Earth is Floor 1: Chapter 1 (Draft)

Manhattan, New York

“Jane Serynak?”

I heard the secretary call my name and promptly stood up.  There’s nothing like a long wait to make someone nervous, imagining the worst possible scenarios.  So when I walked over to the secretary’s desk, my nerves were taut as steel.

‘Don’t fuck this one up, Jane.  Last chance.’  I told myself.

I needed this job so bad.  

“That’s me.”

I walked over to the secretary’s desk, trying not to fiddle with the collar that seemed two inches too tight around my neck.  Or the sleeves that kept chafing against my wrist.  Or the way that my suit jacket seemed to cinch my waist just right, enough to be noticeable but not smooth enough that it wasn’t annoying.  All in all, I was uncomfortable, nervous and all sorts of things you don’t want to be at a job interview.

The secretary was pretty, in a kind of girl next door sort of way.  Pretty enough to be noticed, but not flashy enough to keep one’s attention for so long.  It was the kind of subtle pretty, like she was someone you could imagine sitting next to at a coffee store on a rainy day.

Her name tag read Darcy Levi.

“Hi Darcy.”

“How’d you-, oh, my name tag.”  She smiled at me through her glasses.  “You’re Jane?  I was expecting a girl.  No offense.”

“It’s ok.  I get that a lot.”  I smiled back at her, making sure that it reached my eyes and wrinkled my nose –just the way my dad taught me.  Not that it was hard smiling at a pretty girl; but instincts die hard.  And my mom always told me old dogs can’t learn new tricks, but they’re damned good at the ones they do know.

“Your parents must have been expecting a daughter.”

“It’s a man’s name in Korea.”  I gave her a shrug, looking to the side. “My mom’s Korean.”

“You’re korean?”  She looked up from the computer. 

“Half.  My dad’s Romani.”

“Well, that explains the last name.”  She went back to typing.  A moment later, she said,  “You have a very pretty name.”

“Thank you.”  I said, feeling like I shared a bit too much.  But my dad always told me it’s better to share a little too much if you want to make a good impression –as long as the things you share don’t matter too much.  Like what kind of color you like, what you had for lunch or weather you’re a summer person or a fall person.

So when Darcy asked me a question I didn’t want to answer, I hesitated.

“Where’d you go to school? It’s not here on your resume.”

I maintained the smile, trying not to let the old pain show.  “I didn’t go to college.”

“Highschool?”  Darcy asked with a slight frown.

It wasn’t a frown of disappointment or disapproval.  I could tell that much.  It was in the angle that she held her head, the tone of her voice.  She was curious about how someone with only a G.E.D could make it to the final round interview in a Museum as prestigious as this one, where everyone with half an interest in History and Anthropology would die to work.NN

“Never graduated.  G.E.D.”  I took the stiffness out of my voice.

“Huh, cool.”  Darcy said.  “It says here that you worked at a Circus?  Got any tricks?”

I suppressed the urge to sigh.  Her line of questioning was beginning to grow uncomfortable.

“Yeah.”  I kept the answer short on purpose, painting it with a faint hue of curtness.  Darcy might not be able to pinpoint why, but her subconscious would get the message: I was uncomfortable.

Still, it wasn’t good to leave it at just that.  She was a pretty girl and I wanted to show off a little.  “You know what a Cold Reading is?”

“No, what’s that?”

Her last name was Levi, most likely from the bible; the old testament.  Then there were the clothes; a white shirt beneath a beige cardigan.  Buttoned almost all the way up.  A pretty girl who played down on her looks, all the while having a biblical last name.  Plus, the curly hair and the sharp nose.  The answer was right there.

I held out a hand towards her, all mystic-like.  “I get the sense that you grew up in a Jewish household.”

She perked up.  “How’d you know!”  It was less of a question and more of a statement.

Pretending to peer at her, I continued, putting all the facts and impressions I got from her together into one cohesive story –like weaving a tapestry.  She’d been friendly to me, more so than she needed to be.  Not in a flirtatious kind of way, but in a responsible ‘hey I’m trying to make you feel at ease’ kind of way.

“Definitely not an only child.  You must have younger siblings –a brother in fact.  He’s not too much younger than you, maybe two years younger than you at most.”

Her eyes widened.  “How’re you doing that?”

