Finkle Bijaka had endured many lifetimes of indignities, but being stalked by a smell was a new low. It wasn’t just any smell but a relentless, skin-crawling stench that clung to him like a bad decision. It had the nasty habit of vanishing just long enough to make him question his sanity, only to come back stronger, as if it had a personal vendetta. And it wasn’t just his nose under attack. The smell seeped into him, an invisible trespasser scratching at his soul. It was making him delirious.

 

When the waking world failed to offer answers (or relief), Finkle did the only reasonable thing left: he left his body tucked safely away in the back of a wardrobe and took off across the astral plane into the higher dimensions. Somewhere out there, past the usual noise of Physical, something foul lurked and Finkle was going to find it then, presumably, kick it very hard.

 

The stench had finally dulled to a tolerable level—just enough to keep him from clawing at his own mind, but not enough to forget it existed. He knew better than to relax. Sooner or later, it would come back swinging. But for now, he took the win and enjoyed the rare peace.

 

It always took a moment to settle into the glide of the astral plane. Smooth. Weightless. Unreasonably pleasant, all things considered. Pale blue streams twisted and curled through the vast expanse ahead, their soft glow spilling into the surrounding darkness before trailing off like they'd lost interest. Finkle rode the brightest of them. Its edges flickered with a reddish-brown hue, scattering copper embers into the dark. More than just a colour, that glow marked the stream’s origin back in Physical. It also happened to match the hue of his astral body, which pulsed a more intimate version of the same warmth.

 

Once he found his rhythm, the stream responded like an old companion, shifting and twisting exactly as he willed it, carrying him effortlessly. It was the perfect balance of soothing and fun, like being cradled by a wave that knew exactly where he wanted to go. Not that this trip was meant to be fun, but small wins.

 

It had been a while since he’d left Physical like this, and he couldn’t deny the low hum of excitement building. Astral travel was the only time he truly got to be a person—a form that fit like it was made for him. For once, Existence had handed him exactly what he wanted. You just had to know how to ask. Of course, what Existence gave, it also had a habit of taking back. The return trip would be less elegant, as always. Waking back up in his sleeping body was never a good look. There’d be limbs at odd angles and at least ten minutes of existential confusion. But it was always worth it.

 

Feeling anchored yet free, travelling at a steady pace, Finkle settled in for the long haul—though, technically, it wasn’t that long. Time on the astral plane had no interest in behaving. It splintered off in all directions, sped up, looped back, and generally made a mockery of schedules. Whole lifetimes could play out in the middle of a nap while the waking world barely noticed. And in this nap, he intended to find the source of the smell and put an end to it. He didn’t care how long it took, or how convoluted the path might be. He was going to track it down, trace it through every bizarre twist and turn, and if it meant battling through dimensions and half-forgotten realities—so be it. He’d follow that stench to the ends of existence if he had to.

 

His astral body cast a warm glow through the blue streaks of the stream. The stream carried him into The Hollow, the mother of all highways. A sprawling, shimmering network that connected the dimensions of Existence while politely keeping them at arm’s length with a whopping great twisty and bendy tunnel. He started out in the central passage, a vast expanse with an outer crust that glowed copper, marking the Physical sector like a "You Are Here" sticker on a cosmic map.

 

The Hollow mostly lived up to its name. Endless space, not much company, and lighting that could generously be described as “moody.” Ultraviolet particles drifted in from the crust, putting on a good show at the edges, but by the time they reached Finkle’s lane, they barely bothered to glow. Still, compared to the stench, the faint hum of UV energy was practically a spa day.

 

Since dropping into REM sleep, the foul smell had kept its distance. Shame it hadn’t been that considerate back in Physical, or maybe he wouldn’t have been forced to abandon his body in a wardrobe and launch himself across the dimensions.

 

He still couldn’t believe it. A smell. Who gets chased out of reality by a smell? When it first arrived in the mail, he’d assumed something in the package had spoiled, or that it was a small decaying creature. But there was nothing dead or alive inside, just a perfectly ordinary-looking game. And yet, from the moment it entered his space, his senses had been screaming. It wasn’t just bad. It was rotten. It didn’t even have the decency to stay consistent. It came in waves. One moment, blessed relief. The next, a suffocating wall of pure, unspeakable foulness crashing over him. Endure. Recover. Repeat.

 

Sure enough, as if on cue, the next wave hit. Sharp, acrid, and downright unforgivable. Finkle groaned, clutching his imaginary nose—not that it did anything, but the gesture was emotionally satisfying.

