“He’s clueless!” Astrid hissed. “We have to dream it! Quick!”

  Proto blinked at her, as she faced the misty ambiguity and narrowed her violet eyes. It started clarifying into a vast exhibition hall with wandering shadowy figures, tables, display props, and portable storefronts.

  “Where are all the cosplayers?” asked Proto quietly.

  “I’m an old lady, I don’t know this stuff!” she muttered at him. “You do it!”

  “Uh, okay.” Proto pondered, then focused on the scene before him.

  Suddenly, about fifty of the shadowy figures came into clarity. They were all Dragon Ball Z characters in full, precise detail.

  Lilac looked at him. “Are you kidding me?” She squinted intently at the exhibition hall.

  The shadowy people began clarifying into a host of figures from a hundred different animes and video games, from Sailor Moon to Death Note to Final Fantasy VII. It was all rendered in exquisite detail.

  A black-garbed shinigami ambled by. “Anyone have an apple?”

  “Sorry, mine’s spoken for.” Dahlia held one up and smiled sympathetically.

  “Drat.” He walked on.

  Meanwhile, Fyrir was rubbing his eyes again, squinting blearily at the motley assemblage. “Ah. Well, isn’t that bright. Looks like a lively crew.”

  “That’s actually quite impressive, Lilac,” noted Astrid.

  “This is going to be so fun.” Lilac clasped her hands behind her back, stood pigeon-toed with touching knees, and beamed upon the scene in her French waitress outfit.

  A herd of Pokèmon-dressed teens stampeded by. “Sorry!” yelled one girl as she bumped the Lord of Dreams. “They’re handing out free foils!”

  “Well, in that case, forgiven!” Somnus amiably assured her.

  “Nice costumes!” the apologetic girl called backward as she ran away. “Professors Oak and Elm, right?”

  “Every year, I swear,” muttered Fyrir to Somnus, “we get older and our interns get younger.”

  Proto scrunched his gaze against the barrage of light and color. “Lilac, Lilac, give me eyes back.”

  She giggled. “Proto, Proto—hey, is that Frodo!” She pointed, and a hobbit-looking fellow waddled into sight.

  “Oh, I approve!” declared Dahlia, leaning down and pinching his vest.

  The hobbit gave her a smarmy smile. “Let’s take a little trip ‘there and back again,’ lass, what do you say?”

  Dahlia gasped and covered her mouth. “Hmph, I never!”

  Then, she smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Well, maybe not never. ‘This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong’!” She patted him on the head.

  The halfling flexed and shuffled away.

  “There’s a girl who’s got a couple things going for her, eh?” admired Fyrir to Somnus.

  “So . . . why are we paused here?” asked Astrid.

  “Oh, sight just got blurry for a moment,” replied Fyrir. “Dry eyes, probably. Or a small stroke. In any event, let’s get going.”

  They advanced into the cosplay convention. Costumed attendees wandered and glimmered and mock-battled all about them. But there was no sign of Mercune.

  “I worry I might not recognize her,” observed Fyrir, as a flock of girls wearing Angry Birds masks flapped by. “I fear I’ll have to ask every young redhead here if I know her.”

  “Well, at least you won’t have to do anything new,” observed the Lord of Dreams.

  “Eh! Eh!” the eighty year old chortled and elbowed Somnus agreeably.

  “Hey, there’s some red hair,” pointed Proto. “See those three girls in . . . chitons?”

  “Yes! I do!” cried Dahlia. She hied toward the white-garbed trio, followed by the others.

  The red-haired woman was holding a bronze Greek helmet under her arm. Her two companions were a dark-haired woman with an elegant poise and a blonde woman in an especially figure-hugging chiton.

  “Not Mercune, I’m afraid,” observed Fyrir, sizing up the three women, who looked more mid-twenties than late teens. “Although I can’t say I regret the trip.”

  “Yes, I think that’s Athena,” noted Dahlia sadly. She eyed the red-haired woman, then the dark-haired and the blonde. “And Hera and Aphrodite, I take it?”

  “In the flesh!” they cried, posing with their arms thrown wide.

  “Oh, but I love your shirt!” Aphrodite gushed to Proto, feeling the fabric of his blue chiton. “Is that Corinthian?”

  “It is!” enthused Dahlia. “Corinthian is my favorite.”

  “Hm. Which of us is your favorite?” Aphrodite asked Proto. The three women posed again.

  Proto pondered as all eyes turned to him. “Uh. I feel like nothing good can come of this choice.”

  “Still, you have to choose!” urged Somnus.

  “Yes, stop being boring and homely!” chided Aphrodite, smiling and coyly slapping the top of his hand.

