//------------------------------//
// Chapter 3 
// Story: Fine Print 
// by Starscribe 
//------------------------------//

Tracy stood at the edge of the road; his car keys still held in one hand. Whatever he'd thought about this being some secret plan to steal his organs or kidnap him into some bizarre human-trafficking scheme—vanished as the strange realtor retreated into the night.

It's obviously insane, right? It couldn't actually do anything. There was no such thing as the supernatural, no matter the form it claimed to take. Whatever he remembered must be a mistake.

He wandered a few steps closer to his car, taking each step slowly. He closed his eyes and tried to walk a straight line—and it came out perfect. Then he stretched out one hand, waiting for it to shake. But there was nothing there either, just perfect stillness. If Tracy was drugged with anything, it must be incredibly selective.

Or maybe just extremely fast to decompose. Maybe it's in the air in there, and it wears off a few seconds after leaving the house. That would explain how he could claim there was a 'portal.'

Tracy beeped the door to his car open, and tossed his backpack into the passenger seat. Obviously whatever the contract promised would happen to his immortal soul was insane. Even if such a thing existed, there was no way he'd actually encountered someone who could... do all those things. He was just one utterly uninteresting human of billions.

He climbed in, taking one look into the back of his car. Nothing—Discord hadn't left him so much as a sock. All “moved in.”

How hard could it be to go inside and grab the stuff I really need? I can't afford to buy all new clothes. Maybe he could hold his breath long enough to reach the upstairs bedroom. He just wouldn't touch anything, and obviously that would stop any drugs from affecting him. Get my stuff and leave. Call the police, report this lunatic. Simple. He’d have a good excuse for why he couldn't make it to HR, at least. “You won't believe the landlord I almost had.”

He slowed a little as he reached the doorway, still hanging open wide. He could see the hallway he remembered, with its little door with a stained-glass window at the far end. Sunlight streamed through it, and under the crack beneath it. Incongruous, impossible sunlight. And there could be a perfectly logical explanation for that. Maybe there's a lamp planted on the other side of the door, just making it convincing enough to lure me in. This doesn't mean I'm seeing something impossible.

Tracy took one last deep breath, then rushed over the doorway in a single, frantic moment. He needed to run if he wanted to have any hope of reaching his bedroom before whatever impossible substances still at work here could warp his mind.

It had no effect. No sooner had he crossed the threshold than he flopped forward onto the ground, unable to support his weight on his legs anymore. He landed on his hands—well, not hands. This time he wasn't blinded by confusion and unable to watch. In the passing of a single second, his fingers fused together, and his jeans became strange not-quite socks up his legs.





This time the disorientation wore off almost instantly—he was ready for the confusion, and everything that came with it. His hands pressed directly to the floor, he felt almost entirely naked, everything. Nothing reached out to grab him, and the door was still just a few steps behind him. Tracy banged into the wall a few times, stumbling forward and finally out the opening back onto the sidewalk.

Whatever he might've thought about drugs, he could feel none of the expected sensations. A few steps away from the door, and he'd completely shaken off the disorientation, and he was back on his feet. He held out one hand, still remembering what it had been like to have those fingers completely trapped only moments before. Just like that, I'm fixed.

His drug explanation was wearing thinner by the second. Psycoactives powerful enough to do that should have other effects. They should've taken suggestion; they shouldn't wear off so fast. But everything he knew was apparently just wrong. This is real. I've come up against something that shouldn't exist, and somehow it does.

Tracy darted over to his car, the door still open. He removed his backpack from inside, slammed the door, then headed back to the open door to the house. He tossed it across the threshold, gently so the poor computer wouldn't suffer for the impact. The instant it crossed, the bag changed. It split into two halves, with straps down the middle. But it still had the same stupid brand mark, the same puffy straps probably chosen for comfort on human shoulders.

Tracy backed away from the door, breathing in the almost-fresh air of this fairly cheap neighborhood. Even the faint odor of oil and cigarette smoke ought to be better than whatever was in the house to make him think the door did something supernatural.

Nothing happened to the bag. It remained in two halves, lying limply on the floor. He sat down on the curb, taking his phone in one hand, and set a timer. While he searched around the internet for any evidence of "Lancer Realty," he watched the occasional car pass by and the streetlights come on. Then he turned back around. Still he felt no suggestion that his own body was different. Hands and feet were right, fingers still had their full range of motion. Yet his bag remained saddlebags, limp on the floor.

There was no sign of the company he'd rented from, not anywhere. Craigslist didn't even have the listing anymore, nor was it on his viewing history in the browser. Maybe Discord did something to my phone while I was out? Even though he used a password and no biometrics, that would've been quite the feat.

This is real. It felt like admitting that the Earth was flat, or that he suddenly didn't believe in the effectiveness of vaccines. Yet how could he deny the evidence right in front of him? If this is real, how much of the rest of it could be too? What if I really did make a deal with Satan? It's so obviously impossible, but... what if it isn't?

Tracy stopped outside the doorway, sticking one hand across into the house. Nothing happened, except... a sort of gravity, wrapping around his wrist. He tried to pull it back, but just didn't have the strength. He flopped forward through the opening, and landed on all fours. He gasped, realizing in that moment the full consequences of exactly what he'd just done. He was a horse, standing in a doorway open to the world. People might drive past and see him. Or worse, his neighbors.

What if I just do this for a little while? I can pay the first month, use this as my address, and get HR off my back. It doesn't have to be permanent or anything. Maybe Discord is from their side, instead of ours. The locals might be able to tell me if his contract is good or not.

He reached out, and found the knob at exactly the right height to get a good grip in his mouth. He squeezed the knob between his teeth, then pulled the door closed. It latched with a strange finality, sealing him away from the world he knew. Yet it was still there—he could see the amber glow of the streetlights through the windows, and just make out his own car, distorted and stretched by the stained glass, but clearly present.

"I can't believe I'm indulging this," he muttered, making it a few steps forward and bending down to pick up the backpack/saddlebags. It was a struggle to get it on, but eventually he found a tab dangling from the back, and once he stepped on it the rest slid up his body easily. "I'm not staying like this," he told himself. "It's just about getting things through with HR." And finding out if I somehow sold my soul to the Devil without realizing it.

One day at a time, Tracy. He reached the inner door, and pushed it aside with his head. There was already someone waiting on the other side.

And of course, she was naked. 

Then she started screaming.