Arctar was a metropolis of 12 million souls, one percent of them gnomes. That meant a hundred thousand of the tiny folk living in the city, enough that people had grown used to them. Adults barely seventy centimeters tall, gnomes could be spotted everywhere, mingling with humans. Yet in factories, shops, and workshops they reigned supreme, thriving on long hours and loving every bit of work.

  Their beating heart was Sir Vu's Dream Factory, a sprawling complex on the city's suburban edge. More than fifteen thousand gnomes clocked in there daily, swarming through the gates with boundless energy. No human worker had ever lasted longer than a week. Too much cheer, too much absurdity. The gnomes, however, thrived in it.

  The factory itself looked like an overblown balloon anchored to the ground, candy-cane like towers sticking out of it. A rainbow tube, rigid as a rod, shot skyward and vanished into the clouds. The facade shimmered in blues, greens, yellows, and oranges, though magenta dominated above all. At the front gates stood two towering alloy pillars, each sculpted into the likeness of Sir Vu himself, riding a comet with his trademark grin and finger pointing toward the heavens. They framed the entrance like a triumphal arch. The gates never closed. Sir Vu insisted 'everyone has the right to dream.'

  West of the main building stretched the vast gnome parking lot, crammed with their cars. Each resembled a bubble on wheels, powered by hairdryer engines that made them buzz and jiggle like bees. And since gnomes prided themselves on their rides, not one was plain: spoilers towered taller than the cars themselves, rims gleamed in gold, while cardboard flowers and plastic pinwheels spun madly in the breeze.

  The clock struck 10:01 when a magenta jaguar roared through the front gates, stopping with a screech at its reserved spot, closest to the factory's double front doors.

  A tall, handsome man in his mid-thirties stepped out, fangs gleaming white in the morning sun. His long, styled magenta hair fell past his shoulders, and his green eyes twinkled with mischief, sharp against his tanned skin. He wore a silk magenta collared shirt, tucked neatly into tailored black pants. The sleeves were long and slightly billowing, the shirt half unbuttoned to reveal a hint of his sculpted chest and a ruby pendant gleaming at his collar. Polished black shoes clicked against the pavement.

  This was Sir Vu. Flamboyant, commanding, and unmistakably the heart of the Dream Factory.

  He was eccentric, unpredictable, a man who could have anything as a millionaire but all his resources and energy went into the Dream Factory. He had founded it only a few years after finishing high school: a factory that 'produced dreams' -meaning motivational, cheesy slogans on neon signs and sparkling (mostly useless) merch. And somehow, it sold surprisingly well, proving people craved a bit of joy, even if utterly ridiculous.

  Inside, the Dream Factory was massive: a sprawling production area filled with conveyor belts, machines, and glitter diffusers because, of course, why not. Gnome breakrooms lined one side, their walls plastered with fan art of Sir Vu. They were fanatically loyal to him, seeing him as a sort of "dream lord," constantly fangirling and fanboying over every move he made.

  On the first floor, his office overlooked the production area through a floor-to-ceiling glass window. A circular runway catwalk wrapped around the production hall, spanning the full circumference of the building. Sir Vu strutted along it once every working day at exactly 1:30 pm. It was more than a show, it was a productivity boost. According to a study conducted by gnome scientists, his midday appearance after lunch instantly raised output by 75 %.

  Sir Vu occasionally descended from his office to oversee production up close, sorting out problems and giving guidance. The gnomes always became livelier and giddier in those moments.

  Today, the ink machine had run dry and the next delivery wasn't scheduled until tomorrow morning. Sir Vu frowned.

  "Stitch the slogans instead!" he declared after a moment, snapping his fingers.

  "But sir... those are metal signs..." a gnome hesitated.

  "No matter! We'll produce this batch on cushions instead of metal. Stitch the slogans on the cushions and add double the glitter. We'll launch a special edition: Dreams Cuddle You!"

  The gnomes erupted in cheers, and production continued without interruption. Well, almost. Morris, Sir Vu's gnome secretary, scurried down the stairs and reported:

  "Sir Vu, David O'Neil from the Academy has requested an appointment. He just rang and is currently standing at the front door."

  "David?", Sir Vu's green eyes widened in surprise, "Well well, isn't that rare? Let him in. I'm not one to miss out on fun."

  And smirking he headed toward his office.

  Meanwhile, Rogue Gnome was hiding behind a potted plant beneath a sign that blinked in bright letters: Dreaming Spies. Convinced of his perfect discretion, he remained completely unaware of the sign above him. As Sir Vu passed on his way to the office, he grinned down at the tiny hiding gnome.

  "Good morning, Mini Me."

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  Rogue Gnome froze, confused. Slowly, he retrieved his notebook and scribbled: He nicknames plants now. Must be some kind of code.

  ------------------------------------

  David, led by Morris through the production hall, looked as though he'd been shoved into a beehive. Glitter, neon, and endless splashes of magenta made his temples throb; his jaw clenched, his fingers twitched. Everywhere, gnomes in bright overalls scurried like worker bees hauling stacks of signs, stamping merchandise on conveyor belts, singing at the top of their lungs. Each sang something different: lullabies, marching anthems, ballads. Together it created a joyful cacophony that pressed against his skull like a hammer.

