#16 – Just Business

By the time Hood realized what was happening, his car door had already been torn off and he was flying several feet through the air. He only saw the fleshy blur of an enraged Hercules.

“This violates so many rules, you *!(& pricks!” Hood said, as he fell into a roll on his own front yard.

Jon shrugged. “Hercules is currently unaffiliated. And he’s a citizen of an extradimensional realm that doesn’t have good relations with the United Nations.”

“No one would want to do the paperwork,” Hercules agreed, while he rushed over and caught Hood before he could resist. Holding Hood up by both arms, Hercules turned him around to face Jon.

“You were working with the Silver Scorpions,” Jon said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, come on, Jon. This is beneath you.”

“No, I’d say getting someone kidnapped is beneath you,” Jon replied, carefully betraying no emotion.

Hood looked thoughtful, and for a moment Jon thought he would talk. Then, suddenly, Hood swung his legs up and put Hercules in a chokehold. Soon Hercules fell, shaking the ground. However, Jon had already activated his gem, which made the chaos of the moment looking just like a slow ballet. Calmly, he pulled out an innocuous golden object, which looked like a small spear. He pointed it at Jon and fired. Even if he wasn’t distracted by Hercules, Hood, even with all of his martial arts training, wouldn’t have had much time to react.

Suddenly Hood looked around. Strange ultraviolet shadows slid and floated around him. The sky was filled with shimmering lights, giving the familiar landscape of his own house the appearance of an alien world. An odd creature, resembling a cross between a manta ray and a giant butterfly, flew past him, making a bizarre gurgling sound as it went.

“What the hell did you do?!” Hood shouted.

Jon shrugged. “I just put you slightly out of sync with our normal dimensional frequency. Kind of nifty. It was in the Final Guard’s trophy room. I learned it was the preferred weapon of one of their regulars from the ‘80s, Professor Paradox.”

Hood began to violate his first and most important rule by letting himself feel panic. “Has getting laid by that supercriminal totally turned you evil? You could kill me.”

“Oh, calm down. You’re not so out of sync anything here can hurt you. Physically, anyway.”

“When they find out…”

“They already know. Do you really think the Technocrat would let me take even a stapler out of the confiscated weapons room without a reason? I snitched on you the first chance I got.”

“There’s nothing to snitch!” The Hood screamed defiantly. But then, sheepishly he added, “Nothing I meant to happen, anyway.”

Something in his voice made Jon’s resolve soften, just a little. “Look, if you were ever my friend…if you get in trouble, I’ll talk to them. I promise. Just tell me what happened.”

“They contacted me. Before you ask, I know it had to have been a burner phone,” Hood shook his head. “They flattered me, talked about how unfair it was that the guy who got me hooked again was let go just because he was the right guy for one job. But I swear, on the years we were on the Rooks together, I didn’t know they were going to kidnap him. They just said they had evidence he was getting the Vandals back together, was plotting something big. They just needed someone to help keep a watch over him. They even showed me the proof, or what I thought was the proof, but now…” Hood shook his head.

“I see”, Jon said flatly, as he pressed a button on the device again, causing the strange lights and beings to vanish and returning them to the front yard of an isolated rural house out in northern California.

“What now?” Hood said, more to himself than Jon.

Hercules was in a pose signaling that he would attack again, but Jon stopped him by holding up his hand. “Now if you want a chance of not getting suspended or worse, you’re going to give us what information you have, and then we’re going to wherever they’re keeping Amar.”

At that very moment, Amar was hooked up to an inclined hospital bed. His head was shaven and wrapped in sterile white bandages. Wires of green and blue and purple colors ran from glowing connectors strapped to his skull to a large terminal that buzzed contently.  

Grant Devas looked bored as he observed Amar and the machine. His assistant Tonya stood beside him, tapping detailed notes on a tablet that she carefully but not obviously kept from the anxious eyes of Jeremy Sanchez. Just like he was a high schooler again giving a class presentation, he shuffled his feet nervously. “What do you think?”

“Of what you’re trying to do here, I find the potential intriguing,” Devas replied. “Of my providing financial backing, I will have to consider the proposal carefully.”

“If it’s the legality you’re worried about, my lawyers already have arguments. I mean, he’s not just a criminal, he’s not even…”

Devas shook his head. “I’m not too concerned about that, especially if we’re talking about U.S. law. I’m talking about potential, Mr. Sanchez. Potential.”

The tremble in his voice was the only suggestion of anger. “What greater potential could there be than using telepathy to literally reprogram the minds of criminals? Using the living mind of a criminal telepath to do it no less?”

Mr. Devas chuckled, an unnatural sound. “You may be right, Mr. Sanchez.”

The talks continued. Mr. Devas preoccupied his mind with the question of whether Sanchez allowed his desperation to show because he could not help it or because he genuinely thought it would sway him. In any case, he had already decided not to fund his little plan for a criminal-free paradise. His only job now was to make Sanchez believe it was possible he would agree, while keeping Sanchez eager enough to agree to share some of the technology.

“What do you think, Tonya?” he asked as the limo pulled onto the interstate, on its way back to the airplane.

“For lack of a more elegant and scientific term, I would say Jeremy Sanchez is completely deranged, and you have been stringing him along.”

Mr. Devas smiled, but only internally. He could not let Tonya see how much her crude bluntness amused him. “Quite right. Also, our people just told me he’s burned through the inheritance and the company’s resources. Within a year, his entire operation will be running on fumes, at best. I presume you know what to do?”

“I’m already thinking up the best way to hint to him that the only thing keeping us from agreeing is the fact that our tech team wants to look at his schematics,” she said.

“I did mean what I said about potential. His obsession with law and order and his personal vendetta against the telepath have completely blinded him. Imagine hacking not just several minds, but the entire collective unconsciousness of humanity…” He smiled, looking out at the thick rain drops that hammered away at the window of the limo. “Just imagine…”

Back inside the former Galaxy Knight’s compound and inside Amar’s mind, he – or rather the psychic representation of himself – laid on top of a barren mountaintop. The shadow of an ancient monastery whose towers scratched impotently at the sky, fell over him. He was a child of four years again.

A voice spoke, coming from nowhere and everywhere. “Poor Amar. Punished over and over for the same crime.”

“Who are you?” he said. In this dream, although he had the body of a child, he spoke with the voice of an adult.

“You just managed to reconstitute your ego,” the voice said. “Don’t undo all your hard work by overtaxing yourself.”

Amar looked around, his eyes eventually fixing themselves on the baked brick walls of the monastery. This is where they took him, crying and pleading for his mother, leaving him to be trained by the priests of Enki in the arts of truth-reading.

“The earliest, most primal memories are the only safe place for now,” the voice said. He realized this was also his voice.

His child self tried to stand, only to crumble into the dirt. No, this isn’t reality. This is my mind, he gently reminded himself. He willed the source of the voice to him. In an instant, the monastery was gone. Instead, seated on a throne with his legs thrown over the armrest, was himself. Only he was dressed in his own costume as the Exile except it was more ragged somehow.

The figure who was him smiled down on him. “Oh, good. I was wondering when you would get around to asserting yourself a little.”

#15 – Through The Underground

Amar sat down at the cleanest and most polished picnic table he had ever seen.

