"Stephen..." a female figure said above him, then she crouched, hand coming to his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Stephen stood there for a hot minute. Staring blankly at nothing, then slowly he grabbed his chest, touching himself all around. There was no bullet wound, nor any searing pain.
What happened?
A car pulled up a couple of blocks away, the signature sound of the ice cream truck coming on full blast. Stephen glanced at it, the truck pulling onto their street, still driving past.
Then in the drivers window, caught in the glare of the morning sun, he saw his reflection... the reflection of a twelve year old boy.
Stephen quickly looked up to the woman above him, eyes watering as he recognized her, his chest slowly tightening before he lunged at her, holding tightly.
"Mom... I love you so much." The word's quickly escaped his mouth. "More than you'd ever imagine."
She nearly lost her balance, but held him close with a chuckle. "I do too, but if you think hugging me means you're getting out of playing with the other kids, you're surely mistaken, young man."
Stephen pulled back just enough to look past her. Standing behind her were three other children, two girls and a boy, all dressed in clothes he was sure he'd seen before.
And he had, because this was a recollection of a day he'd experienced eight years ago.
He looked at the kids again, they were his old neighbors. His mom had arranged a playdate with their parents, hoping he'd make some friends. The first time it happened, he'd screamed his lungs out.
Could you blame him? He was an awkward child who couldn't make any friends in school. That was the main reason he even studied psychology, to understand how to interact with people better.
"Is there a problem, Mrs. Garnt?" The only boy asked.
"No problem, honey," she said, getting up and nudging Stephen forward. "You kids have fun, okay?" Then, turning to him, she added gently, "You have fun, okay?"
Moments later, they stood in the front yard of one of the neighboring houses. A soccer ball rolled lazily over the grass beside them.
"What should we play?" asked Timothy, the oldest, giving the ball a soft kick toward one of the girls.
"I don't know." Sara said, letting the ball bounce off her shin without enthusiasm. "I don't want to play football though."
All eyes turned to Stephen.
"What do you think we should do?" asked Annabelle, the last girl.
Stephen's breath caught in his throat.
He might've been thinking about what exactly was happening and how he was even reliving a memory to begin with, but as the question came. Every thought vanished, his brain shrinking to the size of a tic tac.
"Hm?" Annabelle said again, expectantly.
This was the main reason Stephen couldn't make any friends. He never had anything to say, nor the confidence to say it even if he did. His words always caught in his throat, his hands trembling like he'd been dipped in ice.
"We should play tag," Timothy said, stepping up to take charge. "The whole house can be a hiding spot, but we're not allowed to go into any of the rooms."
"That's fair," Sara nodded. "...yeah, that seems fun."
Timothy's hand came to his chin. "But who's going to be it?"
"Stephen will." Sara pointed right at him. "Count to twenty, and don't start until you're done."
Stephen stood still as the others scattered in different directions, disappearing into bushes, corners, and open doors. But instead of counting, he stood there thinking.
The last thing he could remember was being in Traver's home and then him coming back into the room with a gun.
Was he shot?
If he was... then was he dead?
Is this hell? Reliving the most awkward days of his life? If it was then why not the day he got caught with a bottle of lotion and tissues.
Or was this the system's doing, like last time?
Stephen turned around. "System, you there?"
There was no response.
In any matter, this was a chance to show how much he had changed. Back then, in this moment, he was unable to talk to anyone. But no longer, he had not only solved his talking issues, but he'd even gone as far as making a friend in Tello.
Maybe that's why he died so suddenly. The universe couldn't handle him forming actual human connections.
Stephen stepped forward, heading to the backyard. He remembered where everyone had hidden. Even if he hadn't found them quickly back then, those spots stuck with him. Was that how much this memory meant to him?
To his right, nestled against the wall, was the small dog house. A faint sneeze came from inside.
He walked over and pulled aside the tarp.
Sara looked up, crouched uncomfortably inside.
Quickly before she could run away, he touched her hand. Tagging her successfully.
