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melchi

melchi

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Tempokai

Tempokai

Overworked One
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A bedtime story about isekai uber:
In a world much like ours, if our world had casually accepted the blurring lines between dimensions like it accepted online banking, there existed a peculiar non-profit organization known to the public as “RiftRide”. Much akin to Uber, RiftRide specialized in interdimensional transport with a charitable twist. Its main clientele? Those poor souls unwittingly yanked from their mundane existences into the fantastical realms of dragons, wizards, and inexplicably detailed cafeteria menus.

Let’s rewind a bit. You see, there was a time when gods, those omnipotent managers of reality, had too much mead or ambrosia or whatever celestial beings guzzle down, and thought, "Hey, why not make the multiverse more interesting?" So, they started summoning humans to other worlds. At first, it was considered an honor—imagine swapping a dreary office job for the chance to slay beasts or master arcane arts! But as with any trend, the gods overdid it. The cosmos was littered with accountants-turned-warriors and baristas-become-battle-mages who really just wanted to go home.

Enter RiftRide: established by a rogue deity with a penchant for bureaucracy and a soft spot for homesick humans. This deity, named Gary (because even gods need unassuming names), decided that the celestial plane could use a good old fashioned logistics solution. So, he modeled RiftRide on Earth's gig economy apps, but with more portals and fewer existential crises.

The way RiftRide worked was simple. Stranded individuals, realizing that their new reality didn't quite suit them—like discovering they were allergic to magic, or that dragonfire didn’t agree with their skin—would summon a RiftRide via an app magically installed on their often anachronistic smartphones. A RiftRider, another human who had not only accepted their fate but also managed to pass a rigorous driving (flying? teleporting?) test, would then navigate across dimensions to pick up the misplaced soul.

Take, for instance, the tale of Bob. Bob had been an insurance adjuster who was rather adept at assessing risk—until he was unceremoniously dumped into a world where his primary concerns pivoted to avoiding becoming lunch for a cave troll. After three months of wielding swords he could barely lift and donning armor that chafed, Bob was over it. He logged into RiftRide.

The app cheerily informed him that his ride was three dragon-flies away. His driver was Alice, a former dog groomer from Toledo, Ohio, now a seasoned RiftRider. As she navigated her enchanted chariot (because why ride a standard vehicle when a chariot, complete with flame decals, was available?), she chewed on a blade of mystical grass and contemplated her ratings. High scores could earn her bonuses like a weekend at a dimension with the best cosmic beaches.

“Welcome aboard, Bob. Snacks in the back. The magic berries are particularly fresh,” Alice announced as Bob clambered in, armor clanking.

The ride back was bumpy, with occasional detours to dodge astral storms and temporal checkpoints (bureaucracy was a cosmic constant, apparently). Bob, who had never been good with motion, tried not to think about the existential equivalent of car sickness.

Upon arriving back in his home dimension, right outside his modest suburban home, Bob thanked Alice, tipping her with the few mystical coins he’d earned from a quest involving a very distressed damsel and a surprisingly articulate swamp creature.

RiftRide, despite operating on celestial goodwill, faced its challenges. Gary had to constantly update the app to dodge divine interference (other gods were less enthusiastic about their summoned heroes returning). There were logistical nightmares, what with having to calculate interdimensional routes that avoided black holes and bypassed particularly nasty realms where time ran backwards or sideways.

Yet, amidst the cosmic chaos, RiftRide thrived. It filled a niche that no one knew existed, offering a beacon of hope to every whisked-away human who just wanted to get back for dinner, or at least in time to catch the season finale of their favorite show.

In an era where the multiverse had been reduced to an overly enthusiastic godly chess game, RiftRide redefined what it meant to be a hero. Not all heroes wore capes—some just carried an app that brought you home. And as for Bob? He never looked at his insurance job the same way again, because once you've haggled with goblins over stolen loot, quarterly reports lose their edge.
 
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