On one level, he was slowly eating a reasonably bland bologna sandwich. On another, he was telepathically reaching out for signs of people. He had been enlisted to use his telepathic senses to find people who might be inside any theoretical maintenance shafts. The effort was exhausting, wearing down the entire body and causing a sensation not unlike standing on top of one’s head for too long.

What kept him going was anger. Anger at being cheated once again at a chance at a quiet life. Anger at having been drugged for he didn’t even know how long. And even anger at how Jon rejected him, as soon as they were safe.

However, just beneath the anger there was a kind of hopefulness. Not much, just the slightest of touches. However, it was enough to protect him from falling into the old indigo rage that colored the old days.

“Do you sense anything?” a woman’s voice demanded from the back of his head. It was the voice of one of the two people who had given him a reason to hope, Julia DeMatteis, a.k.a. the Spider. “We have ten minutes before the Archons will show up to make sure you’re not up to something.”

“Nothing yet,” Amar said, his exhaustion beginning to overcome his willpower. “I can usually sense something even if someone is trying to hide their thoughts. I’m not even getting that.”

“Damn. At least Mr. Query thinks there could be at least five more.”

While she was speaking, Amar made one final push. It was faint, but there was a mind, far under the ground of a suburban house near the edge of the park. His anger forgotten, Amar grinned.


One week ago, Amar was sprawled out on his couch, trying to wrestle with the nausea that seemed to be killing him. The Spider leaned against his living room wall, absent-mindedly playing with a set of keys in her left hand. She wore a dark blue blouse in a way that revealed more of her statuesque figure than the other women in this place. Mr. Query never told his real name to Amar, and Amar didn’t care enough to extract the information from his brain. He was  a tall, thin, and sickly man, perched on the edge of the recliner.

“I hope you are finished vomiting,” Mr. Query said.

“I hope I’m dead,” Amar whined.

The Spider stopped jangling her keys. “I’m really sorry. The medication doesn’t wear off without a fight.”

“So you saw who took you, and it was someone in a Silver Scorpion costume, right?”, she asked Amar, abruptly changing the subject.

“Yeah. Two of them, actually.”

“We were regulars of the Silver Scorpion,” the Spider explained with no small hint of pride. “The original, real one, I mean.”

Mr. Query chuckled. “We were the best regulars any so-called superhero could hope for. I trust you heard of us?”

Amar was too sick to politely lie and shook his head. Mr. Query grunted his displeasure.

“We can worry about our legacy when we get out of this hellhole,” the Spider said.

Amar sat up, trying to get his bearings. “Didn’t the Silver Scorpion die years ago?”

Mr. Query and the Spider exchanged glances. “We actually do not know how many years we have been here,” Mr. Query explained. “We attempted to keep that knowledge, but even I lost count. However… yes, he died.”

“How do you know?” Amar asked. “He could have gone into hiding or something.”

An indecipherable look overtook the Spider’s face as she signed. “No, he’s definitely dead. I would know.”


“I just do.” Amar could tell from her tone it was in his best interest not to pursue the answer.

Mr. Query cleared his throat. “It may be useful for you to know that it turned out that the Silver Scorpion’s civilian identity was the heir to an electronics and automobile fortune, Christian Scott. He retired the identity of the Silver Scorpion and died two years later. After all the death traps, serial killers, and international shadow organizations he survived, it was leukemia that finally claimed him.”

“He quit the game because…well, there was an incident,” the Spider added.

A gloom descended upon both of the former supercriminals. Mr. Query, whose eyes had been watching Amar, now wandered the room. The Spider took off and began absent-mindedly to play with a silver ring on her finger.

“He called himself Zoltaro the Magnificent,” Mr. Query said. “His entire modus operandi was based on acting like a stage magician from a century ago.”

“I hate saying it, but he was brilliant. No prison could hold him, and it looked like nothing could keep him out either,” the Spider added. “Some people thought he actually did have supernatural powers.”

“He certainly may have been a literal demon,” Mr. Query said, more to himself than anyone else.

The Spider could not help but nod in agreement. “The first few years he was active, he wasn’t that dangerous. I mean, he stole millions and took people hostage, and a security guard or a cop would get hurt once in a while, but then, well…”

“He started killing people. At first, it was just…occasional collateral damage from his plans, but then he just killed. It became murder as performance. Even the less…stable among us not only stopped working with him, we shunned him.”

Amar suddenly remembered something through the fog of sickness. “Wait…Zoltaro? I think I saw a documentary about him. They called him one of the worst serial killers in history.”

“’Serial killer’ doesn’t quite cover it, but yeah,” the Spider answered. “At the end, it got really awful. This elementary school was supposed to have career day, but instead the teachers and students went to the cafeteria and instead found an unscheduled, impromptu performance of Zoltaro the Magnificent. I don’t even remember how many survivors there were, anymore.”

“18 out of 353,” Mr. Query said without hesitation.

“Anyway, after that, the wife of one of the teachers who died gunned Zolatro down. The day after that happened, there was a message sent to all the major local news networks around the city declaring that the Silver Scorpion would never show up anywhere again. I never knew why he did that; if he thought he inspired people to become vigilantes or if he blamed himself for not stopping Zoltaro sooner. But, anyway, the Silver Scorpion never walked the streets of New York again. Not the real Silver Scorpion.”

“Before you ask, we have no idea who could have taken up the Silver Scorpion’s mantle,” Mr. Query added.

“Whoever it is, the real Silver Scorpion would have hated what they’re doing,” the Spider added. Mr. Query solemnly nodded his agreement.

“Well, that does me a lot of good, doesn’t it?” Amar said. “So why stick your necks out to recruit me?”

“Quite simply, you are a bigshot,” Mr. Query explained.

“No, I’m not,” Amar protested.

“That’s not what he means,” the Spider said in a manner that sounded like a teacher elaborating on a lesson to a slow student. “That’s what we used to call supercriminals with powers. Damn, how long have we been gone?”

“We hacked the database of new arrivals. Well, I should say, I hacked it, along with parts of the surveillance system so that it won’t register me and the Spider,” Mr. Query said, not bothering to hide his pride. “Unfortunately, the system is highly decentralized and encrypted, so there’s only so much we can do. We haven’t even been able to access a map of the entire facility or whatever this damned Tartarus is, and it took me literally years to accomplish what we have done.”

“That’s where we’re hoping you come in,” the Spider said. “The Archons are all remotely controlled, but there must be actual human beings working on an operation this massive somewhere. We’re hoping you can use your telepathy to find them, and through them find a maintenance shaft, a tunnel, anything, so we can go straight for it and not get caught looking.”

“All of that is assuming we are not off-world or in another dimension,” Mr. Query said. The Spider glared at him, and he mumbled an apology.

“We do have to consider that kind of thing, like it or not. We have no idea what kind of resources are at work here,” Amar said while getting up. Already the nausea was passing, but he still felt wobbly. “Let me rest for a day, and we’ll see what I can do.” Then, suddenly, the obvious question leaped from Amar’s mind. “Um, so, how close have you all come to escaping before?”

The Spider’s expression at least showed Amar that she was hoping he would not breach the subject. “Yes. Starting two years after the original Silver Scorpion died, his regulars began disappearing, one by one, including us.”

