile, muttering something about -playing her mom’s dumb games.-

She grabbed the first one her fingers touched and cracked it open. Inside, a slip of paper read:

-The Man and the Pocket.

— …the hell does that mean?

— Ooooh, juicy pick! — The young half clapped excitedly. — You just got yourself a new sidekick, baby girl! I’ll teach you how to open a mini pocket-dimension. One-time use. You can stash a living human in there.

When things get dire, you release him—bam! Instant blood smoothie for the beasties. He’ll be infused with energy from the Void. They’ll go crazy for him and forget all about you!

Antwan looked like he was about to puke. And Alenari? She nodded.

— Fine. Show me the thoughtform. I’ll find the guy myself.

A moment of quiet passed. Somewhere nearby, a patrol of medieval guards shuffled by, armor clinking. Then Alenari gave another nod.

— Got it. We’re done here.

— Take this final gift, dear lamb, to guide your path beyond the dam… — the banshee cooed, and a weird wisp of color-changing substance floated out of her hand. It twisted and warped... and became a regular-ass plastic door. With a turnstile.

Like something from a subway station. In 12th-century fantasy land.

— What the actual hell is that? — Alenari asked.

— I may have skimmed your upper thoughts from the ol’ subconscious…

— her mom said innocently, palms up like, don’t be mad bro. — Side effect of the thoughtform thing. Chill. You’re toxic when you’re cranky. Anyway, it’s a shortcut. Next clue’s through there. No travel time wasted. You’re welcome.

— Right. Got it. — Alenari exhaled, motioning for Antwan to follow. He gave a hesitant wave to the two-faced banshee and trotted after her.

-Goodbye, my little fools.

-See you in the Abyss, brave morons.

The banshee’s final send-off, cheerful as ever.

The turnstile swung open on its own. Alenari stepped through… and found herself in a regular apartment hallway. Cinnamon and fried onions in the air, a baby screaming behind one door, and someone abusing a power drill in the distance. Good old-fashioned chaos.

Antwan stepped through behind her and shook his head in amazement.

- Wait… is this Aunt Mia’s building?

— Yep. My sweet undead mama was right. We need to talk to Aunt Mia. Who else do you go to when you're about to do something completely insane?

-Wait—hold up—YOU’RE ACTUALLY GONNA GO INTO THE

OBSCURITY?! Have you completely lost it? Why the hell would you do that?!

— Because he has my blood. And with it, he can do whatever the hell he wants. Including vaporizing me out of existence. You want that on your conscience? — I snapped at Antwan, and the kid visibly flinched from the pressure. Still, he held his ground, bless his trembling soul.

-You know nothing survives past the Wall, right? No humans, no tech. Everything falls apart. That’s why we’ve got zero legit info on what’s even out there.

Yeah, he wasn’t wrong. But that strigoi pretty boy with my blood sample had promised me worse than just death on the other side. See, Obscurity - doesn’t mean - Unbeatable. It just means we haven’t punched it in the face yet.

There’s still some fire left in this ammo crate, and they don’t call me Dued for nothing.

So I just told him:

— I need to protect myself. And frankly, it’s time we paid them a house call. Get a little Airbnb tour of their turf. If I can bring back intel, maybe humanity can build a monster catalog. Maybe even design some shiny new toys to fight them. We’ve got questions—like, what do they breathe? Do they breathe?

- Don’t start playing the tragic martyr, Ali. That’s not you. No offense, but you’re just… well, not just a mercenary, but you are one. You don’t take wild risks. You take contracts. You hunt one by one. And you get paid. So stop pretending to be a blockbuster hero.

Oof. Brutal. Accurate. Like a Yelp review from someone who actually

knows you.

But I ignored the sting, slammed that existential folder shut, and rang Mia’s doorbell.

It opened immediately, like she’d been waiting for us behind it with cookies and psychic dread.

— Oh my stars, come in, come in! I’m so happy to see you! — Cooed my tiny, porcelain-fragile friend.

We stepped inside and hugged like girls in a perfume commercial. Mia was wearing a velvet robe and stilettos, which could only mean one thing — webcam shoot prep.

— Did we interrupt your... work?

— Not at all! — She chirped. — Stream doesn’t start for another fifty minutes. I was just getting dolled up!

We strolled into her cozy living room, which looked like Martha Stewart had an emotional breakdown and decorated everything by hand. She plopped us down in rattan chairs, summoned a tea set from the ether, and started pouring us actual loose-leaf Chinese tea like some blessed digital geisha.

Before sitting, she casually wrapped a striped shawl over her cleavage — a strategic move, clearly aimed at preventing Antwan from melting into a hormonal puddle.

I tried to thank her, say a few words, be polite — but she gave me the international signal for -shut your pie hole and drink this, - and honestly, I obeyed. Especially when a platter of cream-filled pastries and muffins thicker than my ex’s skull showed up on the table.

We devoured everything with the joy of two people who might die in the next chapter, washed it down with tea, and only then were we allowed to speak. Mia was only decisive about one thing in life — her self-invented code of etiquette. If you were in her space, you followed it. Or you left.

Antwan began our long story with hand gestures, charades, and desperate glances at me for memory support. I nodded and filled in the gaps, while Mia listened, occasionally giving me that look like, Wait, this actually happened? For real?