Remi slouched in his computer chair, the soft glow of the monitor illuminating his face in the darkened bedroom. He'd been browsing his favorite gaming forum for hours, deep in a heated discussion about the latest patch notes for Final Fantasy XIV. The debate over tank balance changes had consumed most of his evening, with Remi passionately defending the Dark Knight's new rotation against a barrage of complaints.

A half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten on a plate beside his keyboard as he scrolled through the responses. He was about to reply to another post about optimal raid compositions when a new thread in the off-topic section caught his eye. Someone had started a discussion about gender identity and personal expression in gaming avatars, and the responses were already becoming heated. What had begun as a simple question about character customization options had quickly evolved into something more profound.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he read the latest response, a deliberately provocative post claiming that identity was purely biological, fixed and immutable. The argument was familiar, but something about its dismissive tone made Remi's jaw clench.

"That's not how it works," he muttered, beginning to type. "Identity isn't just about biology. It's about who we are inside, how we understand ourselves." He paused, carefully choosing his next words. "When someone tells you who they are, the respectful thing to do is listen and accept that truth."

The response came quickly, dripping with sarcasm: "Oh, so I can just decide I'm whatever I want to be? A cat? A dragon? Where do you draw the line?"

Remi felt his face flush with frustration. These weren't new arguments—he'd seen them repeated countless times across different platforms, always presented as if they were clever gotchas rather than tired stereotypes. He took a deep breath, reminding himself to stay focused on the actual discussion rather than getting baited into an emotional response.

"It's not about 'deciding' to be something random," he wrote back. "It's about recognizing and accepting who you already are. Someone's identity isn't up for debate or public vote. It's deeply personal, and attacking people for being honest about themselves only causes harm."

The thread erupted with responses. Some supported his position, while others doubled down on biological determinism. One particularly aggressive user started spamming the thread with pseudoscientific claims and personal attacks.

A notification popped up—someone had sent him a private message. "Why do you care so much about this?" the message read. "Are you trans or something? Is that why you're getting so defensive?"

Remi's hands clenched into fists. "No," he typed back firmly. "I'm not trans. I just believe in treating people with basic respect and dignity. You don't have to be part of a group to stand up for what's right."

He minimized the private message window, returning to the main thread. The discussion had devolved further, with multiple users now questioning his motives and making increasingly personal insinuations. One comment in particular made his stomach turn: "Sounds like someone's in denial. Better figure yourself out before trying to tell others how to live."

"This isn't about me," Remi muttered through gritted teeth, even as his fingers flew across the keyboard. "This is about basic human decency. About recognizing that everyone deserves to be treated with respect, to be accepted for who they are without having to justify their existence to strangers on the internet."

But the trolls had found their angle of attack, shifting from the broader discussion to focus on Remi personally. Each new notification brought another pointed comment or leading question about his own identity.

"What are you trying to prove?"

"Why are you really defending this?"

"Just admit what this is really about."

Remi's chest felt tight, his breathing shallow. He knew he should step away from the computer, take a break and let the thread die down. But something kept him there, compelled him to keep engaging, to keep pushing back against the tide of hostility and ignorance.

"You don't know me," he wrote, his typing becoming more aggressive. "You don't know anything about me. This isn't about my identity—it's about standing up for what's right. About not letting bullies and bigots make other people feel worthless just because they don't fit into some narrow definition of 'normal.'"

The moment he hit send, he knew he'd revealed too much emotion, given the trolls exactly what they wanted. The responses were immediate and merciless, a flood of mock-sympathetic comments and armchair psychoanalysis.

"Touched a nerve, did we?"

"Sounds like someone's projecting."

"Classic case of denial right here."

Remi pushed back from his desk, his chair rolling across the carpet until it hit his bed. His heart was racing, face burning with a mixture of anger and something else—something he couldn't or wouldn't name. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to steady his breathing.

"This is stupid," he said aloud to his empty room. "They're just trying to get a reaction. Don't let them get to you."

