Janus and Oblivion Read online

  Janus and Oblivion

  A LITRPG Saga

  Book One of the Nightmares of Alamir

  Noam Oswin

  COPYRIGHT AND DISCLAIMER

  This publication is protected under the United States copyright act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights: you are not allowed to give or sell this book to anyone else. Except as permitted under the United States Copyright act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage or retrieval system without express written, dated and signed permission from the author.

  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  All characters in this work are a product of the mind and is a figment of the author’s imagination and therefore fictional, and make no reference to real people or situations and events, any resemblance to actual events, whether past or present, persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Noam Oswin

  All rights reserved.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Interlude I

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Interlude II

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Interlude III

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Interlude IV

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Interlude V

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Interlude VI

  Interlude VII

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Interlude VIII

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  PREVIEW OF BOOK 2

  Prologue

  On a hot afternoon after I’d spilled lemonade onto my pants, my father told me that the ability to hide awkwardness was one of the greatest virtues of a human being. I remembered following his words, ignoring stickiness, stares and giggles as I hung my pants over my shoulder and walked without them. As I was seven at the time, the sight and deed was nowhere near as impressive as it could have been as a teen or older. However, as a teen or older, I would prepare by ensuring never to spill lemonade on my pants in the first place.

  I remembered my father’s words, and realized that its inverse existed in the form of the woman sitting before me.

  She couldn’t stop shuffling. She creased her business suit three times, adjusted her collar four times, dragged her skirt to her knees twice, and her fingers entered a trademark steeple that could have been used in a body-language book as the picture for nervousness. All the signs of a person who knew very little about interviewee etiquette were painted, nay, engraved on her.

  “Miss...” I took a cursory glance at the papers. Thin. I’d seen strippers with larger résumés. “Goldsmith... is it?”

  “Y-yes?”

  I closed the documents, promptly crossing my arms over them. “The hiring procedure here is unique. Often times, glowing ‘recommendations’ and accomplishments on paper mean less than the parchment they are printed upon, so I’m going to be brief.”

  I pulled off my wristwatch. Digital, because my father, and thus, all his sons, could never fathom the obsession with analog devices. I clicked the side of the watch, the numbers changing to a digital 5:00. I turned it towards her.

  “You have five minutes to impress me.”

  Had I given her five years, she would have still failed. I counted six self-boasts, four textbook-interview statements, three anecdotes, two redundancies, eight pauses and stopped counting after the fifth textbook statement about being diligent and hardworking. The only redeeming aspect she possessed was how much she amused me with the long, aching valuable seconds of silence as she racked her brain about things to say.

  The five minutes ended. Sharp, rapid, beeping and Miss Goldsmith flinched at the noise. She stared at the device as if it were pranking her.

  “Miss Goldsmith.”

  “Y-yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She possessed a wonderful inability to hide her facial expressions. Her grimace was stunning in its readability.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I will be entirely honest with you.” I adjusted my rectangular glasses, taking it off and reaching into my breast pocket for a neatly folded white handkerchief. “You are utterly ill-suited for this job.”

  “I –”

  “Do not interrupt me.”

  She cowed.

  “Not only do you lack the necessary minimum qualifications, you are also admittedly, by your own admission, incapable of a utilizing the mandated computer software and your proficiency at secretarial duties is nonexistent.”

  I wiped my glasses, slowly, once, twice, smoothly in clean motions. I placed them back upon my nose, adjusting them with my index finger. “Indeed, it seems the only reason you applied for a job that you did not possess the skills or aptitude for, and actually believed that I would not immediately feed your application to the nearest shredder is because...?”

  Biting, seemingly subconsciously at her lower lip, her gaze tried it’s hardest to avoid mine. “I- I need this job. My... my financial situation isn’t very good.” She grimaced, again. “No – it’s horrible. I... I’m desperate.”

  I folded my handkerchief, returning it to my breast pocket. “If only desperation could grant people employment.”

  “Please I –” She bit down on her lower lip. “I’m willing to do anything.”

  A stretch of silence followed her declaration. She leaned forward, clearly. I noticed her blouse seemed to have one of the top buttons mysteriously undone. Cleavage bared in my chest, a small tattoo of a bird’s wing popping up as she locked her gaze with mine.

  Again, I took off my glasses. Again, I brought out my handkerchief. I began cleaning my glasses in counterclockwise motions with my hanky.

  This was either a very deliberate ploy by my brother and father in order to test the integrity of my hiring process, a trap conducted by individuals who possessed grievances against me in order to see me removed from my position, or, potentially the least likely, a woman who believed she could spread her legs and use them to soar across the corporate ladder.

  I settled my glasses on my nose. “Miss Goldsmith.” I began. “The word anything is rather damning. Are you certain that is what you mean?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Yes. Anything. I’d do anything.”

