Milo had always considered himself a relatively reasonable man. He paid his rent on time, avoided pineapple on pizza debates, and generally didn't yell at clouds. But this? This was testing his entire identity.
After narrowly escaping a philosophical debate with a tree stump who insisted that all acorns were actually just shy peanuts, Milo stumbled into a clearing where the air suddenly smelled like lemon-scented dish soap and mild regret.
In the center stood a fountain. Elegant, marble, beautiful—except it had a giant face carved into its basin. The face had thick eyebrows, pursed lips, and a twinkle of unearned confidence in its stone eyes.
Milo approached cautiously.
The fountain's eyes snapped open.
Fountain: "IIIIIIII want it that waaayyyy—"
The sudden blast of off-key '90s boy band hit him like a freight train of cringe. Water spouted from its mouth like it was projectile-vomiting nostalgia.
Fountain (belting): "TELL ME WHYYYYYY—"
Milo clutched his ears. "No, no, no, please don't. I didn't ask for karaoke night!"
The fountain swayed slightly as it hit the high notes, voice cracking like an adolescent llama. Milo considered violence.
"I swear to whatever eldritch taco gods run this place," he muttered, "if this turns into a musical, I'm flipping a tree."
Just then, like divine intervention—or malicious scheduling—[i.d.e.a.l.] chimed in with its usual detached glee.
[i.d.e.a.l.]: "Milo. Your first task has arrived."
Milo straightened, wiping fountain water off his face. "Finally! Some clarity!"
[i.d.e.a.l.]: "You must solve the riddle of the Dream World. Only then may you proceed."
Milo blinked. "What riddle? Where?"
[i.d.e.a.l.]: "Look for the hidden door within the apple tree. But beware, it may be inside-out today."
Pause.
Milo stared at the sky, which helpfully shifted to a smug purple.
"Of course," he muttered. "Inside-out apple trees. My specialty."
With the confidence of a man who once got lost in a roundabout for thirty minutes, Milo marched off in search of the apple tree.
What he found instead was a field of sentient corn whispering financial advice.
"Invest in moon cheese," one stalk murmured. "The returns are out of this world."
"No," Milo said, side-stepping them like a landmine of MLM recruiters.
Eventually, he stumbled upon what looked like an apple tree—or rather, something trying to be one. It was tall, red, and leafy... but only on Thursdays. Today, it flickered between a proper apple tree and a giant pumpkin with an unsettling smile.
Pumpkin Tree (grinning): "Would you like to join our secret club, heeheehee?"
Milo took a cautious step back. "Does the club involve getting eaten?"
Pumpkin Tree: "We don't like labels."
"I'm out."
The apple-pumpkin hybrid began humming ominously as Milo walked away, whispering something about dues and blood oranges.
More Crazy Encounters
Just as he was beginning to question every life choice that had led him here (including that time he ate gas station sushi), Milo encountered a fluttering creature surrounded by sparkles.
A fairy!
Finally, something helpful!
She was adorable—sparkly wings, a crown made of dandelions, and an expression of unfiltered judgment.
Fairy: "I am Princess No-Fun. Bow before me."
Milo raised an eyebrow. "I'm not really a bowing kind of guy."
Princess No-Fun: "Good. I'd hate that. Now, tell me what you seek."
"Oh thank god," Milo sighed. "There's supposedly a riddle involving a door in an apple tree. Can you help me make sense of it?"
Princess No-Fun: "No."
Milo blinked. "No?"
Princess No-Fun (smirking): "Because I said so!"
She twirled midair and sprinkled him with glitter that itched like judgment and lemon zest.
"...I'm going to scream."
Before he could decide between screaming or collapsing into a dramatic heap, a soft, ominous rumble rolled across the field. Milo turned and saw a puff of fluff slowly approaching.
It was a cloud.
A very angry, very slow cloud.
"YOU," it boomed, its voice deep and echoing like thunder muffled by cotton balls. "YOU MUST APOLOGIZE."
Milo blinked. "For what?!"
The cloud rumbled ominously. "YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID."
"I really don't!"
"THAT'S WHAT MAKES IT WORSE."
And thus began the most awkward, slowest chase scene in existence, as Milo jogged in circles around a tree while the angry cloud floated behind him at the speed of passive aggression.
"This is my life now. Dream world nonsense, musical fountains, sarcastic fairies, and judgmental cumulus. Cool cool cool."
And somewhere in the sky, the colors turned into a big thumbs-up emoji made of rainbows and tofu.
Somewhere between dodging an accusatory cloud and arguing with a bush that insisted it was his father, Milo began to feel a creeping sensation in his chest—not heartburn, not dread exactly, but something worse.
Awareness.
It came in waves. First, the realization that no matter how far he walked, the scenery somehow looped back on itself. The whispering corn returned. So did the judgmental mushrooms. And that same "Help Wanted" sign nailed to a giant snail kept popping up like a bad Wi-Fi signal.
He stood in the middle of the glowing forest, windless and still, as the sky above him flickered like a busted TV.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay, deep breaths. This is just... a dream. A lucid nightmare. A fever hallucination brought on by expired milk and existential dread. I'll wake up any second now. Yup. Any. Second."
He slapped himself.
Nothing.
The balloon that popped out this time read, "Nice try."
His knees wobbled.
"I'm stuck," he muttered. "I'm actually stuck."
As he sat down on a suspiciously squishy rock (that made a soft "oof" sound when he landed), a sound crept into the edges of the dream. At first it was a whisper—no, a hum, low and rumbling, like an engine revving in the distance. The kind of sound that didn't belong in enchanted forests or boyband fountains.
It didn't feel whimsical. It felt wrong.
Leaves above began trembling, despite no wind. The colors of the sky warped again—but this time, they bled together in unnatural shades. Green over red, blue over nothing. The trees groaned. The shadows stretched.
Something was coming.
And then, like a passive-aggressive pop-up ad in his head:
[i.d.e.a.l.]: "By the way, Milo, things are about to get a lot more complicated."
"Oh fantastic."
[i.d.e.a.l.]: "The girl's emotions are... how shall we say... volatile. And you, dear Milo, are standing squarely in the blast zone. So, you know... enjoy the ride."
Milo stared up at the sky.
"Volatile? Blast zone? You couldn't have led with that?!"
[i.d.e.a.l.]: "Where's the fun in that?"
The sound grew louder.
No longer a hum—more like... teeth grinding through static.
Milo turned instinctively, sensing a presence behind him.
There, standing at the edge of the forest, was a figure.
A shadow. A glitch in the world's fabric.
It didn't walk. It twitched—flickering in and out of existence like a poorly rendered 3D model, pixels sloughing off its body like ash. It had a shape but no detail, eyes but no soul. And it was staring directly at him.
Milo's heart stopped.
The ground under him pulsed like a heartbeat.
The trees whispered warnings in voices too fast to understand.
The dream was changing.
It wasn't just random chaos anymore.
It was becoming something far more dangerous.
"This is bad. This is capital-B bad. This is worse-than-a-cursed-McFlurry-machine bad."
And as the figure took one twitching, digitized step forward, the world around him shattered into shards of color and sound.
A scream echoed in the distance—raw, emotional, unmistakably human.
And then:
BLACK.