“All of us ended up down here, even the minor league ones like Death Fly, the Patchwork Girl, and Were-Scorpion,” Mr. Query interjected. “Most of us tried working together to find a way to escape. Azalea, the Reaper, Professor Volt, Saint-or-Sinner…all of them are gone now.”

“Gone?” Amar felt a chill. “Where?”

“We don’t know,” the Spider said after a lengthy pause. “But we call it the Box anyway. Whatever it is, they never came back.”


Whatever the Box was, a week later, Amar found he could not banish it from his mind. The three of them had snuck into the house at the edge of the park. It was identical, the Spider explained, to every other cookie-cutter, one-story house in the town – except for the small matter of the large, perfectly round pit with a gleaming silver ladder attached to one side of it where the bathroom should be.

The Spider couldn’t help but do a little dance. Mr. Query smiled for the first time since Amar met him. Amar wanted to shout for joy. Having to pretend to remain under the power of the drugs whenever he went to work or encountered the Archons was as taxing as it was nerve-wracking.

“Be sure to keep a couple of feet behind me. I’ll keep scanning for minds ahead,” Amar thought at them.

The tunnel was made of pale concrete and was given a dim, ugly glow by a series of green florescent lights lining the top of the tunnel. The ambiance was unnerving, giving Amar nothing less than the impression than the tunnel his people said led to the Underworld. He could sense the fear even in the Spider, who Amar knew had the steeliest nerves of all three of them.

As they silently dived deeper into the tunnel, though, their anxiety gave way to relief when they saw a light ahead. Even though Amar knew for a fact there was no one ahead, he moved as cautiously as a cat in a dog kennel. Amar could not help but exhale with relief when he saw the end of the tunnel led into a cozy little breakroom, complete with a cutting-edge coffee maker and a snack vending machine. Amar had the nearly overwhelming urge to sneak a cup of coffee.

Besides the tunnel, there was a nondescript metal green door. The Spider carefully tried to open it. “It’s locked,” she thought. “But it seems to be a pretty standard lock. I guess they don’t think anybody would get this far.”

As she pulled out a makeshift lockpick she made out of a paperclip, Mr. Query rested on a cheap, plastic chair and Amar leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. The initial presence he sensed was apparently gone, but he still scanned the tunnel ahead for thoughts. Suddenly, without warning, he felt an aura that was too familiar.

“We need to get out of here!” Amar shouted.

Before any of the others could say a complete sentence, the green door was flung open. Behind it was a young man in faded jeans and wearing a vintage Silver Scorpion t-shirt that looked ancient. He was flanked by two Archons with smiling faces.

“We are very sorry you are dissatisfied with the conditions of your rehabilitation center, but I am afraid you must be reprimanded for attempting to escape,” one of the Archons said blandly.

“Rehabilitation?!” The Spider screamed. “You psychos were planning to keep us drugged up here until we die!”

“But even you have to admit, this facility is an improvement over Oxrun or St. Helena,” the man said, his eyes fixed on Amar.

“Having trouble violating my mental privacy? Or trying to do something even worse?” The man scoffed and tapped his own head. “A nifty little device, surgically inserted right into the tegmentum. It generates an electromagnetic field that interferes with the connections that make telepathy work. I know how it sounds, but we ran plenty of tests and it’s quite safe. Please don’t worry about me.”

“I know you,” Amar said, quietly. The man smiled.

The Spider made as if she was quietly going to place herself into the custody of the Archons. Instead, she leapt for one of the Archons, launching a kick mid-air. Effortlessly, it grabbed her from the air. With the other hand, it stabbed her in the neck with a needle that was protruding from the ring finger. The Spider passed out in a matter of seconds. The man looked down at the Spider’s unconscious body with no interest. “The usual,” he told one of the Archons. The other one walked toward Mr. Query, who meekly accompanied the Archon. Before he disappeared into the doorway, he smiled weakly at Amar. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“I’ve played this moment over and over in my head for years,” the man said. “And now, I’m forgetting all my lines.”

“Hello, Galaxy Knight,” Amar said. It felt as if he was talking in a dream.

“It’s just Jeremy now,” he replied, sneering. “You of all people know that.” Before Amar could react, Jeremy punched him. Amar fell over to the ground.

“Can’t do anything without your telepathy, huh?” With that, he began kicking Amar in his stomach. Through the pain, Amar was thinking how this was very much not how he wanted to die. “Sir!” a worried voice shouted. Amar looked up to see that one of the Archons had placed a calming hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.

“Right,” Jeremy mumbled, panting. “I’m not a thug. Or a monster, like he is.”

Jeremy leaned over and looked down at Amar. “Besides, we can finally put him to good use.”

14 – Interlude: The Last Adventure of the Galaxy Knight

Jeremy Sanchez’s hands shook as he handled the envelope. He had almost fully expected a rejection, but the contents of the letter were too fat for that. Or were they? Still, he hesitated before he ripped into it.

“What is it?” Lamorak’s voice, which spoke clearly from the back of his mind, was mechanical and alien, yet it was the most comforting thing in Jeremy’s life.

Jeremy scanned over the letter and the paperwork that were inside the now destroyed envelope. “The Rooks. I think they’re saying they’ll give me a provisional membership.”

“Just provisional?” Lamorak asked. He would be scoffing if he was capable of such an emotion. “We almost single-handedly exposed the Sahara Corporation and stopped them from opening up the Veil of Tears.”

“I think they do it to everybody,” Jeremy said as he re-entered the house, not realizing his stepbrother Fernando was within earshot in the living room.

“What’s that?” Fernando – or as he demanded everyone call him, “Nando” – asked disinterestedly.

“Uh, just…I joined a Professor Lore fan club,” Jeremy said, hoping Fernando wouldn’t look up from his phone and come over to grab and skim through the contents of the letter, as he might have done.

Fernando snorted. “Figures you’d be into that kiddy crap.”

Jeremy should have countered by pointing out that Fernando was a year away from going to college, but he still read fantasy and sci-fi novels for middle schoolers. He knew, though, that this was the worst possible time to let matters escalate. “Where’s Luis?”

Jeremy froze up when Fernando stood up. Instinctively Jeremy tried in vain to hide his letter and its contents behind the back. Instead of grabbing for it, though, Fernando “playfully” slapped him against the head. “You’re losing it, bug. Dad teaches two classes tonight.”

“Oh, right,” Jeremy said, choking down his anger and ignoring how the voice in his head literally growled. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“And what else is new?” Fernando said, heading into the kitchen. “Oh, don’t forget to take the trash out today.”

“What? It’s your turn!”

“It’s called delegating, bug,” Fernando called from the kitchen, the tone of his voice a sneer. Jeremy stormed up to his room.

“I cannot wait until the day I can turn into Galaxy Knight right in front of his fat face and then throw him through a window or something,” Jeremy thought. Lamorak answered calmly, “Pride is the warrior’s worst enemy.”

“I know, I know,” Jeremy answered in his head. “The Rooks have a no-hiding-your-identity-from-family policy, anyway…”

“And, at any rate, soon he will be undergoing the four-year rites of adulthood the bourgeois and elite ranks of your culture thinly disguise as advanced education,” Lamorak observed.