  “Would you mind telling me who hired you?”

  Miss Goldsmith falters. “Hired me?”

  “The person responsible for making you put on this façade. Was it my brother? My father perhaps?” Her brows furrowed deeply. “You genuinely seem confused.”

  “I don’t understand. I wasn’t hi–”

  “Shh.” I stopped her with a palm. “I’m still talking.”

  She flinched again.

  “It seems you were not indeed hired.” I let my fingers steeple against each other on the desk. “Why are you here then?”

  “I need a job –”

  “No, you do not.” I corrected her. “Your pitch was lackluster and halfhearted. Your credentials are heavily lacking, and you did not even attempt to do basic spelling corrections on your Curriculum Vitae, which, might I inform you, is spelled with two R’s rather than one.�
�

  “A person truly desperate for a job would have lied tremendously on their application with the hopes that they never get caught. They would be far more meticulous in their design and planning, and would never waste valuable seconds scratching their index finger across their scalp eight times. If anything, I am more inclined to believe that you came in here with the full intention of failing this interview. So, I ask again, why are you here?”

  Valuable seconds passed. She seemed intent on paying attention to the floor, as though it were a television set playing an amusing sitcom.

  “Very well.” I acquiesced. “That will be all for this interview Miss Goldsmith.” I gestured at the door. “I have other applicants to attend to.”

  She rose, stiffly. I paid no heed to her expression as she left, nor did I bother myself with it. Rather, the inconsistency of her performance amused me. Shy, meek and barely confident women did not suddenly turn around and attempt to use sex as a bargaining chip. No professional would make that mistake, so it ruled out the possibility of this being a set-up by my brother or a trap by his competitors.

  Perhaps if she had gone for someone more sex starved than I was, with considerably less self-control, it would have been a different matter. However, there was nothing she possessed that I required or could not attain on my own. This night, if I so chose, a visit to a bar could grant me what I needed –

  A young fidgeting man in a gray business suit entered next, and the curious case of Miss Goldsmith slipped from my mind. Instead, plans of a new challenge began to stem forward.

  /∞/

  “Oh – oh – oh god! OH GOD!”

  She alternated between screams and whimpers, no doubt unable to accept dichotomy of thoughts and sensations. She found herself squirming and moaning beneath me, if not riding and buckling above me.

  Her breasts were firm and nipples were stone. She attempted her best to cover her mouth and prevent her traitorous whines. My hands would come down, ever so often, smacking against sensitive flesh, leaving a red imprint on her cheeks as I watched her bite pillows to hide her shameful mewling.

  I gripped at her thighs and pinned her against the matrass, bucking my hips with a frantic roar as I listened to the woman’s voice that was contorted in pleasure.

  “Moan harder!” I ordered. “I want to hear you! I want the world to hear you!”

  She complied. Her sounds, her voice, her scent, the feeling of true and utter victory –

  Our sweaty bodies departed. I rolled her on her back on the bed, and I finished my deed. She seemed to lack the strength to complain, or perhaps she realized that I would not give her the chance to do so.

  I wiped myself clean against her stomach and the sheets. My mission complete, I basked in her sweaty panting form for ten seconds. Satisfied, I reached for my shirt and pants.

  “Y-you – you’re leaving?” she panted.

  “Yes.”

  “B-but –”

  “Did you think I would stay the night and cuddle?” I mused.

  My shoes were on. My shirt, my tie, my jacket, complete. I knew that the smell of sex would be rank on my form, and I wore it, proudly, the aroma of victory. I reached for the door.

  “W-wait,” she called out. “T-that’s it? After all sweet-talk and buttering me up at the bar you just put on your clothes and leave once we’re done?”

  “I’m afraid social conventions dictate that hugging and kissing strangers is more awkward than sleeping with them.”

  She laughs. “Jesus.” She sits up. “Maybe I should have expected it since you brought me to a hotel instead of your place...” Her breasts, hung in the air as her eyes seemed to lose the haze of lust and desire. “...but you really are once callous bastard.”

  The words gave me pause. Looking over the woman, I noticed a significant resemblance she bore to Miss Goldsmith I met earlier in the day. No, I could even say that the reason I chose her for this night was because she looked similar to Miss Goldsmith. Coincidences of this nature did not simply happen.

  “I assume you are an acquaintance of Miss Goldsmith?”

  “Goldsmith?” the woman frowns. “I don’t – oh. That must be the name she used.”

  “How fascinating. One sister attempts to get me to sleep with her under the guise of an interview, and the other just happens to be at the bar I occasionally frequent. Fate seems to have pulled out all the stops tonight.”

  “I don’t believe in fate.”