  “Indeed, Proto!” agreed Dahlia.

  Hera waved dismissively. “There’s nothing less boring than what happens at home.” She briefly clasped Proto’s arm as she spoke.

  “She’s right, you know,” agreed Lilac, snapping a photo with her off-brand Polaroid.

  Athena rolled her eyes, with one hand resting on her cocked hip. “Why choose between a romcom and a sitcom, when you can have an adventure?”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” agreed Astrid.

  Proto was getting more uncomfortable by the second about making this choice right now. He glanced back and forth between the three.

  “Hmph! You’d think he’s picking for real, the way he’s ruminating!” mused Fyrir.

  “What? I’m not picking for real?” replied Proto, stalling for time.

  “Oh, don’t worry too much about what’s real,” counseled Somnus. “You can always make things real. What’s hard is dreaming them up in the first place!”

  “Who do you think you are?” Athena asked the Lord of Dreams. “The god Hypnos?”

  “Oh, I’ve missed that name!” cried Somnus. “Could you three call me Hypnos, please? Or maybe—Lord Hypnos?”

  “As you wish, Lord Hypnos!” Aphrodite insinuated herself under his arm.

  “As you please, Lord Hypnos!” Hera curled around his other arm.

  “Command me, Lord Hypnos!” Athena held out her helmet beckoningly.

  “Mm. Don’t mind if I do,” said Somnus. Some mists had swirled up, but he waved a hand imperiously and they dissipated. “Come, goddesses!” He strolled off with them.

  “Hey.” Proto frowned. “What about my choice?”

  “Sorry, Mister, you took too long!” Aphrodite called over her shoulder.

  Proto nodded grimly, as Somnus and his entourage ambled away. The others just stared.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “WTF,” said Astrid. “Now what?”

  “Ah, to be forty again,” Fyrir envied.

  “On the bright side, I got a good photo.” Lilac handed Proto the mostly-developed slip of paper. It showed Hera clasping Proto’s arm warmly, as Aphrodite looked away and Athena rolled her eyes.

  “That’s the moment you captured?” pouted Dahlia. “She’s going to be the centerpiece of this memory? That’s like . . . putting Tom Bombadil on the cover of Lord of the Rings!”

  Astrid nodded in agreement. “Or like . . . putting Aki on the cover of You Only Live Twice!”

  “Who should be on the cover? A Russian cosmonaut?” Lilac asked Astrid coolly.

  Proto had no idea what they were talking about. “And you tell me my references are outdated.”

  “Ah, Aki. What a tart she was!” said Fyrir. “I remember seeing her at the theater.”

  “Me too!” recalled Astrid.

  The bald old man tilted his head at her, as the mists swirled up a bit. “Eh, second-run?”

  “Like I said,” mused Astrid, turning to Proto, “old lady.”

  Proto shrugged. “I like my women like I like my drinks.”

  She raised an eyebrow and waved him onward, in a silent, let’s get this over with.

  “Balanced and tasteful and understated?” suggested Lilac.

  “Full-flavored and sophisticated?” suggested Dahlia.

  “Hard and fiery with rich undertones?” suggested Astrid.

  “In sets of three or more.” Proto double-gunned them all.

  Dahlia giggled. Astrid and Lilac flicked his ears.

  “Ah, we have a Sean Connery here!” Fyrir slapped Proto on the back. “My kind of man.”

  Dahlia nodded eagerly and gave him a thumbs up.

  They wandered the convention looking for Mercune for a few more minutes before Fyrir ahed and strode toward a young woman in a mech suit. “Shirley! Is that you in there?”

  She stiffened, then nodded. “It sure is! What a nice surprise, Sir!” She pressed her lips and looked around, then approached them.

  Fyrir turned to the others. “Lab interness. I remembered her name!” He tapped his temple, then faced the woman. “Shirley, wasn’t today a work day? Also, have you seen Mercune here?”

  “Sure, we were hanging out earlier,” replied Shirley, ignoring the first question. “Then, Mercune went off to be a VIP.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Excuse me?” said Fyrir.

  Shirley sighed and pointed at a big glowing sign saying “VIPs.” Beneath it was a guarded doorway.

  “What does that mean?” asked the elder.

  “Vegetables In Pots,” she answered grumpily. “Good to see you, Sir!” She walked away.

  “I don’t think that’s what it stands for,” observed Proto.

  “Interns these days. Gen Z!” Fyrir shook his head. “I miss Himari. Now there was an intern!”

  He led the group toward the VIP-labeled doorway, maneuvering through the crowds, and approached the guards in front. “Afternoon, friends. I’ll need to get in there.”