“And I can’t wait,” Jeremy said aloud. “Anyway, since Mom’s going to be at work and Dad’s at the college, I guess we can go out on a mission today.“

Lamorak was silent for a few minutes while Jeremy scanned his phone for news, and then suddenly spoke up. “You just received a communication from Dr. Bilatz.”

“You mean an e-mail?”

“As you say,” Lamorak said. “It sounds like Dr. Bilatz needs our help again.”

Jeremy sighed. “I hope he hasn’t ripped the fabric of space and time again,” he said. He had to read over the e-mail three times. The word that stood out each time was “the Exile.”

“How should we respond?” Lamorak asked, with a hint of timidity in his voice.

Jeremy fished out his special watch from the drawer on the nightstand. Lamorak made him promise he would never keep it on him, especially not when he went to school, but it still felt weird keeping the watch that could teleport him anywhere in the world and to sundry dimensions in a cheap piece of furniture. “We go and show the Rooks we can bag one of their regulars.”


In one minute, Jeremy was still standing in his bedroom. Then one minute later, he was standing at the end of a long, gravelly driveway that winded up a mountain and ended at a large metallic gate, flanked by two stone satyrs. Behind it was a massive gothic castle.

As they walked up to the castle, Jeremy wondered, “Why on earth did Dr. Bilatz set up his main laboratory in a scary castle in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado?”

“If I recall correctly, he said something about ambiance. Also the castle was reportedly haunted and he wanted to investigate the physics of post-biological survival as a side project. May I suggest we suit up?”

“Right,” Jeremy said, silently cursing himself because this was not the first time he forgot to fully activate Lamorak just when he was about to step into danger. With a thought, the ring Jeremy wore glowed and suddenly he was surrounded by an aura of purple energy that took the shape of Lamorak’s own form, a knight in armor that looked like he had walked out of an average person’s imaginings of Europe’s High Middle Ages.

“PASSWORD PLEASE.” An electronic voice chirped out of seemingly nowhere as they stepped near the gate. Jeremy was surprised that the gate had not been left open for them, but he supposed it was possible that Dr. Bilatz had been in some way incapacitated. According to the e-mail, he had just been robbed by a telepath, after all.

Lamorak read the password to Jeremy, who recited the numbers back awkwardly. He didn’t know exactly how Dr. Bilatz’s security system worked, but he had a vision of nothing left of his body except a small, smoking crater in the ground if he messed up too badly. “7069 zeta xi 891705 tau iota gamma 62875231486.”

The gates opened with a melodramatic creaking. Across the threshold was an elaborate garden, split precisely in half by a literal yellow brick road. On the left was a scene of classical gray statues that reenacted the Greek philosopher Archimedes defiantly contemplating a mathematical diagram under the glare of a Roman soldier about to slay him. On the right were statues playing out the execution of the occultist Jacques Cazotte by guillotine during the French Revolution. The theme was the destruction of knowledge by thoughtless brutality, or so Dr. Bilatz once told him.

Inside was not some cold, sterile scientific complex but a Baroque palace with a chessboard floor and walls and high ceilings in shades of gold and black. Jeremy called out for Dr. Bilatz, but there was no answer, not even from any of Bilatz’s assistants.

Jeremy began climbing a grand spiral staircase downward into what he knew was Dr. Bilatz’s main laboratory.

“You do realize…” Lamorak began.

“What?” Jeremy asked in his mind.

“If you do join the Rooks, you’re going to have to start working out regularly and perhaps even sacrifice Oreos.”

Despite the situation, Jeremy scoffed aloud.

The central laboratory looked little different from the main hall and the residential rooms, just with computer terminals and technical equipment interspersed and in some cases built into mosaics and statuary. Jeremy stopped at a terminal that was part of a body of a classic European Gothic gargoyle. Without him asking, Lamorak took over Jeremy’s fingers and skillfully hacked into Dr. Bilatz’s mainframe so quickly and gracefully Jeremy’s conscious mind could not keep up.

“I’m scanning the raw data from security and there is absolutely nothing of note, much less anything related to a break-in by the Exile. Also…” Lamorak became ominously silent.

“What’s wrong?” Jeremy whispered aloud.

“Dr. Bilatz is away in Addis Ababa for a conference and has been for this entire month. I suggest we teleport away immediate-.”

“Lamorak?” Jeremy whispered. Then he nearly shouted, “Lamorak?”

Jeremy reached for his watch and began inputting the coordinates for home. Without warning, though, he could no longer feel or even see his watch. With the speed and uncertainty of a nightmare, he was suddenly once again pounding on the closet door while he heard Fernando laughing at the other side of the door. Jeremy was once more choking back his frustrated sobs and threatening to tell Fernando’s dad, who was then about to become Jeremy’s new stepdad. Still, he knew he wouldn’t because he was terrified of Fernando and knew what Fernando was capable of doing when his father was away on campus and his mother was working. And that was only if they would even believe that Fernando, who was a straight A student and was flawlessly polite to all the adults in his life, could be such a bully.

Even though the closet was barely big enough for two people, Jeremy stopped hitting the door when he became aware that someone was standing behind him. Not only was that person behind him, but he was standing several feet away, even though that shouldn’t have been physically possible in the space.

“As someone who knows a thing or two about sibling rivalry, you almost have my sympathy,” the voice of the Exile said. “Almost.”

Jeremy whirled around and saw the Exile in the black and gray cloak he usually wore. Apparently the cloak was a mark of shame in his homeworld. On Earth, he made it into something of a badge of warped honor.

“Lamorak, enact the psychic assault protocol now!” Jeremy screamed.

The Exile chuckled amiably. “Don’t excite yourself. It’s too late.”

“Lamorak!” Jeremy shouted. “I need you now!”

The Exile suddenly dropped the almost amiable façade and practically growled in anger. “What did I just say?” Before Jeremy could react the Exile shoved him through the closet door. Instead of a mocking Fernando and a carpeted hallway on the other side was a half-collapsed temple out on the Jordanian steppe. It was the exact spot where Jeremy as the Galaxy Knight, along with half the Rooks, managed to stop the Exile from summoning some mad, forgotten Babylonian god.

“What did you just do?!”

The Exile sneered. “A computer virus uploaded to this laboratory’s online network, perfectly calibrated for an alien AI consciousness dependent on a human mind. Prodigy is going to want me to thank her periodically for the next 50 years, but it’s so worth it, don’t you think?”

As he backed away, Jeremy tripped over a collapsed column half-buried in the ground. He knew he was inside his own mind, but the fresh bruise he felt on his buttock definitely seemed real.

“What did you do to Dr. Bilatz?”

Rolling his eyes, the Exile replied, “Try to keep up. I’m not after Dr. Bilatz. I’m after you.

Suddenly, the Exile was holding a shotgun that appeared from nowhere and began pointing it right at Jeremy. “This is a tad less imaginative than I like to be, but I’ve got better things to do with my day and would like to wrap this up. Goodbye.”

Jeremy closed his eyes. Even though he was not quite sure if the Exile could kill him in his mindscape, he was still absolutely confident that this was the end of his life. The reality that his career as a superhero could end this way had always been in the back of his head. Facing the reality in the form of a gun was very different, so different that he could not really comprehend it until now.