 

‘Come on. Give me a break,’ he muttered, then louder, ‘Why do bad things always happen at the worst possible moments?!’

 

The rhetorical complaint hung in the air, aimed at whatever half-baked entity held the reins of fate. He wiped at the phantom slime on his skin, even though there was nothing real to clean off. Such was the charm of astral travel—everything was just real enough to mess with his head, but not real enough to fix.

 

Without the complexities of the real world weighing things down, Finkle could tell that the smell didn’t come from something alive, but he didn’t know what that meant. All he knew what that whatever caused it wasn’t just offensive; it carried something darker and heavier—something wrong. Barely had he made the realisation that it vanished again, slipping away as easily as it had come.

 

Mocking him.

 

Well, fine. If it thought he’d just float around letting it ruin his nap-time, it had seriously misjudged the situation.

 

Sniff. Sniff, sniff.

 

His nostrils flared as he scanned for the trail. That’s when he spotted it: a smear along the edge of the pale blue flow, dark and greasy, twisting like something alive. When he looked straight at it, it vanished. Of course it did.

 

He sighed. ‘Helpful.’

 

The stench, mercifully, stayed dulled so he could make good progress. He might have enjoyed himself, if not for the nagging awareness that it would be back at any moment.

 

He glided along for a while, enjoying the relative ease, until the smell crept back, seeping into his senses just as the smear reappeared in his vision. It twisted the stream beneath him, pulling it off course and steering him into a narrower passage. The sides closed in, forming a dense, impenetrable cushion, damp and slimy to the touch. It was like sliding over a mossy wall—an uncomfortable sensation that made it even harder to focus. Clammy and constricting, the passage demanded constant vigilance to avoid brushing against the sides. He nearly made it through unscathed, but the exit narrowed even further. Squeezing through, he was left with an awful dampness clinging to his astral skin, his face pressed so close that both cheeks slid over the slick surface.

 

Finkle briefly considered morphing into something better suited for the job. A mole came to mind: great sense of smell, born for tunnels. Perfect for the task—except for one glaring issue. Moles had all the aesthetic appeal of a damp rag, and he wasn’t ready to stop being a person just yet. In this place, presence was everything.

 

Besides, he’d spent ages getting his face just right.

 

He hadn’t cut corners on the design. Spiralling holes for ears, tuned to the subtlest frequencies. A nose built for nuance, wide and responsive, capable of appreciating—or condemning—every scent that drifted his way. Luminous green eyes framed by brows that could convey disappointment across vast distances. Full lips, perfectly calibrated for delivering withering monologues. His eyes were a particular triumph: large, green, glowing, with a glint that broadcast his every mood because, frankly, he loathed ambiguity. Thick brows sealed the deal, hammering home whatever expression he aimed to convey. Bald and striking, the head was shaped beautifully with boldness and purpose. Bodies were always an afterthought. Limbs, torso, hands, and feet were just functional placeholders, enough to move him around when required. Most of the time, his form trailed behind him like a vague, half-hearted sketch.

 

All in all, it was an excellent look. Probably. Hard to say without a mirror, and The Hollow wasn’t exactly brimming with reflective surfaces and it wasn’t exactly a priority to go looking for one with the stench hanging over him like a bad prophecy.

 

Destroy the stench. Look incredible doing it. Make it home for dinner. That was the plan.

 

When he finally tracked down the source of that foulness and put an end to it, well—that would be a feat worthy of legend. And, more importantly, a well-earned relief for his weary nose.

 

But first, he had to get out of his home realm.

 

While The Hollow was technically a void—empty of all tangible matter, blah blah—it wasn’t exactly uneventful. Especially not in the Physical sector, where "peace and quiet" went to die. Nowhere proved this better than the Oridian sector. Perched on the Physical border of Semiphysical like a drunk leaning against a fence, Oridian existed in a permanent state of adjustment. It pelted Finkle from every angle. Textures. Smells. Sounds. Lights. An endless sensory assault designed by someone who’d clearly lost a bet. Even on the astral plane, Physical refused to shut up. Most of it was harmless enough, mildly distracting in that "oh look, another shimmer" kind of way. But when you added the stench riding shotgun, staying focused turned into an extreme sport.