"Tch, you got me." she said, then peeked behind him. "Wait, am I the first one?"
Last time, he'd just smiled and walked away without a word. But now... now he could speak. Now he could finally say what he'd always wanted to say.
"Yes..." Stephen's voice trembled. But he could do this. He'd practiced for this. "I heard you sneeze. It's probably because of the dog fur, right? I know you're allergic."
"Yeah..." she muttered, then hurried past him. "I'll go help find the others. You... keep doing that."
Stephen watched her jog off toward the front, slipping into the house.
"Maybe I shouldn't have said it like that," he muttered to himself, then clenched a fist. "But that was progress. Last time, I didn't get that far."
Then he turned his head.
"Next is... Timothy."
The boy was hiding beneath a truck, or more specifically, the family's large Jeep which had more than enough space for someone to crawl under.
Timothy was the kind of person Stephen wanted to be when he was little, the kind of outspoken and confident person that had no trouble saying anything he wanted to, and while that was eventually what he became. It didn't come without a cost.
Stephen walked around to the back of the Jeep, crouching slightly. From here, he could see the tips of Timothy's sneakers poking out, but as per the rules, unless he touched him, the boy wasn't "tagged."
He walked around the Jeep, heading toward the front.
Stephen had gotten around his fear of speaking by creating a mask. Timothy was probably his first thought when he chose this mask, and because of that he could speak to people, and for a while it worked perfectly.
He could talk to store clerks, even cashiers now. But that was about where it ended, he still had no idea how to be genuine, or rather he knew how to. But not how to be in his own voice.
That was the reason he could never talk to his classmates, he didn't know what to say... or how they'd hear it.
Stephen knelt, then leaned forward beneath the car until he could reach Timothy's arm.
"I've found you."
"Crap," Timothy muttered, grinning as he shuffled out. "Thought no one would find me down there." He brushed off the dust from his shirt, then gave Stephen a puzzled look. "Wait... you can talk?"
"Yes," Stephen quickly answered, he had more things to say, but none left his mouth in time.
"I always thought you were mute or something," Timothy said, stretching.
Stephen blinked. "Why would you think that?"
Timothy shrugged. "You never said a word to anyone in school, and even the teachers were hinting that you couldn't speak, or had trouble doing so,"
He paused, then added. "That's actually why I always answered questions for you when people asked. I didn't want them to bring it up."
Stephen looked at him, stunned. They'd never had this conversation before. Not even close. In the original memory, he'd just walked away, silent as ever. But now he could see how much Timothy was looking out for him.
"I was just... shy," Stephen said, then immediately winced at himself. If the system were watching now, it would've no doubt made a 'grown man' comment.
Timothy smiled. "I get it. Still, you should talk more. You seem like a cool guy."
Then, with a casual wave, he jogged back toward the front of the house, cracking his fingers as he ran.
Stephen stood there for a moment, smiling so wide it almost hurt. He felt like Tello right now, not because of his physical appearance, but because of how at peace he felt.
Then he turned, grinning.
"Time to find Annabelle!"
Annabelle was the last one. The final kid on the tag list and, back then, the one Stephen had a crush on.
She was always the one who tried. Always asking him questions, trying to drag him out of his shell. And back then... he couldn't respond. He just couldn't.
But now he could. He could talk to her. Genuinely. He could ask her about her favorite color, or what she liked to do when it rained. He could say something real.
He entered the house, passing the two others who searched behind the curtains and chairs. He entered a small guest bedroom by the side of the house. Where she hid.
"Annabelle, I found you." Stephen pulled the door aside, "you weren't supposed to hide inside any rooms."
"You're having fun." Instead of Annabelle, Stephen saw a figure he'd only seen once before. When he had first died and came to this world... the naked lady.
She stood in front of him, wearing a thin lace top that barely covered her chest and a pair of faded jeans. The last time he'd seen her, he couldn't discern certain parts of her body or even the color of her hair.