Then there was a sound of flesh cutting and the Exile whimpering. The familiar purple-energy broadsword that Lamorak usually wielded when in his physical form was sticking through the Exile’s stomach. He gurgled and whimpered, as if trying to say something, before he slid forward and collapsed to the ground. In compliance with dream logic, the Exile’s body crumpled into dust and blew away, even though Jeremy felt no wind.

Lamorak reached out and Jeremy grabbed his hand and stood up. To his embarrassment he realized his eyes were stung with tears. “Thank God it’s you, Lamorak. He was…he was…”

Lamorak’s embrace felt like being hugged by a life-size plastic figure. Still, the gesture was very much welcome. “I know. It will be alright now. He must have wanted revenge for the last time you and the Rooks thwarted him.”

“What a lunatic,” Jeremy sighed. He had been instrumental in defeating the Exile’s scheme, but he was hardly the one involved. “We better get back before Mom gets home or Fernando notices I haven’t taken the trash out.”

“Oh, the watch…” Lamorak said, his robotic voice betraying a hint of concern.

Jeremy looked down and there was a dent on the edge of the watch. “Oh. Do you think it might have damaged the teleportation apparatus?”

“Possibly,” Lamorak answered. “But if so, it will only be minor damage. I should be able to affect repairs right here.”

Jeremy sighed in sincere relief. “Thank God. Here you go.”

The instant he handed the watch over to Lamorak, everything changed. Instead of Lamorak standing before him, it was the Exile, who triumphantly held the watch before him like a trophy. They were also no longer in the Middle East, but back in Dr. Bilatz’s laboratory.

“That was really easier than it should have been,” the Exile said, laughing. It was not the menacing laughter that Jeremy always expected out of lifelong supercriminals, but the laughter of someone who had just pulled off a smart move in a card game. “It looks to me like you’re not even Rooks material, Galaxy Knight.”

The Exile started walking away and waved with one hand while messing with the watch with the other. “Good luck getting back home.”

Jeremy closed his eyes and called on Lamorak to appear on his own and stop the Exile, more than he ever wished for anything in his life. Suddenly a blurry figure, which looked like a video game glitch manifested in reality somehow, appeared close to the floor and grabbed at the Exile’s legs, tripping him.

“Destroy the watch before he can focus and use his powers,” Lamorak’s voice hissed in Jeremy’s mind as the deformed figure of Lamorak kept wrestling with the supercriminal. “I will not be able to manifest in this form for long.”

“But I won’t get home and my family will know-“

“Please, you can’t let him have it,” Lamorak pleaded.

You have to act like a hero, Jeremy sternly told himself as he joined the fray and tried to wrestle the watch out of the Exile’s hand. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but he thought he could feel the Exile telepathetically clawing his way back into his consciousness. It was this fear that gave Jeremy a strength beyond even his normal ability. He slammed the watch against the floor repeatedly with a demented energy. The Exile screamed in rage while broken pieces of precious alien technology flew everywhere. At least Fernando will now find out I’m a superhero, Jeremy thought bitterly.

Panting, Jeremy tried to stand up, but his legs failed him. “Don’t bother,” the Exile said, also audibly exhausted. “I just managed to make your brain temporarily forget how legs work.”

The Exile stood up. Lamorak was now gone from view. Jeremy tried to crawl away, but the Exile was quickly on top of him, grabbing at his hand.

“Leave me alone!” Jeremy shouted. A part of his mind thought how this wasn’t playing out like any encounter with a supercriminal he ever managed. He kept trying to resist, but the Exile managed to grab his hand and violently jerked the ring off his finger.

Jeremy realized what the Exile was doing and screamed, even pleaded with him to stop. The Exile held the ring up and looked at it, almost admiringly. “So this really is the source of your power.” Pulling his body with his arms, Jeremy tried to reach the Exile but he slowly walked back, mocking him. “I did my homework, you see. And you’ve been way more open to the public than you should have been. I don’t know your real name, but I do know your ‘Lamorak’ is an artificial intelligence copy of a dead alien mind. Centuries ago, there was some interplanetary peacekeeping force that was betrayed and destroyed, and the survivors uploaded the dying minds of their greatest champions to these rings so that their legacy could live on. Plus they could keep fighting for the sake of civilizations that enter perilous periods in their technological and social evolution in conjunction with the minds of heroic natives. Or something like that, right?”

“Please,” Jeremy begged.

Faintly, Jeremy could hear Lamorak’s voice. It was barely coherent, but he could still make it out. “I’m so sorry, Jeremy. I know – I know what he’s about to do. Please listen to me.”

“And they adapt to the culture of whatever native they choose to enter a symbiotic relationship with, and hence we had Galaxy Knight,” the Exile chuckled.

Lamorak kept speaking. “Don’t let this break you. Don’t let this change you. Just keep-.”

“Shame, really,” the Exile said just before he dropped the ring to the floor and stomped on it several times, until the glass on the ring was utterly shattered.

Jeremy felt not only Lamorak’s voice but his very presence fade from his mind. Even though he felt exhausted, both physically and mentally, he still found the strength to scream one more time, “You murdered him!”

“Your Lamorak was just the memory of a ghost, if that,” the Exile said with an infuriating matter-of-factness, nonchalantly kicking what was left of the ring that once contained Lamorak’s essence across the floor.

“You murdered him,” Jeremy repeated, this time in a whisper.

The Exile shrugged and began to walk away. “You’ll be able to walk again in five minutes, at most.” With that, he was out the door.





#13 – Sentenced to Paradise

By the eighth day, Amar had gotten into a routine. He would wake up and eat his mildly flavorful and protein-rich breakfast , which was delivered through a vending machine-like device that fed right into the kitchen (coffee was nowhere to be had in this place, but he couldn’t remember ever minding that, just noting it). Then he stepped out of the simple, tiny one-floor house he found himself in and walked out into the street (which no cars ever drove on) with other one-floor blue-and-white houses perfectly lined up on both sides. He walked about a mile to work, an office in a lovely, colonial-style building. There he sat down at a cubicle where he sat down and proofread medical and legal transcriptions from all over the English-speaking world for four hours. He had co-workers whom he socialized with, although their conversations were brief and never went beyond petty annoyances with work or how good the meals from last night were or what was on television last night. (They would have talked about the weather too, if it wasn’t always sunny with just a few clouds; the only “rain” came down in broad daylight).  Then he would go home and watch television. There was only one channel, though, and it was full of cheerful sitcoms and light dramas with just a mild infusion of conflict. His own favorites were Murder She Wrote and Three’s Company.

He dimly remembered how his rage and despair burned brightly that first day, how he felt that once again he had a normal life stolen from him. However, he felt much better by the second day. Even the fact that his telepathy was muted, to such a degree that he could barely even go inside his own mind, didn’t bother him that much anymore.

Nothing did, really.

Amar was only slightly disturbed by his supervisors. They said nothing, but his co-workers and friends called them the Archons. The men always wore black, white, and gray khakis and pollo shirts while the women dressed in colorful blouses and slacks. Where their heads would be were sleek black-mirror screens on which faces were usually shown, although occasionally they would flicker with flashes of blue dancing through the dark. The faces were always pleasant and uninspiringly attractive. And they never failed to be anything but polite.

The only breaks in the routine were picnics and sporting events and community theater and the like. He thought of auditioning for the role of Macbeth, even though the play didn’t have the scene where Macduff’s family gets killed. And Lady Macbeth goes to prison, instead of committing suicide. Still, something about the role of the Scottish king spoke to him.

