Finkle Bijaka had endured many lifetimes of indignities, but being stalked by a smell was a new low. Not 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. It wasn’t just his nose under attack. The smell seeped into him like 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.

 

Since dropping into REM sleep, the foul smell had kept its distance, just enough to keep him from clawing at his own mind, but not enough to forget it existed. 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. Still, 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. His astral body glowed in 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 Finkle had astral travelled out of Physical and he couldn’t deny the excitement building. Surfing the plane was the only time he got to be a person, and the design he’d conjured for this trip fit like it was made for him. Morphing back into his real body when he woke up wasn’t going to be fun. 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, even if it meant battling through dimensions and half-forgotten realities 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.

 

Sniff. Sniff, sniff.

 

As if on cue, a wave of stench hit. Not the sharp, acrid assault he knew from the real world. No, this was worse. Slippery. Elusive.

 

Finkle groaned, clutching his imaginary nose. It didn’t help, but it felt good to try.

 

Here, without the weight of the real world dulling his senses, he could tell one thing for sure: the smell wasn’t coming from anything alive. That alone was unsettling. What did that mean? He had no idea. All he knew was that whatever caused it wasn’t just offensive—it carried something darker, heavier. Something wrong.

 

And just as that realisation landed, the stench vanished. Slipped away like it had never been there at all.

 

Mocking him.

 

Well, fine. If it thought he’d just float around letting it ruin his nap, it had picked the wrong bioform.

 

It didn’t even have the decency to stay consistent. One moment: blessed relief. The next: a wall of unspeakable foulness slamming into him like punishment. Endure. Recover. Repeat.

 

But now—mercifully—it dulled again, receding just enough for him to press on. He might’ve even enjoyed himself, if not for the gnawing certainty that it would return. Probably soon. Probably worse.

 

His nostrils flared as he caught a flicker along the edge of the pale blue flow—a dark, greasy smear twisting like something alive. When he looked straight at it, it vanished. Of course it did.

 

He sighed. ‘Helpful.’

 

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 like some grotesque calling card. 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. Textures, smells, sounds and lights pelted Finkle from every angle in an endless sensory assault. Even on the astral plane, Physical refused to stop being intense. 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 crust of The Hollow was serving up, Finkle stayed dead centre, where the atmosphere was warm, dry, and reasonably indifferent to his presence. 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. 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, clammy, trailing invisible slime over his meticulously crafted cheeks. A slick, unwelcome drag clung to his astral skin as the space tightened, funneling him through with all the grace of a wet sock in a tube.

 

‘Oh, come on,’ he muttered, wriggling through the last gap and wiping at his face, even though there was nothing actually there. ‘Why do bad things always happen at the worst possible moments?!’

 

The rhetorical complaint hung in the air, aimed at whatever half-baked entity was in charge of fate. He kept scrubbing at the phantom slime, fully aware it wasn’t real, but astral travel had its quirks. Everything was just real enough to mess with you, but not real enough to fix. Proof, if he needed it, that you could absolutely suffer in places that didn’t technically exist.

 

The passage finally spat him out into a wider lane, and he tumbled back to centre with as much dignity as he could muster (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. Perhaps a hidden lever, a secret knock, or 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.

 

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, 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 fizzed 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.