Now he could see everything. Her hair was a muted red, dull like dried blood, and her eyes were a lifeless gray, almost blank as if no soul stirred behind them.
But the most unsettling part was her arms: patches of flesh were simply gone, stripped away to reveal pale bone beneath, like a corpse caught halfway through decay.
"You're the naked woman!" Stephen glanced at her, then at her hair. "Your hair is much shorter... and you're clothed now."
"Why do you assume I would be perpetually naked."
"A man can only hope." He instantly said, then with a cough. "What is happening." Stephen said, changing the subject. "Why am I reliving a memory."
She swung her hand outward, revealing a frozen image suspended in the air which showed Stephen, seated in a chair within the Traver manor, with George standing before him, gun drawn.
"At the sight of the weapon, you felt a sharp spike of fear. Your life flashed before your eyes," she said. "And in that brief moment, I pulled you into the dream realm."
As soon as she finished, her face contorted, and she clutched her head as if in sudden pain.
"Are you okay?" Stephen took a step forward, concern on his face.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, extending a hand to keep him back. "I just need you to pass along a message."
"Me?" Stephen blinked. "Okay... to who, though?"
"To Alphonse," she said, lowering her hand from her head. "You know him as your system."
That was true, he'd never asked the system for his name. Maybe that was insensitive.
"Tell him that there is trouble and he should come to the me, my powers are weak now. If they weren't, I would've gone to him myself." She inhaled shakily. "Please. It's urgent."
Stephen nodded. "No problem. I'll tell him." His eyes drifted to her arms, to the bones showing through torn flesh. "Doesn't that hurt?"
"It doesn't," she replied immediately, "...before my powers weaken completely... let me send you back."
She raised her hand again. A portal opened beside him, flickering like a vertical pool of glass. On the other side was the frozen moment from before.
"I never got your name." Stephen said, turning back to her.
"What does it matter?"
"It matters a lot," he said, scratching the back of his head. "I mean, I could be in a situation where I need to say your name or face... you know... total annihilation. Or something like that."
She let out a soft sigh, her outstretched hand still glowing.
"Diavelia."
"Diavelia..." Stephen echoed, then nodded. "That's a beautiful name—"
It was the last thing he said before it felt like his body was ripped apart atom by atom, pulled through a swirling tunnel that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. A moment later, he slammed back into reality.
Back to the manor.
His chest heaved as his breath returned in violent gasps. He quickly looked up, eyes locked on the barrel of the gun.
Click.
Nothing.
"I'm just kidding," George said, slumping back into his seat and spinning the revolver lazily in his fingers. "Haven't been able to get this thing working in years."
Stephen held his heart, then his chest. His head dropping down toward his knees. Describing the pain he felt right now was impossible, but he couldn't dwell on it.
He took a deep breath in, then very quiet. "System... Diavelia wants to see you."
"How do you know that name..." the systems voice came, almost as if scared.
"She pulled me into a memory and told me to get you. I think something is wrong with her."
There was a pause. Then, the system replied. "Thank you, Stephen." And with that, its voice faded from his mind.
Stephen looked up to find Tello staring at him, evidently concerned.
"I'm fine," Stephen muttered, still clutching his chest. "Really."
"That wasn't a very funny joke," Tello said, turning to George.
"Comedy is subjective, is it not?" George replied, ejecting the revolver's cylinder and giving it a casual flick.
"That's true," Stephen mumbled, finally managing a smile. "I was just... startled. On another day, I might've laughed."
"See? Your friend's a good sport about it."
Tello glanced at him once again, still worried, but the only thought that ran through Stephen's mind was how he's brushed against death twice in this world. First at the banquet with Lyna, and now here.
He needed to get stronger. That much was obvious. Getting the brothel and finishing Claris's route were crucial steps, but none of it mattered if he couldn't survive long enough to see it through.
"So, what did you come here for?" George's voice broke through his thoughts.
"A once in a lifetime opportunity." Stephen instantly said, snapping into that familiar mask. "One I have no doubt you'd be very interested in taking."