What was this place called, he sometimes wondered. No one ever told him, and it never occurred to him to ask one of the Archons. It didn’t really matter, anyway. It was now the whole world to him.


The only thing that bothered him, aside from the fact that the rice and vegetable meals that were provided on Wednesdays always tasted over-salted, were the dreams.

He dreamed of an old-fashioned ship that sailed through the sky and the feeling a man’s beard rub against his own while they kissed and of leading an army into battle down a mountain path while drunk on hate. He also dreamed of his own blood and the feeling of a cold, metallic wall against his back as he slumped against it.

One afternoon on the weekend, he had walked down to the nearby library, a sleek, stylish building that was like being inside a state-of-the-art cell phone. All the books were works of classic literature, moral philosophy, and self-help books. It barely even occurred to him now that this was something that should be questioned.

As Amar perused the literature signature, trying to find a decent translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh and only faintly annoyed he could not find a copy with the original Sumerian, he became aware that a man had been staring at him. He was a tall, thin, middle-aged man who somehow gave him the impression that he had walked off the set of a 1950s television show. Amar could not shake the feeling he had seen the man before around his neighborhood.

It took a surprising amount of willpower, but finally, Amar asked, “Can I help you with something?”

Unfazed, the man chuckled and said, “It’s nothing. Well, a small, little thing. I just thought I would test something out.”


“My companion, whom I suspect you’ll be meeting later, asserted that this was a bad idea, but I usually prefer the direct approach. And, besides, for people in your condition, a little confusion goes a long way.”

“My…condition? But I’m perfectly fine.”

“Exactly.” With that, the man theatrically leaned closer, even though he was still a couple of feet away, and asked, “Query: Can you guess what number I’m thinking of? Your clue is that it is between the numbers 1 and 50.”

Any thoughts as to the man’s identity and what he wanted were chased out of Amar’s mind. Suddenly, he could only think of the odd question asked of him.

“I guess I could try…but why?”

The man smiled paternally. “Just a test, just a test, like I said. Please try clearing your mind.”

Amar closed his eyes. Within seconds, the answer came to him. “Um…23. No, actually, 23.5726.”

The smile grew larger. “Excellent.”

“Do you need help finding anything?” a woman’s voice spoke beside him.

Startled, Amar whirled around. An Archon stood near him, the beaming face of a young blonde woman looking down at him while taking up most of the screen. “Oh, no, but thank you. Thank you very much.”

As the Archon moved on to reshelving, Amar looked around for the bow-tied man, but he was nowhere to be seen. Even stranger was how he supposedly guessed that very specific number and supposedly got it right. The whole thing must have been some prank. Although…wasn’t he able to guess what other people were thinking accurately before, a long time ago? He couldn’t really remember.


“So first thing’s first: your number-one suspect is dead.”

Jon thought that he had misheard Liz. After all, she was just on speaker via his cheap and nearly kaput cell phone. “What was that? I’m not…”

“He’s dead. He’s been dead for 11 years now.”

Jon looked at Heracles, who was reclining majestically on his couch as if he was on a throne overseeing the inspection of plunder taken from an enemy. Also, for some reason, he was wearing a t-shirt and a blazer tailored to leave none of his muscles to the imagination. It would have been better if he had met Liz in person at her home or her office on campus, but Jon found himself surprisingly hostile to the idea of Heracles coming in contact with Liz. Having him seduce Amar was bad enough, and Liz had a thing for superhuman muscles herself.

“Are you sure?” Jon asked the phone perched on the table.

“Of course I am!” He could almost hear the eye roll. After a pause and a few audible clicks of her mouse, she continued, “There was only one Silver Scorpion, and he was apparently really well known back in the day. Are you sure you’ve never heard of him?”

“No,” Jon replied. He looked again at Heracles, who shook his head.

“Well, he was a pretty big deal in New York City history, more than even Sparrow and Viper or Cerberus. In fact, he once…”

Jon cleared his throat, his usual signal to get Liz off lecture mode.

“Okay, okay, sorry. But it might be important that he was so respected he was one of the few vigilantes in New York to ever be granted an exemption from the McIntyre-Cranston Act.”

“So he was allowed to fight street crime?”

“Yep. You really do remember what I tell you. But most of the time he was asked to deal with supercriminals. Then things with a particularly nasty supercriminal went south and he retired. He passed away not many years afterward. The producers of some documentary found out he was the heir of an electronics fortune.”

In a gesture of impatience, Heracles leaped to his feet. “I thank you for following our clue so extensively, as always, Elizabeth, but this does sound like a dead end.”

“Could be. There is one really weird thing, though, that makes me think it’s at least worth looking into.”

“What?”, Jon asked.

“You know how it’s not that unusual for supercriminals to just up and disappear, right? Either they’ve gone straight and gotten new identities or they, well, die. Or worse. Even then, it doesn’t seem likely that every single one of his surviving regulars, whether they were in jail, in a mental hospital, or reformed vanished without a trace one by one after he retired, and they kept disappearing even after he was dead.”

Relief washed over Jon. Now here was a lead. “What’s the time frame we’re talking?”

“Five years.”

Jon definitely thought they were onto something, but suddenly he realized that Heracles had invited himself into this investigation. Reluctantly, he turned and asked, “What do you think?”

Heracles grinned. “Comrade, it seems as if we’re finally getting close to me being able to just punch someone.”


Although the incident at the library was so brief, Amar’s thoughts kept straying to it. What did that man want? And why was such an innocent little thing make him feel so unsettled? If it was a joke or whatever, why did he guess such a bizarre number to begin with?

Then, on his way home from work, he encountered a tall, athletic-looking woman who looked like she was in her 40s. Her black hair was in a tight bun, and she moved down the sidewalk with a tense grace. Unlike any other woman Amar had seen since he…relocated here, she wore her blue shirt in a way that rather complimented her breasts. It occurred to Amar then that everyone other than the Archons wore a blue shirt and gray pants. That was also what his entire wardrobe consisted of.

That didn’t sound right either.

“Amar, right? Hello. Good to see you,” she said cheerfully and aggressively, grabbing his hand and shaking it.

“Um, hi. Do I know you?”

“Oh, we haven’t met, but I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”

Amar would have normally been afraid or startled or perhaps even angered—or some combination thereof—but he wasn’t. Instead he only felt a dull curiosity. “Why?”, he asked.

She smiled. “We’ll catch you up soon, I hope, but in the meantime, you take our advice.” Suddenly, she shook his hand and then disappeared, moving fast without sprinting, down a side street. It took about a full minute to realize he had a crumpled sheet of paper in his hand.

“IT’S IN THE FOOD THEY GIVE YOU. AND DON’T LET THEM SEE OUR GIFT.” It was signed with a sketch of a spider.

Amar’s thoughts were consumed by the mystery of the note, especially that second sentence, as he made his way home. Then, almost as soon as he stepped through the door, he found that someone had somehow broken into his house only to leave boxes full of food on paper plates that were carefully wrapped in plastic.

#12 – A Royal Kidnapping

“No, this is too…” Amar couldn’t find the word.