 

To avoid getting slapped around by whatever horrors the edges of The Hollow were serving up, Finkle stayed dead centre, where the atmosphere was warm, dry, and reasonably indifferent to his existence. For a while, it worked. He glided on in relative comfort, halfway to forgetting his nose's ongoing trauma—until the smell crept back. Subtle at first. Then not. Just as the smear reappeared in his vision, the stream twisted under him, like a rug yanked out by an amateur magician. Before he could correct the drift, it veered into a narrower passage, funnelling him straight into what felt like the inside of an unwashed boot.

 

The walls pressed in, thick and clammy, trailing invisible slime over his meticulously crafted cheeks. A slick, unwelcome drag clung to his astral skin as the space tightened around him. The smell returned.  But the smell had already reached its peak, suffocating his senses and reminding him that Existence still had a way of slapping him across the face when he least expected it.

 

‘Oh, come on,’ he muttered, wriggling through the last gap and wiping at his face, despite knowing full well there was nothing actually there. ‘Why do bad things always happen at the worst possible moments?!’ he shouted to no one, scrubbing at his face. There wasn’t actually anything on him—astral residue didn’t exist—but the feeling of slime lingered like a bad mood. Astral travel: proof that you could suffer in places that didn’t technically exist.

 

The passage spat him out into a wider lane, and he tumbled back to the centre with as much dignity as he could salvage (none). Relief barely had time to settle before another wave of stink rolled over him.

 

What in the actual realms could produce a foulness of this calibre? The question gnawed at him, each effortless stride sharpening his irritation.

 

Then came the shift—subtle at first. The air lightened, sensations thinned. He knew this feeling. Semiphysical was close. And there it was, rippling ahead: the shimmer of the border, an iridescent forcefield gliding like oil on water. Once upon a time, the sight of it had thrilled him. Now, it might as well have been a ‘Welcome to Semiphysical’ road sign.

 

‘Ah, the crossing of underwhelm,’ he muttered with mock drama.

 

For a border between dimensions, it was shockingly low-effort. No locks, no riddles, no epic trials—just a mild shimmer and the nagging suspicion that the architects of reality had phoned it in. For half a second, he considered looking for a more exciting route. There had to be a back door somewhere—a hidden lever, a secret knock, a passage that only opened if you whispered something in the right language. But this wasn’t a leisurely wander through the unknown. The smell had him on a leash.

 

Without slowing down, Finkle plunged through the shimmer and into Semiphysical. The golden glow of this sector of The Hollow wrapped around him, and the sensation shifted instantly—like slipping into a thicker, invisible fluid. It wasn't damp or unpleasant, but it took a moment to adjust. The scent changed too, a whisper of something floral at the edges—delicate, promising, like the first hint of a better reality waiting just ahead.

 

Tiny ultraviolet particles drifted lazily around him, softer and subtler than those in Physical, offering a gentle hum instead of an intrusive buzz. The scent changed too, a whisper of something floral at the edges—delicate, promising, like the first hint of a better reality waiting just ahead.

 

Finkle had long since learned that traveling the plane didn’t mean detachment. If anything, it was the opposite. No solid body meant no buffer—just him, raw and receptive, at the mercy of whatever vibes the dimension decided to hurl his way. Luckily, Meldge played nice. It had a way of easing you in, letting you melt straight into the environment, like syrup folding into more syrup. Total immersion. Or, if you preferred, you could keep to yourself. Meldge didn’t mind. Of course, all of that only applied if you were Meldgian. Being astral meant Finkle floated just outside the connection, skimming the surface without sinking in. Touching, but not touched back. That suited him just fine. A comfortable buffer between him and everything was his preferred mode of existence in any dimension.

 

Though, if he were being honest, it was a bit lonely. But hey—perks. His instincts stayed razor-sharp on the plane, making navigation a breeze. Still. A map wouldn’t go astray.

 

Zigzagging through tangled passageways, Finkle followed his nose through every twist and turn. Suction pockets were dodged, narrow bends were conquered, and in his mind, he moved with the effortless grace of a cosmic acrobat. If there were an audience, they’d be in awe. There wasn’t. He was barely there himself. Still, it was shaping up to be quite the adventure.

 

The stench dragged him toward one of the countless portholes dotting The Hollow’s crust—a perfect ring of light, its edges fizzing with ultraviolet shimmer, thickening into a luminous haze beyond. He braced for another olfactory assault—only to catch something unexpected. Faint. Floral. A whisper of something almost... pleasant.

 

Hope flickered. A promise of something better.

 

Whatever lay ahead, he was ready. Ready for answers. For closure. For the sweet, glorious relief of breathing in nice fragrances again.

 

With zero hesitation, he flung himself through.

 

Whatever caused the smell didn't stand a chance.