  “Are you a VIP?” asked one of the guards, looking him up and down.

  “In whose estimation?” asked the world-famous scientist.

  The guards exchanged a glance. “Do you have a damn badge?” one of them asked.

  “ . . . no,” said the old man.

  “Then . . . no,” replied the first guard.

  “It’s an emergency! My little girl is lost in there!” objected Fyrir. “I must go find her.”

  “Oh, a little kid?” The second guard blinked with concern. “I’ll go in and get her. What’s she look like?”

  “Well, not a little kid, precisely,” corrected Fyrir. “Late teens. Red hair—”

  “Late teen girl in the VIP area at a cosplay convention?” the first guard interrupted. “Yeah, not an emergency. You can wait.”

  “But . . . !” Fyrir balled his fists in futile vexation, then exhaled and turned away.

  Meanwhile, a fat gamer with a Bubble Bobble hat waddled up. He was followed by a bone-skinny, neckbearded guy in a T-shirt. It showed some pixelated girl on a beach next to a shipwrecked boy, and it said, “The only Princess for me.”

  One of the guards nodded and thumbed them toward the VIP doorway. They strolled right in.

  Fyrir stared. “You can’t be telling me that those are VIPs.”

  “Nope. Contest winners,” replied the second guard. “See the badge the big guy had?”

  “So . . . contest winners can go in? And bring their friends?” asked Astrid, drawing a nod from the guards.

  “We’re friends with, uh, that fat fellow!” Fyrir waved toward the pair who just entered.

  The first guard scoffed. “Go win a contest, old man.” He pointed at some tables across the room. There, various costumed gamers were playing cards, board games, and old video games against one another.

  Fyrir stared at the tables, shaking his head. “To think!” he grumbled. “My research is changing the world! I likely have just a few years left! And how will I spend them? Entering contests against physiognomically challenged wastrels!”

  “I’m sure Mercune will thank you,” assuaged Dahlia. “The things we do for those we love!”

  “Sometimes you have to give things up to keep what you love,” said Proto.

  Then, he wondered why he’d just said that. He felt himself flush as everyone looked at him. What a weirdo.

  “Anyway,” said Fyrir after a moment, “I guess I’d best go win a contest. Do you think they have Bingo? Or shuffleboard? I play a mean shuffleboard!”

  “I don’t know about that.” Proto tried to think of something suitably old-fashioned that Fyrir might’ve heard of. “They might have Sudoku.”

  “Eh? Think one of my uncles was killed in the war at Sudoku,” recalled Fyrir. “Or was it Sukumo?”

  The others exchanged a glance.

  “Maybe we can all try to win a contest,” suggested Astrid.

  “Good idea.”

  They headed over and scanned the contest tables. Things looked grim for Fyrir at first, as they passed from a Magic: The Gathering tournament to a Warhammer 40k game to a Smash tournament.

  The old man squinted at the screen. “Is that yellow rat electrocuting the dago-looking fellow in red?”

  But he perked up a bit after watching Cards Against Humanity for a few minutes. “The dames these days will play this with you?” he murmured to Proto. “Maybe the 21st century’s not so bad!”

  He really got excited, though, when they found a table playing wild rummy.

  “Wild rummy!” the old man cried with satisfaction. “I haven’t played that game in fifty years.”

  “I know, right?!” exclaimed Astrid.

  The game was about to start, and it seemed clear this was fated. So, Fyrir and Astrid sat at the table and joined in.

  There was a concession stand nearby. Fyrir waved over the vendor, who was dressed as Calamity Calamari, complete with an elegant cane-sword. The man touched his chest questioningly, then approached.

  Fyrir held up a wad of bills. “Sir, she could use a dry martini.” He gestured at Astrid. “And so could I. I’ll have mine dirty.”

  The vendor looked back at the concession stand. There was a half-full bottle of vodka, no gin, no vermouth, and certainly no olives. “Shaken or stirred?”

  “What do you think?” waved Fyrir.

  The vendor rolled his eyes and went to pour some vodka.

  “Another Sean Connery, I see,” said Astrid.

  Fyrir extended his hands in a what can I say gesture. “As for you.” He sized her up thoughtfully. “Britt Ekland. Maybe Shirley Eaton. But with Holly Goodhead’s spacesuit.”

  Astrid frowned, and Proto laughed.

  The game went well for Astrid and Fyrir—especially Astrid. A couple teens at the table struggled to remember the rules, let alone strategize. One middle-aged lady dressed as a d20 was pretty good. But she was no Fyrir, and Fyrir was no Astrid.

  The silvery-blue haired woman was preternaturally aware of what sets and runs lay in front of the other players. She also never made a mistake. As a result, it soon seemed clear she’d be the winner.