“Intense?” Dr. Phan replied as he looked around a bloody battlefield with a professional mild interest. The corpse of a man who couldn’t have been much older than a teenager was at his feet. “This was your first memory to surface.”

“I know, I just…” The battlefield abruptly faded into black like a show on TV. Amar was back on a steep hill that inclined down into a lush forest. The hillside was an old and happy place he knew in his childhood and was what Dr. Phan termed his “neutral place”. “Sorry if that was too…forceful,” Amar said. “I know I’ve been your patient for a while, but I’m still not used to sharing my head with another telepath.”

The body of Dr. Phan was gone. Instead he heard his voice, sounding a bit like a voice coming the other end of a landline telephone. “Just think of it as like talking, only more…visceral.”

Without consciously willing it, the grass under his feet gave way to a carpeted floor and the other side of a room was his own body, bleeding from his wrists and slumped against a wall. “Oh, Ishtar,” Amar whimpered.

“I could sense the thought of your suicide at the fringe of the consciousness when we began our session, and you said you wanted to talk about your sense of guilt and responsibility,” Dr. Phan explained. Somewhat poetically, as he talked Dr. Phan was standing on the other side of the transparent barrier of Amar’s cell. Amar wondered if it was deliberate.

“No, it isn’t,” Dr. Phan said with a smile. Now he was standing in the cell with Amar.

“Sorry,” Amar said. He was about to mutter out another line about how he was unused to dealing with another telepath again when Dr. Phan interrupted him.

“Clearly there’s some sort of connection that might be worth investigating here. Do you remember what you were thinking just before you decided to take your life?”

Amar was shocked by how little he really thought about it and how much he tried not to think about it since his little adventure with Jon. “I’m not sure. I just know, when I decided to do it, I really did feel like I had no future, that I might as well have been a corpse.”

“I don’t doubt you were thinking about the future, but it seems the past was on your mind as well.”

Unbidden, their surroundings began to shift at the speed of thought: a ritual Amar participated in to bring back the undead serial killer Lonnie, giant arachnid robots marching on the streets of Miami as he grinned from a penthouse window above, a teenager screaming at Amar in rage, and Amar’s only sibling sobbing, pleading with him not to take her memories away…

“Stop,” Dr. Phan said, gently but firmly reaching further into Amar’s mind and pulling his psyche back to that lovely green hillside. A nice breeze blew under the flawlessly clear sky. Now where Amar was standing there was now a red couch and a red cushioned chair.

“Maybe for the rest of our time together it’s best to slow down and just talk the old-fashioned way in this lovely memory,” Dr. Phan said helpfully.


Amar lingered in a small café over a mediocre vanilla latte. He wasn’t there for the coffee, but for the view of the wide green spaces of a nearby college campus (the fit, shirtless guys who played touch football or frisbee were not his only motive for frequenting that cafe, but they were an added perk). Also the shop never had a solid clientele, so it was easier not to have to shut out other people’s noisy thoughts.

Amar liked Dr. Phan, but he couldn’t honestly say he liked their sessions. It had been too long since Amar lived in a place where running into and dealing with other telepaths was a routine occurrence. And where he came from, telepaths were the ones who worked as the closest thing his society had to psychologists, but then he never experienced what his people called “the treatment of the inward gaze”. He could only imagine what it would be like for people who didn’t have telepathic gifts and couldn’t even go inside themselves to construct their own mindscapes.

It was especially disconcerting because Dr. Phan wanted to talk about Amar trying to take his life far more than his past as a supercriminal. Amar hadn’t even really thought about his suicide attempt. It felt as if it had happened to someone else, after all, and he had only attempted it because Yori came to loathe him and he had the new life he built ripped away. Or was that the only reason?

His thoughts were still burdensome as he realized he might as well brood at home than waste more money on not-too-good coffee. On the way home, he cut a shortcut through a narrow street, as he usually did when he didn’t feel like lingering. Halfway down the street, he sensed someone behind him who was deliberately masking his thoughts. Amar looked behind him only to see an object that looked like a spearhead, attached to an electric wire and flying right towards him. With only microseconds to spare, Amar fell backwards and caught himself against the pavement with his right arm. It wasn’t exactly graceful, but the pain from the fall was negligible at least. He shouted out, but no one answered. No doubt his assailant made sure to attack him in a place where there wasn’t a single pedestrian anywhere nearby.

The taser or whatever it was fell harmlessly near Amar as he rolled toward the closest thing to cover, a jeep parked on the curb. From there, he darted into an nearby alleyway as quickly as he could.  Amar glanced over and saw a man in a silver costume that had the emblem of a scorpion on the chest and a mask with an insectile look, not far behind but just far enough.

Amar rushed over behind another row of parked vehicles, reaching out again to find any pedestrians. There. He located the minds of a group of teenagers coming back from the movies and slowly making their way down a nearby avenue. Amar was prepared to make another dart in their direction, but under a truck, he could see the silver boots of his stalker on the other side of the street.

“Time to stop playing defensive,” Amar thought. His attacker had some rudimentary psychic shields up, making it difficult for him to find a foothold. But before too long, he could feel a tingle of fear, a stray thought of worry that he had lost sight of Amar.

That was all he needed. Amar blasted his attacker’s mind with gibberish-filled, incoherent thoughts that no doubt severely disoriented him, enough to buy Amar enough time to find those teenagers or some other pedestrian. Just as Amar was emerging from cover and preparing to take a photo of his attacker with his cellphone, he heard a fire escape somewhere nearby rattle and the sound of a heavy weight dropping to the cement. Just as he was turning around to look, he felt the prick of a needle on his neck and the feeling of his muscles melting into liquid.


“You are a hard man to reach these days, you know,” Heracles said, grinning.

“Yeah, I know,” Jon said. “They haven’t quite worked out the kinks of communication between the universe and outside the space-time continuum. But I really do appreciate you letting me know.”

Heracles shrugged. “Of course! I know you…ah, care for Amar.”

Jon chose not to pursue that implications of that “ah”. “Well, yeah. I’m just surprised that you…”

Heracles gave Jon a confused look. “Do you think I shouldn’t care about his well-being?”

“No, I’m just – well, uh, are you two dating?”

Heracles’ face darkened. “Do we need to be in some sort of courtship for me to be concerned that the prince may be in danger or, may the Fates not will it, worse?”

Jon gulped. Earning the ire of someone who could break his neck with a twitch of his fingers was not on his calendar. “No, what I mean is – I’m just wondering how close you two have gotten since I went away.”

Heracles seemed to ponder that for a moment before the storm clouds apparently lifted and he laughed again. “Ah, friend Jon, I understand now. No, the two of us have only shared a bed and good conversations. And even then, our talks would too often end in him asking me to swing him around and…”

“Shh!” Jon said, noticing amused glances from the bar’s other patrons.

From what little Jon knew of Heracles, he was no doubt proud of his “lovemaking” with a rogue royal from a kingdom in another dimension. This was probably far from the only time he let certain details slip. Now this time it was Jon’s turn to feel his mood darken.

