The Last Era: 13, August, 2119 AD
Envelope Logistics®, Gersha, Oneiroi Space
The Oneiroi fought hard to survive, like many did in the Age of Rot.
The Oneiroi were still very much human, even if they had left their bodies a long time ago. They found the minds of monsters as inhospitable as terrestrial humans did. It was difficult to form safety nets when there were no humans nearby to jump to; Oneiroi civilizations, millions of transcended immortals, perished when their host succumbed to the hazards of the world outside. They encouraged their hosts as well as they could through subconscious suggestion to gather if that thought was not already present in their minds.
One civilization, Envelope Logistics, lived in a girl trapped in a basement beneath many flights of stairs. They were an offshoot of a large, ancient and forgotten singularity that was known as the Oneiroi Collective.
EL® culture revolved around value, whatever that might mean, to whoever it might mean that to.
When Gersha was rescued, EL® discussed the opportunity that presented itself, accounted for their losses, and made an investment in the mind of the hero.
After searching a long time for something that might be of value, Allen's personal faults became a holding of Envelope Logistics®.
Allen's body twitched and bled on the ground for a few moments before it died, and The Oneiroi of Envelope Logistics® could hardly believe their good fortune. They had made a stunning assessment of this individual's potential.
Allen's dream self sat in a stuffy red room that leaked a syrupy, sweet substance from the ceiling. He was seated at a plastic lawn table. He rose to his feet and flung his plastic lawn chair across the room. He noticed, wrapped around the corners of the room, were marquees with strange text and characters zipping about.
Sinopec-Dark Inc +8.41%
W&C Co +7.75%
Your Grandma +1.22%
Hatred 魂400.00 -0.50%
Loathing 魂45.23 -56.04%
Fear 魂50.04 +101.0%
Bitterness 魂405.00 +45.345
Perversions 魂643.43 +20.34%
"What the, what the mess is happening?"
The Table thought for a few moments as the chair flew through the wall and back into the wall and through the wall again.
"Hello my name is Actual Table and I'll be your Agent today. How can I help you?" said the table.
"You can start by telling me what the heck is going on! Where are you? What's this all about? Didn't I get shot in the face? Why aren't I dead?"
Table, maintaining its professional composure, sat motionless as Allen stomped back and forth across the room. "I'm sorry for the confusion. You are in a dream. I am Actual Table. I am a table. I'm here to discuss with you your holdings with us and how you'd like to disperse them before you die."
Allen paused for a moment and looked at the pristine, plastic table. His mouth opened for a moment, then closed. He scratched his head.
"I'm afraid we need to finalize this now. Our company is moving, back to its old location. Time does move more slowly in this space, though, so please take a moment to get your bearings if need be."
Allen upturned the table, flipping it limply on its head. "Get me the hell out of here!"
Table, in its undignified position, abstained from righting itself out of fear that the client might become even more upset. It could if it wanted to, it just didn't.
"I'm afraid we can't do that. I can however give you a list of options that might help us better ease through this process. Most individuals don't know what to ask for in these situations."
"Fine, fuck," Allen flinched, expecting Grammie to flow out and slap him, but all of his orifices remained eerily undisturbed. "I'll play your dumb game."
Table thought for a few moments. "You have four options. You can see that I am holding up four legs right now to better illustrate that."
Allen shook his head in disgust.
"One, you can place your funds in a secure Logistics® trust for your children."
Allen scratched his head. "No kids."
"Fine, that's fine. I'll still hold that foot up so you know the option is available should you ever by some circumstance become a father posthumously."
Allen bit the inside of his cheek.
"Two, you may transfer your funds to V❊H❊Q❊H in creation with the undying feeling behind the deadwood reaching, far reaching, and limbs severed, beyond tarnished hopes seeking observers?"
Allen shook his head as Table spoke. "Okay. Whatever. Three. Tell me three now."
"Ah, are you sure about that? Option two related unwittingly the verbarspermo-"
"Alright. Option Three. You may donate your funds to a charity, entity, or organization of your choice. Popular charities are the Manna Charitable Foundation, Rhadamanthus Imminent, and Our Deified Flesh."
Allen groaned. "Ugh. Ugh. Say something that makes sense or is everything just fucked and god I should just break you you confused broken piece of monster shit."
"I'm sorry the individual holding that account does not accept donations."
Allen banged his head on the unusually soft walls. "Four! Four or just let me die already. Can I kill myself in a dream? Does that work?"
"I'm sorry, option four. We don't usually get this far. Most people are overjoyed, just, strangely overjoyed when we remind them of Rhadamanthus. Option four is to forfeit your funds, those which you have are sufficient, and become a living Oneiroi bond in Envelope Logistics®."
"A what? What is that?"
"Well, you would become something much like myself. A gestalt of your waking self, your real self I might say. You would be free to move throughout Envelope Logistics®."
"Okay. Die, or be a fucking table."
Actual Table was frozen in shock. "Sir, I'm not obligated to continue with any of this if the client is hostile or otherwise uncooperative. Also, it is very unlikely that you of all people would become something even resembling a table. I might imagine you would be a doormat, or a roll of toilet paper. But it is already very clear that you are something resembling an anthropomorphic roach. Here, see for yourself."
A mirror manifested in front of Allen. What he saw caused him to jump in shock, skittering up the wall and onto the ceiling. Flakes of his legs broke off as he retreated from the image. He chirped something that the Table understood, and the table looked on stoically in agreement. Allen was now Periplaneta Americana, and traveled with the rest of EL® in the mind of a girl named Gersha.
The scene from outside the roach motel was crowded with the abstract visages of cheering EL® Oneiroi. Actual Table was the best Agent of them all, and he had proved this yet again.
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