But they had gotten to him, hadn't they? Not because their accusations were true—he knew who he was, regardless of what some random internet trolls might think. No, what really got to him was the fundamental unfairness of it all. The way they'd twisted his attempt to defend others into an attack on him personally. The way they'd tried to invalidate his arguments by questioning his motives rather than engaging with his actual points.

His computer chimed again—another private message. For a moment, he considered just shutting everything down, walking away and trying to forget the whole thing. But some stubborn part of him wouldn't let it go. He leaned forward and clicked the notification.

"Hey," the message read. "Just wanted to say thanks for speaking up in that thread. It means a lot when people who aren't directly affected still take the time to defend us. Don't let the trolls get you down."

Remi felt something in his chest loosen slightly. He took a deep breath, then typed back a simple "Thanks. That means a lot."

Turning back to the main thread, he saw that moderators had finally stepped in, deleting the most inflammatory comments and issuing warnings. The discussion was effectively over, but its effects lingered. Remi's hands were still shaking slightly as he closed his browser.

He stood up, stretching muscles that had grown tense from hours of sitting hunched over his keyboard. The digital clock on his nightstand showed 8:47 PM—still early enough to work off some of this nervous energy. His hands were still trembling slightly from the adrenaline of the online confrontation, his mind racing with unspoken arguments and rebuttals.

Remi's eyes fell on his carefully organized manga collection, particularly the latest volumes of "Record of Lodoss War" he'd been saving for a special occasion. With his muscles still aching from yesterday's intense synchro practice, a comfort reading session seemed perfect. He grabbed his favorite volume and headed downstairs. He needed a change of environment, somewhere away from the computer and its endless arguments. The familiar couch in the living room had always been his refuge when things got too intense, a place where he could lose himself in fantasy worlds far removed from real-world drama.

Setting up his favorite reading spot, Remi arranged the cushions just the way he liked them. His beat-up 3DS sat on the side table—he could switch to grinding levels in Monster Hunter later if the manga wasn't enough distraction.

Remi settled into his favorite corner of the couch, the familiar weight of the manga in his hands. The world of Lodoss had always been his escape—a place where heroes could be heroes regardless of their origins, where identity was something you forged through your actions rather than something others imposed upon you.

He was halfway through a favorite chapter when Rachel wandered in, probably drawn by the unusually quiet living room. She peered over his shoulder at the manga spread across his lap.

"That elf character looks cool," she said, pointing to Deedlit. "What's she doing?"

For a moment, Remi considered brushing her off, still raw from the evening's online conflicts. But maybe this was what he needed—a reminder that sometimes the simplest connections were the most important.

"Pull up a chair," he said, shifting to make room. "It's kind of a long story, but it's pretty awesome. See, there's this whole world called Lodoss..."

As he explained the story to Rachel, pointing out his favorite panels and describing the characters' adventures, Remi felt the last of his tension melting away. The digital arguments that had seemed so crucial just hours ago faded into perspective against the simple pleasure of sharing something he loved with his sister.

Later, as he headed up to bed, Remi felt more settled in his own skin than he had all evening. Maybe that's who he really was—someone who could stand up for what he believed in online, but who also knew when to step back and find comfort in the things and people that grounded him. Someone who could navigate both digital debates and real-world connections, finding balance between fighting for others and taking care of himself.

Tomorrow, he would probably log back on, maybe even return to that thread. Because the issues mattered, the people behind the screens mattered. But now he better understood the importance of balance—of knowing when to engage and when to retreat into the worlds of fantasy that had always given him strength.

For now, though, he was content. The evening had helped him find his center again, reminding him that identity wasn't just something debated in forums—it was something lived, something shared in quiet moments with family, something explored through stories both read and told. As he got ready for bed, some questions still lingered at the edges of his consciousness, waiting for another day to be explored, but they no longer seemed quite so urgent or overwhelming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The manga slipped from Remi's hands as he dozed off on the couch, the familiar weight of Record of Lodoss War settling across his chest like armor. The living room dissolved around him, reforming into the familiar corridors of his high school—but not quite as he knew it. Torches flickered in iron sconces along stone walls where lockers should have been, and the linoleum floors had transformed into worn flagstones polished by centuries of feet.