  Morris, proud as any self-respecting gnome of the Dream Factory, could not help but point out the latest glitter machines and slogan prototypes as if this were a tour. David contemplated strangling him. Fortunately, they reached Sir Vu's office. Morris knocked politely, then bowed and disappeared.

  "Come in!" Sir Vu's voice rang out from within.

  David exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and stepped inside.

  The office was everything one would expect from Sir Vu: magenta walls, black marble floors veined with magenta streaks, and motivational signs glittering across every surface. The space was equal parts luxurious and absurd. Behind a vast desk of mirror-polished glass 'for his face was inspiring,' as Sir Vu claimed, the man himself lounged in a velvet magenta chair, grinning from ear to ear. Two matching armchairs waited for guests.

  The largest sign loomed above him, glowing with the words: Dream Big, Dream Vu. It was the Dream Factory's motto, and in truth, Sir Vu's entire philosophy.

  One shelf near the desk held prototype merchandise awaiting approval, while the desk itself displayed a ridiculous pen collection: feather quills, ruby-encrusted monstrosities, and even a plain black one, as if it had somehow snuck in by mistake.

  Sir Vu folded his hands on the mirrored desk, grin unwavering, and watched as David closed the door and approached, clutching his briefcase as if it were a shield.

  "Welcome to my magenta paradise, my favorite misanthrope! Please, do sit down!"

  "Vu." David greeted grimly, settling on a magenta armchair as if it were lined with needles.

  "So to what do I owe your gracing presence? You only ever seek me out during galas when you don't want to dance with Elisabeth and pass the privilege onto me."

  "I have a proposition to make." David replied curtly, eager to get it over with.

  Sir Vu smirked and leaned his chin on his folded hands.

  "Do tell."

  "As you already know, Arctar has been struggling with its soil for centuries. Every year it worsens, food prices double and triple, dependence on imports leaves us weak, and public unrest simmers beneath hollow governmental speeches."

  Sir Vu observed him silently, eyes unreadable. David continued.

  "I've found a solution that could resolve Arctar's soil problem permanently. There's a resource buried deep beneath the Academy: the Sentinel. A 500-year-old machine of immense power, with mysterious soil-restoration properties. It's inactive now, but if we excavate it, Arctar could thrive independently again. The excavation is costly as the Sentinel is buried forty meters underground. It will require reinforced shafts; ventilation, pumping and soil stabilization systems; hydraulic cranes, specialized diggers, tunnel boring machines. For all this-"

  "You need my money," Sir Vu interrupted, continuing David's train of thought. He sighed. "David, David, David... this is why you'll never be a good merchant. Your approach is far too scholarly. Where's the pizzazz, the drama, the adventure? The excavation idea isn't bad; I like it, but you present it like a dissection report or Morris' accounting list."

  David's jaw twitched. "I'll make you a brochure," he muttered through gritted teeth.

  "Splendid! You go do that and come back to me afterward." Sir Vu waved dismissively.

  David felt his blood boil, veins throbbing. Bloody imagery passed through his mind, but he forced it down. He tried one last time, striving for calm.

  "Time is crucial, Vu. No one else knows what lies beneath the Academy. Only I do. This is your chance to claim it first. Imagine unveiling it as the world's next... miracle... with your name on it. Your... glitter empire... would grow tenfold..."

  Sir Vu stayed silent for a long beat. Leaning back on his chair, he spun a pen, pondering. Then his fangs flashed in a slow grin.

  "See? You can do it if you want, Davey boy!" he boomed. "Alright, I'm hooked. Tell me more about that Sentinel. How did you come across it?"

  "I found ancient documents in the Academy's classified Archives."

  "Hmm... quite fortunate that no one else did, considering the scientists lurking in the greenhouses and on the Academy grounds."

  "I have exclusivity as the chairman." said David adjusting his glasses.

  "And what did those documents of yours say? How did such a miraculous machine end up underground?"

  David's foot tapped nervously.

  "That's... not specified. I only have diagrams and technical notes on its function."

  "Not even the constructor's name was mentioned?"

  "No."

  Sir Vu studied him quietly, expression unreadable. David clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  "So why was I your choice for funding? I can guess why you didn't go to our dear Debbie. She'd sabotage your excavation faster than fund it. The government would surely approve though."

  "I want discretion. Not global attention."

  "Ah, exclusivity. Tempts us all," Sir Vu said, then erupted into laughter, green eyes glittering, "Very well, Davey boy. You've found your funder. Treat me well."

  ------------------------------------

  As David eagerly left, contract signed, Sir Vu's fanged smile faded into a serious, reflective expression. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  Then he pressed a button hidden under the surface of his mirrored desk. Instantly, tiny gnome agents in dark trench coats and sunglasses sprouted from the floor like mushrooms after rain. Each wore a deadly serious expression, awaiting commands. Sir Vu smirked.

  "My dreamlings, I have a task for you. Check your Cloud 9 Archives for anything related to 'The Sentinel'. Then report back to me. Our misanthrope friend was a bit too secretive, and far too eager to act for humanity's well-being alone."

  The gnome agents saluted and disappeared.