“You’re pretty close with your brother,” A twitch in her eye, her smile turned slightly shallow, “No, once was close.  Now, you’re kind of distant?”  I amended, “Something happened that’s driven you apart.”  A slightly widening of her pupils and the flaring of her nostrils.  That wasn’t shock… that was–

“You’re mad at him about something.”

She stared at me for a second, her face frozen like that.  Then she regained her composure, shooting me a sly smile.  “Oh that’s good.  You’re good.  Are you psychic or something?”

“That’s called a cold reading.”  I explained, “Just a trick.  A lot of lucky guesses.  There’s no such thing as psychics.”

“I’d like some of that luck myself!”  She said cheerfully.

We talked a little more, but the excitement was over and done with.  With nothing else happening, the conversation faded as Darcy went back to checking me in while I pretended to study the office hallway for the hundredth time.

My name is Jane Seryknak, and no, before you ask, I’m not psychic.  I’m not a magician.  I’m not anyone special.  But I do have one hell of a childhood.

I’m a half-Korean-half-Romani New Yorker, who spent half his life in a buddhist temple and the other half traveling all around the country performing as a fortune teller, psychic, magician, or whatever have you.

My mom descends from a long line of Korean Shamans and apparently, my birth year and date were auspicious enough for her to leave me to be raised in a Buddhist temple.  There I learned all sorts of things; Sajoo, Kwansang, Jeomchigi, Seal making... You know, all the superstitious fortune telling stuff.  Of course, at the time I had no idea I was actually supposed to be in elementary school learning things like, oh I don’t know, match and science.

I never went to high school either.  As soon as my mom put me in highschool, my good-for-nothing dad found me and dragged me to perform as a Psychic of all things.  In a carnival.  That’s right, I’m a Carnie.  That’s when I learned all the ‘skill of the trade’ –as my dad puts it– of Gypsy Magic.  Palm reading, Tarot Cards, Clairvoyance,Trinket Charms.  That sort of thing.

But no matter what my freakazoid parents or anyone tells you, I’ll tell you straight up –there’s no such thing as magic.  There’s no such thing as a god or spirit that comes down to possess you; Shinarim (신내림), because you’re an ‘empty vessel’ or whatever.  That’s what my mom said I was anyways, an empty vessel that was so flagrant for ghosts and spirits, that I had to learn how to protect myself.  Which was why she left me in a Buddhist temple, which coincidentally was run by my uncle.

My dad’s not any better.  He wasn’t drinking the kool-aid, as he used to say.  As a matter of fact, he was like me: a skeptic.  But he sure did love the dollars that come raining down with those ‘showbiz’ tricks.  He always said I was a natural, and sent me to Grams for training.  Training to scam ‘marks’, as he called it.

My Grandma taught me a lot of what I know and despite dad’s healthy dose of skepticism, she was a believer (God rest her soul).  All her magic was mixed up though; a potpourri of Voodoo, Neo-Catholic-Christian-Mythology mixed with Astrology god knows what else came about during the Gold Rush, the 80’s and the rise of the dotcom.  She was a nice enough person, though she had the tendency to dote on me a little too much.

But my dad… my dad, he taught me some good stuff.

Really read them.

Facial cues, the way they hold themselves.  The way they dress, the way they talk.  Those are all clues to who our marks are, where they’ve been and what they want.  Some of my favorite memories come from just sitting in the park, watching people with my dad.  He’d ask me ‘What do you think about that lady over there? Or that kid? Why do you think she keeps touching that necklace?’.  

‘How much do you think she’d pay to talk to her dead mother?’  He’d ask, while we sat across the parking lot of a funeral home, using that same sort of tone he used to ask me what I wanted for lunch.

That pretty much sums it up.

So here I was, at the most prestigious museum in New York.  I read Darcy, giving her just enough social cues to think I was friendly; maybe if I didn’t, she’d have looked down on me.  After all, I had no high school diploma, college degree or any official professional history to my name.  Just me and my book of tricks; used to read people, figure out what they want and add in a pinch of mysticism to get them to pay me.

The director here was supposed to be a friend of my uncle, from my dad’s side of course.  I don’t know the details and I don’t think I care.  I just want to get away from it all, you know?  Pretending to be a mind-reading-psychic who can talk with the dead is getting old.  And that gig sure doesn’t come with a 401K plan.  

This one does.