Remi found himself clad in gleaming plate armor, a shield emblazoned with a swimming dragon on his left arm and a longsword in his right hand. The weight felt natural, as if he'd trained with them for years. His synchro team swimsuit had become a tabard in the school colors, flowing over the armor with an impossible lightness.

The sound of shuffling feet and guttural voices echoed from around the corner. Remi pressed himself against the wall, his armor somehow silent despite its bulk. A patrol of goblins passed by—wearing letterman jackets over their leather armor. They carried crude weapons: baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire, lacrosse sticks sharpened into spears, and field hockey sticks weighted with chunks of metal.

"The Commander wants the entire school searched," one goblin growled, its voice uncomfortably familiar. "No one defies the authority of Lord Shawn."

Remi's grip tightened on his sword. Even in dreams, Shawn was throwing his weight around. But the Shawn in this world wasn't just another entitled jock—he was something far more dangerous.

Moving carefully despite his armor, Remi followed the patrol at a distance. The school's layout remained mostly familiar, but doorways had become arches, and classrooms had transformed into chambers filled with strange apparatus. The cafeteria had become a great hall, its tables now rough-hewn wood marked with decades of knife scars and spilled mead.

There, seated on a throne made from welded-together sports equipment, sat the Commander himself. Shawn had become a massive bugbear, his letterman jacket stretched over bristling fur and rippling muscles. His already impressive height had grown to nearly eight feet, and wickedly sharp claws drummed against the arm of his throne. A crown fashioned from twisted baseball bats and football helmets sat askew on his head.

At the base of the throne, bound in chains that clinked with each movement, sat Andrew. His wizard's robes had been replaced with what looked like a grotesque parody of a fantasy MMORPG costume—the kind of impractical "armor" that he always complained about in their gaming sessions. A length of chain connected to the Commander's throne kept him close, like some kind of trophy. A crude iron collar prevented him from casting spells, but his eyes still burned with defiance as he glared up at his captor. The scene struck Remi as absurdly similar to their last D&D session, where Andrew's character had been captured by a dragon—except this time, Andrew was living it.

The whole setup was clearly meant to humiliate, to turn Andrew's love of fantasy games and proper character builds into a joke. The Commander occasionally yanked on the chain, clearly enjoying his position of power over the captured spellcaster. It was exactly the kind of thing that would make Andrew furious—being forced into a role that made a mockery of everything he loved about proper game mechanics.

"Report!" the bugbear Commander bellowed, his voice still carrying traces of Shawn's usual arrogance, one massive paw resting possessively on Andrew's shoulder.

"The swimming pools have been drained, sir," a hobgoblin wearing a coach's whistle reported. "No one will be practicing their synchronized routines there anymore."

Andrew struggled against his bonds. "You can't just change the rules whenever you want, Shawn! This isn't how the game is played!"

The Commander yanked on the chain, silencing him. "The game is played however I say it's played. Your little rulebook can't help you now."

The Commander's laugh echoed through the hall. "Excellent. Let's see how they like being forced out of their element. Soon they'll learn that only the strong deserve a place in this school."

Remi felt his paladin's training surge through him—a righteous anger at the abuse of power, a desire to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. This wasn't just about pool access or team sports anymore. This was about standing up to tyranny itself.

He stepped out from behind a pillar, his armor catching the torchlight. "I challenge you, Commander."

The entire hall fell silent. Goblins and hobgoblins turned to stare, some reaching for weapons while others backed away from the confrontation. The bugbear Commander rose from his throne, his full height impressive even from across the room.

"Well, well," Shawn's voice rumbled through the bugbear's fanged maw. "If it isn't the little swimmer who thinks he can play at being a warrior. Do you really think you can stand against me alone?"

"He's not alone."

The voice came from behind Remi. He turned to see Tawnee from the swim team, but she'd been transformed as well. Clad in the shimmering robes of a water elementalist, she held a staff that seemed to flow like liquid crystal. Johnny emerged from the shadows, his rogue's garb making him nearly invisible in the darkness.