  “Nor do I.” I bow, as gentlemen should. “I can’t help but notice that you did not deny being sisters, nor do you seem confused by what exactly I’m talking about.” I leisurely adjusted my tie. “If it is money you are after, I would sadly inform you that as the fourth son, I am not entitled to my father’s fortune.”

  “This isn’t about money!”

  “It’s always about money.” I said. “If you wish to beat around the bush, do go on. Tell me. What is this really about?”

  “Tom Kingsley.”

  “The old man?” I remembered him. “A Former employee; a terrible one. Tardy, always distracted, vanished at odd hours and left before official closing time. He was highly inefficient.” There was one rather pressing detail. “I heard he committed suicide after he lost his job.”

  “Don’t you mean after you fired him?”

  “No. He lost his job.” It was merely fact. “What part of ‘tardy’, ‘inefficient’ and ‘distracted’ is associated with corporate success? Do I need to draw a Venn diagram?”

  “But you knew why.” She argued. “You knew why – and you didn’t care.”

  “His sick son, yes.” I shook my head. “Personal reasons are not an acceptable excuse for poor performance.”

  “His son had cancer.” She said, her words thick and laced with venom. “He worked, hard and diligent! He – he was doing different jobs and as many as he could just to get enough money to pay for treatments! Every day he’d come home a past midnight, and then wake up six am to go to work again, day after day. He was trying – trying his hardest.”

  “I’m touched, however, it does not matter how hard one tries. His hardest was not good enough, for if it were, he would still be employed at my company, and he certainly would still be alive.”

  She grit her teeth. I could see the manner in which they grinded against each other behind her cheeks. “Did you even care about his circumstances?”

  “This is business. I am not paid to care about circumstances.” I said. “Admittedly, I was not aware of the severity of his son’s illness. If I were, I could have contributed to his cause and provided financial aid, and not-so-subtly spread details of my deed throughout the office. A boss that appears to look out for his employees is more respected than one that doesn’t.”

  I frowned. “My apologies for your loss. This was a failing on my part. I missed an opportunity for better PR.”

  “Better PR?” she shouted. “My father is dead and you’re thinking about fucking PR?”

  “I’m thinking about why you and your sister went to such excessive lengths to try and sleep with me, the man you hold liable.” I paused. “I assume you did this because you have a reason? Or is this some new sexual fetish that I am unaware of?”

  She hesitated. Her glare was still on me, but her gaze flickered away for a moment. It flickered to her bag, innocuously kept on the ground, and I gained a suspicion that I should not let her grab it.

  I was too slow.

  She picked up the bag, and a gun trailed itself in the direction of my forehead. I rose my hands up as non-threateningly as I could.

  “A Sig Sauer P238? Interesting gun choice. I’m particular to the M1911 myself –”

  “Shut up!” she snarled. “Do you ever listen to yourself talk?”

  “It’s one of the downsides of having ears I’m afraid.”

  “I said shut up!” she yelled again. Her finger rested softly on the trigger, and I took a step back. She reached into her bag with her left hand, while the right hand held the gun to my
face, and she brought out a small packet of white pills.

  She slid the pills across the ground until they landed beside my feet. “Pick it up. Slowly.”

  I did. I was not ashamed to say that I recognized the pills.

  “Swallow it.”

  “Usually the date-rape drug is used before you have sex with someone –”

  “Shut up and swallow it!”

  I took a pill. One pill, and with years of pretending to swallow drugs, I let it slip down my sleeves while making an exaggerated show of swallowing.

  “Your hands.”

  I showed her my empty hands.

  “Your mouth. Raise your tongue.”

  I showed her my empty mouth.

  “Take off your clothes, and give me your wallet.”

  “So it does come back around to money doesn’t it?” I began to slowly unbutton my shirt. “I assume you have a camera in your bag. Is this your plan? Drug me and make it look like I raped you and then blackmail me for millions? Or, are you going to handcuff me to the bed, surrounded by large packets of cocaine and then give an anonymous tip to the police? No – you wouldn’t need to sleep with me otherwise.”

  “Do you ever shut up?”

  I opened my lips to respond just as three sharp knocks landed against the door.

  “Room service!” a voice called from the other side of the door.

  She sharply turned to me. “When did you order room service?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What do you mean you didn’t?”

  “It means at no point in the past did I commit to the action of ordering room service.”

  “Well neither did I.”

  Three more knocks landed against the door. They were sharper than before. Sharp and impatient. She opened her mouth to tell them off and I rapidly shook my head at her.

  “Don’t.” I whispered.

  “What?” she turned the gun back at me, holding it with both hands.

  “That’s not room service.” I kept my voice low.

  “You called someone?”

  “No.” I whispered. “We were followed.”

  “Why would anyone follow us?”

  “Coming from the woman holding me at gunpoint? What do you think?”

  Four sharper knocks, almost reaching the sound frequency of angry banging. The door rattled from the force.