  Meanwhile, she sipped her “martini,” then a second. “You know,” she observed, “I thought this was bad vodka at first.”

  “But now?” replied Fyrir, laying down a card.

  “Now, I’m sure this is bad vodka,” she replied. “Could you buy me another?”

  “My kind of dame!” praised Fyrir. “You look like a Russian cosmonaut, and you drink like one too.”

  “That and more.” She laid several cards down, as Fyrir blinked and chuckled.

  Dahlia tilted her head bemusedly. “Is she always like this when she drinks and plays cards?”

  “I’ll have to practice wild rummy,” mused Proto.

  Dahlia flicked his ear.

  “You too now?” he griped. “It’s going to fall off!”

  “We can make do without.” Her eyes gleamed.

  The game went on. Astrid was running away with it, with only Fyrir in touching distance.

  “You know your rummy, Madame Silverwear!” complimented Proto, as she lay down several cards.

  “Ain’t it the truth!” She yawned and flicked a card on top of one Fyrir’s sets. “You should’ve seen me in the old days. I was winning twenty Breath Tokens a day!”

  The silvery-blue haired woman sounded a little loopy. Proto noticed she was on her third drink. Not that it had any impact whatsoever on her playing.

  “What do you need all those Tokens for?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she mused absently. “I’ve just always dreamt of having a little girl, and—”

  She blinked twice, then gave Proto a violet-eyed glance. “What am I even saying? Too many martinis.”

  “Eh? A little girl, you said?” replied Fyrir. “My Everleigh said the same thing. We’d only had a pair of boys, you see. So when we found young Mercune on her own, found out that her parents had passed away—well, it seemed fated.”

  Astrid looked at him and smiled. “You’ll have to introduce me when we find her.”

  “Oh, she’ll introduce herself, I’ll tell you what!” averred Fyrir, drawing a little laugh from Astrid. “Ah, feels like just yesterday she still needed a babysitter. What was that blonde’s name, Spice Girl or something?”

  Proto, meanwhile, was sifting through what Astrid had said to him. How was that an answer to his question? Was it? Or was that just her vodka speaking?

  “Breath Tokens,” mused Dahlia. “I don’t even collect the things. But you’re getting awfully close, yes, Astrid? When’s your Saturn Return?”

  The jumpsuited woman stiffened. “Not sure. I need to focus on the game.”

  Proto started to open his mouth to ask what they were talking about. But the look on Astrid’s face told him to shut up, and it was persuasive.

  Fyrir, meanwhile, was focused on his cards and apparently not listening. A grin was forming on his face, turning his many wrinkles into dimples.

  It was then that Proto felt a strange tugging inside of him. It reminded him of standing in a lake and suddenly being pulled by the undertow.

  “It’s like a river—the current of the dream,” Astrid had told him once. “Deep down, the dreamer knows best where the dream should go.”

  It might have been possible to resist that current. And yet something told him things were flowing exactly as they should.

  Proto watched as, beaming, Fyrir abruptly laid down over a dozen cards and discarded the last one.

  “Ha!” gloated the old man. “Oh, how I held out to do that!”

  “That’s not possible,” objected Astrid, squinting at the cards. “That eight of spades. I’m holding the other . . . ” Her voice trailed off. She glanced skyward, her lips curving up wryly.

  “Ha! It seems everyone makes mistakes. Even Wonder Woman here!” declared Fyrir, patting her on the arm. “Wonderful playing, Dear. My, I haven’t had such fun in years.”

  “You’ve clearly had a lot of practice,” Astrid graciously observed.

  “Indeed, indeed.” He itched his long white beard. “Age before beauty, eh? But beauty’s in close second.”

  Astrid laughed good-naturedly.

  “Take lessons from him!” Dahlia murmured eagerly to Proto.

  “Good game, Old Man,” said one of the teen players. He’d checked out and started browsing Twitter midway through the game.

  “Much obliged, Sonny,” replied Fyrir. “Don’t take the loss too hard!”

  The teens walked off. “That beard! Like a village elder from Final Fantasy!” one of them remarked to the other.

  One of the convention organizers approached Fyrir and pinned a badge to his lab coat. It had a picture of a Queen of Hearts atop a pile of cards, her mouth agape and her arms thrown up wildly.

  “Wild rummy,” explained the organizer.

  Fyrir just shook his head.

  “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?” the organizer asked, gesturing at Fyrir’s lab coat. “Hojo? Dr. Mario?”

  “Fyrir, the world-famous scientist,” replied the old man.

  “Oh yeah, that dude,” recalled the organizer. “Cool beans.”