"I'll keep them busy," Johnny whispered, nodding toward Andrew. "You get him free. Without our wizard, we don't stand a chance."

The Commander's eyes narrowed. "Kill them all!"

The battle erupted in chaos. Goblins swarmed forward with their jury-rigged weapons while hobgoblin lieutenants barked orders. Remi's sword moved with a life of its own, parrying attacks and striking back with precision. Tawnee's magic turned the spilled drinks on the floor into whips of water that tripped and confused their enemies. Andrew's spells lit up the darkness while Johnny seemed to dance between shadows, appearing where least expected.

But the Commander hadn't moved from his throne. He watched the battle with calculating eyes, waiting for his moment. When Remi finally fought his way through to face him, the bugbear stood with deliberate slowness.

"You think this changes anything?" the Commander growled. "You think standing up to me here makes you strong?"

"This isn't about being strong," Remi answered, his voice carrying the divine authority of his paladin oath. "This is about being right."

The bugbear's claws extended as he dropped into a fighting stance. "Then let's see how far 'right' gets you against real power."

Their clash shook the great hall. While Johnny's diversions and Tawnee's water magic kept the goblin forces at bay, Remi fought his way toward the throne. Each step brought him closer to Andrew, who had managed to inch toward his spellbook despite his chains.

The Commander's raw strength met Remi's skilled defense, neither able to gain a clear advantage. Each blow from those massive claws threatened to shatter Remi's shield, while his own sword strikes searched for gaps in the bugbear's guard. But Remi had positioned himself carefully, slowly forcing the Commander away from his captive.

"Now!" Remi shouted, and Johnny appeared as if from nowhere, lockpicks flashing in his hands as he worked on Andrew's chains. The Commander roared in fury, but Remi held his ground, his shield becoming an immovable wall between the bugbear and his prisoner.

"You don't belong here," the Commander snarled between attacks. "This school has no place for people who won't accept the natural order."

"The natural order?" Remi deflected another strike. "Or just the order you want to impose?"

Their battle carried them across the hall, past overturned tables and scattered goblins. Remi could see his friends holding their own against the remaining forces, but everything would depend on this final confrontation.

The Commander launched a massive overhead blow, putting all his strength into a crushing attack. But this time, instead of blocking, Remi stepped inside the bugbear's guard. Behind him, he heard the clatter of falling chains and Andrew's triumphant cry as he reclaimed his spellbook.

"Remember rule number one!" Andrew called out, his hands already weaving patterns of magical energy. "Always protect your spellcaster!"

Remi's sword flashed up in a perfect arc, enhanced by all his training—both as a paladin and a swimmer—while Andrew's spell wrapped the blade in brilliant energy.

The crown flew from the Commander's head, clattering across the floor in pieces. The bugbear staggered, his form seeming to waver.

"This isn't over," he growled, but his voice had lost its supernatural resonance. Now he sounded just like Shawn again, all bluster and wounded pride.

"No," Remi agreed, leveling his sword. "But it's a start."

The dream began to fade around him, the stone walls dissolving back into familiar school corridors. The last thing Remi saw was his reflection in a passing window—the paladin's armor shimmering like light on water, the dragon on his shield seeming to move with a life of its own...

Remi jerked awake on the couch, the manga sliding onto his lap. His heart was still racing from the dream-battle, but he felt strangely energized. On the side table, his 3DS remained untouched—he hadn't needed Monster Hunter after all. His own dreams had provided all the adventure he needed.

Rachel stood in the doorway, watching him with a mixture of amusement and concern. "You were making sword noises in your sleep," she said.

Remi felt his face flush. "Was not."

"Were too. But they were pretty cool sword noises." She grinned and disappeared upstairs, leaving Remi to wonder just how much of his dream-battle he'd acted out on the couch.

He gathered up his manga, his mind still half in that transformed version of his school. Maybe that's what he needed—not just to stand up for what he believed in, but to see himself as someone capable of making a difference. Whether online, in the pool, or in his dreams, he was learning to be a defender of others.

Even if sometimes that meant making sword noises in his sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End Chapter,

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