1: SONGBOY

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  ??? // ??? // ???

  Starring ???

  Featuring ???

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  Cliché.

  The definition: primarily in the context of literature, it is a word that describes an overused trope, something done so much that it’s become boring or at least well known.

  The synonyms: overused, overdone, banality, commonplace, platitude, unoriginal.

  A reader’s connotation: a damn boring story, and if not heavily justified or one of the best written stories out there. It really fluctuates, it does.

  Context: who the hell is that girl standing in my bedroom doorway?

  Last night was all normal. Everything was normal. The year was 2023, the 28th of August at about 8:00 on a Sunday night, Pacific Time in America. There was an average Asian-looking middle school boy sitting on the edge of his bed with a large tablet in hand, that’s me.

  My Bluetooth speaker was playing beside me, not loud enough for my dad who was talking downstairs on the phone to hear it, nor my mom at the dishes grumbling about her irresponsible and lazy children. I listened to pop music of all kinds and languages, funky songs, power music, emotional songs, game music, as long as it had depth, I was vibing… that would end the list of preferences. You might be able to guess that I’m a music kind of guy.

  My little sister who was two years younger than I laid in the other room, her room, just across from mine. She could hear my music, and I could hear hers. K-Pop music loud enough for the neighbors to get angry. No, she couldn’t understand Korean. That’s all she’d been listening to ever since my cousin introduced it to her.

  We were supposed to be asleep by about now for school tomorrow. Well, she was supposed to be asleep, at least. I got to stay up later because my school day began a good while after her’s.

  I am a very lucky kid. I’m lucky that I’m so average.

  I glanced down to my lap. Notifications were popping up on my tablet constantly. Those were my two best friends arguing. They were asking for my opinion, but I didn’t respond. I was too busy planning out my novel.

  Yeah. I’m also a words type of guy.

  Actually, I dabble a lot in the broadest of places.

  But first, a story… in a story? Storyception. The worst, and also the best part, is that everything is a cliché, a blatant ripoff of the biggest genres and their classics. An easy story to write would make for an easier story to tell.

  A video game interface and magical abilities? Check.

  Modern school setting with an arbitrarily modern name? Check.

  Bullies, rich kids, and a faithful friend to the end? Double check.

  I smiled and shook my head as I backspace a few lines out. Then I went back to the top to review what I had written so far.

  Cedrance Manamune, the main character. I coughed once. What a horrible name. I’d need to come up with a better one next morning. He needed his abilities.

  Next.

  Serene Goldwin… placeholder name. Sounded cool enough…

  Ughh. This was boring. These names were just so weird.

  What about the guilds for all the heroes and agents?

  Holimont, Silverdawn, Wings… these names definitely had to go.

  What’s a synonym for guild?

  And dude, there was literally zero plot… I slammed my hand against the bed in frustration, chilly from the constant air conditioning running throughout the house.

  This night, it all felt real. Everything was right.

  So, what about the next morning? What makes this story so interesting?

  I had a false fantasy.

  The morning was, to say the least, unreal. That’s the antonym for real.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  I wake up. When the hell did I fall asleep? My eyes aren’t awake yet, they’re very closed. I’m hugging my plush pillow that smells like my sweat, the scent of lemons and lilac.

  Oh, lemon and lilac? I must still be asleep then. I smell like dog hair and warm boba milk tea. This is a nice scent, though. I sniff again. What’s my shampoo? It’s vanilla, right? Damn.

  I don't remember a day when my nose wasn’t stuffy in the morning on one side. It’s refreshing.

  The sun is streaming through my windows. Who sleeps with their blinds open? The neighbors will look at you while you change! I never open my blinds.

  Whatever.

  My bed is nice and cool, the perfect temperature against my skin. I think I’ll stay asleep…

  What?

  My bed doesn’t feel that nice. It’s always warm around my spot when I wake up, and I’m always sweating at least a little bit. And are these my blankets? They’re usually really heavy and warm to compensate for my skinniness. They aren’t light and fluffy.

  My watch uncomfortably rubs against my huggy pillow. I don’t have a watch.

  This isn’t my bed, is it?

  I bolt upwards in my bed and gasp silently. Oh, I’m awake. I’m awake, right?

  My eyes wander around a gorgeous, spacious room bathed in the golden early sunrise through the floor-to-ceiling sleek windows that fit the back wall. I’m in the back corner of my room, a nightstand to my right with a digital clock and a cup of orange mystery liquid. There’s a huge desk setup with music recording equipment and instruments in the corner near the door on the opposite side of the room in the middle most area of the wall, and in the corner beside it are chairs and a TV. The laundry is neatly folded and sat against a drawer and dresser each with 6 cabinets. For such a luxurious room, everything fits perfectly. Everything feels right. This is not my room. This is not my house. But this is definitely my fantasy.