“Mr. Boswell is ready for you now, Jane.”  Darcy handed me a small manilla envelope.  “Good luck on your interview.”  She winked.

I winked back, “No such thing as luck.”

The office was right around the corner and I made sure to knock before entering.

“Come in.”  A man’s voice answered.

Then I entered into what was possibly the candy store equivalent for ‘psychics’, ‘magicians’ and all that doodad.

The office was huge, definitely larger than the trailer I grew up on.  That wasn’t the first thing that came to mind, however.  It was the decor.  The whole room was covered in display cases that sat in neat little rows, creating a singular path towards the desk towards the back.  As I walked through them, I couldn’t help but look at the contents.  A large tusk of a walrus, etched with tribal markings sat next to a sheet of paper with illegible writing, yellowed with age and wear.  In another, there were small darts fletched with green-and-yellow feathers with a blowpipe sitting right next to them.  And there were dozens more, all with open windows.

I hurried through the display cases, before my naughty hands could cop a feel.  Eh, old habits.  What can you do.

The interviewer was a skinny man with a narrow chin and even narrower eyes.  He had this almost starving look about him, a pale visage that told me of a lot of time at his neck.  A slight stoop to his neck and the potbelly, despite the rather skinny limbs, told me a lot of things.  For one, judging by the books around him, he was an academic.  That was supported by the belly –a slim man like him wouldn’t have one unless he wasn’t getting enough exercise.

“Jane, was it?  Please, sit.”  As I proceeded to sit, he started to fire off his thoughts without preamble.  “I heard from your uncle that you’re familiar with the old tales.  Folklore and myths in particular.  Is that true?”

He hadn’t even introduced himself.

“Yes.”  I said simply.  

He wasn’t looking for a story.  It could be seen from the way he started this conversation.  Just confirmation.  I wouldn’t have to do much; just give him the answers he wanted.  This whole interviewing thing might be a lot like fortune telling after all.

I felt my inner-self give a tiny fist pump in the air.  Could it be, that this job was in the bag?  Is this the sweet, sweet taste of nepotism?

“That’s great.  Now, I want to give you a sample assignment.  Of course, you’ll be compensated.”  He steepled his fingers together.  “If I gave you something that’s based on east-asian folklore, but intended to draw in western audiences; what would you do?”

“That’s easy,”  I licked my lips, I could taste the money.  401k, Roth IRA, Savings Accounts.  Here I come!  “Everyone knows about ogres, right?  I’d start with similarities between Ogres, Dokkaebis and Onis between all cultures.  I’d point to a possibility, that perhaps these monsters were-”

And as I began, something blue began to flicker in the middle of my vision.

[System Initializing…]

[Tower Integration… 83%]

I tried to ignore it, but it kept flashing.

[System Initializing…]

[Tower Integration… 89%]

[Mythos.pkg loading…]

[Folklore.pkg loading…]

[BedtimeHorrors.pkg loading…]

[CommonBeliefSystem.pkg loading…]

[Pre-loaded Pkg:

Religion

Heresy

Gods

Error%

CommonFears

…

]

“Uh, one second please.”  I rubbed my eyes.

But he wasn’t listening.  He was frowning and cleaning his glasses.

[System Initializing…]

[Tower Integration… 96%]

[Searching: TowerInfoPak.pkg Destination Path…]

[Found: Videogame Status Window]

[Vid.Status.Wndw loading…]

The words were still there.  What in the actual fuck?

“Mr. Serykank.  Do you… do you see that?”  My interviewer waved his hand through the air, like trying to catch something.

I gulped.

My senses were tingling.

I’ve heard of a lot of things.

But this was new.

Then it happened.

The words of a bloodcurdling voice of a little girl that spoke directly into my brain, like being shot up with morphine on a nice sunday afternoon.

[System Initializing…]

[Tower Integration… 100%]

[Earth.Variable has been defined as Floor.1]

[Welcome, Earth!]

It was the moment my life changed forever.

*********

Chapter 1 of a series I'm working on: Earth is Floor 1. LitRPG with actual system windows (probably won't get too bogged down into it), similar to Slave Origin Playthrough but more video gamey & less gritty.

Thinking about posting this as Chapter 1; but still working on a draft. Thinking about changing the intro to something else. If you guys could give me some feedback, it'd be greatly appreciated.