  This is looking to be a good lucid dream.

  On the wall to my left is a mirror with portraits of people and things I didn’t recognize. I slide out of my bed in my pajamas. I don’t ever wear pajamas. The floor is nice and soft against my bare feet. I walk over to my mirror.

  And gape.

  Who are you?

  The boy in the mirror is older than me, around high school freshman age. He’s around my height, maybe more, about 5 foot and a half or less, long legs and bright skin, and definitively boyish features. His hair is dark, but not totally black, and he also has tinges of white and grey at the ends of his hair, which sweeps across into a paintbrush just above his left eye. Even so, I think the unkempt hair looked nice, maybe a tad emo, frayed and slightly wavy. He’s better-looking than me, and also is Asian, but I can’t put my finger on what. A butter color Japanese city boy, an inauthentic Korean K-Pop idol-ish lookalike, but most of all like an unsmiling but friendly character who's just popped out of a webtoon. Maybe a slightly depressed one with this kind of hairstyle.

  In a sense, he’s a side character at best and a fine looking extra at worst, more on the striking-hot than cold-handsome side. Good genes, that’s what he has. The boy doesn’t have pimples. I’m jealous.

  A glance around the portraits tells me that he is the guy in some of the photos.

  I raise my arm, and the boy in the mirror raises his arm. I poke my cheek. He pokes his cheek.

  “That’s so cliché,” I whisper, then almost stop myself from clutching my mouth.

  As a teen, I don’t have the best singing voice, even though I love to sing. It’s not like I voice crack, I almost never. Puberty didn’t do that much to me, and if it did it did it really fast. At least, the beginning stages went by quickly, like voice and growth spurts. Don’t get any misunderstandings, I’m definitely not done.

  But I love singing. And his voice is beautiful. A tad dramatic to say beautiful, but there is no other way to describe such a melodic voice. It was bright and tired, calming but evocative, clear but intoxicating.

  I test it again.

  “~Ahhhh…” It would make professional singers jealous.

  And I am in his body. I am scared to misuse his voice, so I stay quiet.

  What a wonderful dream.

  The thought passes by, yet I feel absolutely unaffected. Maybe it’s all of those fantasies and isekais I’ve read, but it simply feels… normal. It feels good, almost.

  Huh? Normal? Isn’t this a dream? What an unrealistically real dream.

  I yawn, it definitely feels like I’ve just woken up.

  My eyes are clear. I usually wear glasses, but I can see from my end of the room to the trophies on the stand in the other corner, trophies of instruments I’ve never played before. Instruments that were sitting in my room.

  Am I a genius?

  Finally, I look outside the window and almost fall on my back. Instead I fall on my rump.

  “It’s… beautiful,” I mutter.

  A vast cityscape spread before my eyes, graced by the rising morning sun. Impressive looking skyscrapers and towers loomed over the city, shimmering in the colors of the rainbow. No one building looks the same, from the sweeping sides and tapering edges to the bright displays and the… concerning amount of weaponry logos. But oddest of all is the lack of pollution in the air. It’s the first time I can see the stars in the morning sky.

  It is the kind of urban metropolis that only the future can possibly hold, and only the past could have imagined. The words ‘urban fantasy’ float around in my head.

  Looking out my window, it feels like I am at the top of the world. It all went down, down, down, to the bustling of the waking people. My room is at least on the 50th floor of some building.

  My watch suddenly beeps, shocking me from my trance. I look down at it and tap it on. Suddenly a hologram opens in front of my face.

  The interface of the smartwatch clearly shines in front of me. I blink. Holy crud.

  “I’ve definitely seen this before,” I breath.

  I scan it top to bottom. Everything was just like on a phone screen, all the apps I could want were there. A reminder pops up.

  [Double D-Day]

  What is that supposed to mean?

  “Hey Mr. Dreamyhead, you got a great imagination. But what the actual hell?” I click off and go for the door. If this dream is going to end soon, I might as well explore just a little bit.

  I yawn again when I open my door. Then I freeze.

  A girl, about the age of the boy’s body, stands behind glass railings. The awe is painted onto her light complexion and pretty face looking down. The ends of her shoulder-length black hair are dipped in white paint. Under her nightgown hides an obviously well toned and strong body, unlike my own. Her energy screams ‘protagonist material’. But was she the boy’s sister or something? How could siblings have such different vibes?

  She suddenly turns to face me, hearing the door open. I see her milk chocolate eyes.

  The girl opens her mouth. “Don’t press yes.”

  A screen with a prompt appears in front of me. At the top is the word Guide.