Before Jon could mull over Heracles and Amar’s relationship for too long, their food was delivered by a group of cheerful yet menacing-looking robots with sleek red metallic skin and a somewhat devilish look. When the Final Guard first established their own official café for members and associates in 1968, Club Limbo, they had used the appropriated robots of an old regular of theirs at the time, Dr. Daedelus, as staff. Since the robots had mostly kept themselves in good working order over the decades and, more importantly, lacked free will according to multiple psychological and engineering tests and still actually seemed happier as servers than as a madman’s soldiers, there was no reason to replace them. It took only one robot to deliver Jon’s meal of a Reuben and fries and iced tea. It took three to deliver Heracles’ one-man feast, which includes roast lamb, figs, fried lampreys, grape leaves stuffed with rice, an entire jug of wine, and half a chocolate cake.

“Besides,” Heracles said with a smile, “you should know I take care of all my friends. In the old days, I sailed all the way around Greece to try to save a woman I did not know that well and had only laid with once.”

“How did that turn out?”

“Oh, I not only saved her, but I went to war against the entire clan that took her and then…” Heracles stopped himself awkwardly. “But that was a very different time.

As he ripped into his banquet, Heracles happily changed the subject. “So who do you think is responsible for Amar’s disappearance? Some former ally or rival of his from his former nefarious career?”

That was Jon’s own first suspicion, but after thinking it over, he had changed his mind. “I doubt it. God knows the supercriminal community has plenty of backstabbers, but they’re generally pretty good at regulating themselves when it comes to their own just going berserk against each other. Any act of hostility without a really bad act of provocation is a sure way to get oneself quietly disappeared one day, even if the victim had gone legit. And it should have been old news long ago that Amar got his pardon because he helped me stop the reality warp, not because he ratted anybody out.”

Heracles signaled his agreement by grunting with a mouth full of lamb. “Some rogue superhero or law enforcement agency then?”

Jon sighed. “That’s my fear. Josephine Manners swears she investigated her own turf over it and I believe her, but she’s not omniscient.”

“Close to it, though,” Heracles said with no small bit of awe.

“There was a big crackdown on vigilantes sometime in the mid-‘90s and there hasn’t been a resurgence since, if I remember one of Liz’s impromptu history lectures right,” Jon said.

“Hmm. But it wouldn’t be the first time a hero snapped or had a grudge against one of their regulars that drove them to break the law and their own supposed code of honor.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Jon said. There was a strong third possibility, though. Human trafficking of the superpowered and paranormally empowered was a lucrative international black market that sometimes involved rogue governments and terrorist organizations. And the rarity of telepaths made them particularly valuable. But Jon suspected that Heracles didn’t want to consider that hypothesis anymore than he did, at least not until they exhausted the more likely and less frightening possibilities.

“I read everything I could about Amar’s past as the Exile and there were…a few candidates,” Heracles said. He paused, clearly weighing his words, and continued. “But that said…well, the last time you saw Amar was at the anniversary party, yes?”

Jon nodded.

“Did you see your friend and former teammate, who goes by the name ‘Tell’?”

“Well, yeah,” Jon felt his heart sink. His involvement honestly did not even occur to him until now. “What are you thinking?”

“I was with Amar most of the night, and a few times I saw Tell staring at Amar from a distance. Indeed, I thought about confronting him, but he left long before the festivities were over.”

Jon shook his head. “He definitely has a grudge against Amar. But that doesn’t –“

Suddenly, Jon’s cellphone came to life with an old-school landline ring. “Um, sorry. I better answer in case it’s about Amar.”

“Of course,” Heracles said, his full attention already dedicated to his meal.

“Hello?” Jon said, rising from his seat and ducking into a quiet, empty corner of the café.

“Um, hey. Is this Jon?” A nervous teenager’s voice said.

“This is he. Who is this?”

“Hey. I’m Juan Romano. So I was walking home from the movies with my friends and, uh, I got this…message.”


“It was crazy! Like I just blanked out for five seconds and your name and number was in my head and I just knew the whole thing was from some guy named Amar.”

Jon, who was confused and thought this was some bizarre hoax, audibly gasped. “Wait. Amar? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know, man! I just got this message and your phone number in my brain and this feeling that I better call you. And I’m crap at remembering numbers, you know? But I don’t think I can forget your phone number now even if I try.” Suddenly his voice raised with a real note of panic. “Is – is something going to be wrong with me?”

Jon choked down his impatience. “No, Juan. You’re safe.” You might remember my phone number for the rest of your life, though, Jon thought, but did not dare add. “Just tell me what the message was, please.”

“It was weird, but I swear it was all of it,” Juan said, talking as if he was sharing state secrets. “It just said, ‘It was the silver scorpions.’”

#11 – The 430th Anniversary

It had been six months since Amar had been arrested by the Final Guard, and it was actually a relief that the most evil thing he had done since was forcing his seven students to master the Sumerian language’s sexagesimal numeral system in one class period.

Here he was, about to step inside his townhouse with something called a “pizza Margherita” hot on his arm. He was even able to go by his real name or rather a version of it that fit with his new manufactured life story as a scholar from the Middle East. Luckily, he was never nearly as famous a supercriminal as someone like The Roman or Mr. Punch. Even in an age of everyone carrying around digital cameras on their phones, plausible deniability would be his friend, or at least that’s what Josephine Manners assured him on three separate occasions.

As Amar awkwardly managed his keys and his pizza, he turned his head and called out, “You want any?”

Out in the darkness beyond his porch, a gruff voice replied flatly, “You knew I was there?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, opening the door and leaving it open for his guest. “You’re really good at silencing your thoughts for a mindblind, but you also give off some of the strongest psychic radiation I’ve ever experienced.”

Abu Oginyae silently followed. As much as he tried to convey the sense that he could shut down his entire nervous system in a minute, it did unnerve Amar how Abu Oginyae managed to move without even making the floor creak slightly.

“Would you like any pizza?”

Adu Oginyae was silent for a few seconds. “No, thank you.”

“Well, the offer’s open. I guess you’re here to spy on me, making sure I’m not hanging out with the wrong crowd again?”

“Something like that,” he answered.

Amar set down on the table two plates with a slice of pizza on each.

“Why you, though? Is the c-team off fighting a demonic invasion of Manhattan or something?”

“Let’s just say I’m personally curious,” Abu Oginyae said. “You likely know that I have seen very few people reform in my time, especially not among my own regulars. I do hope you will be different.”

Amar quietly ate, wondering if Jon’s preemptive break-up did make the Final Guard nervous that Amar would revert back to his old career. Just as Amar was starting to wonder if Abu Oginyae would simply stand there and watch him eat, he spoke again.

“You will be receiving an invitation in the mail, but I might as well tell you. You’re invited to the 430th anniversary of the Final Guard’s founding.”

“Oh. Well, thanks.” In spite of himself, Amar asked, “Will Jon be there?”

“Most likely.”

Amar got up and made his way to the fridge to get some iced tea. “Can I at least get you a drink?” When he next turned around toward the front door, Abu Oginyae was gone along with the second slice of pizza.


The boat pulled up to Citadel Island, an artificially built island lying roughly six miles east of Cobb Island, Virginia. Since the 1970s, it had been the main base for the Final Guard. Once upon a time, the Final Guard had been located in Manhattan. It took a surprisingly long time for people to realize that collecting Earth’s most powerful humans and miscellaneous beings, who were also routinely targeted by deadly superhuman, paranormal, and extraterrestrial forces, in a densely populated urban area was a terrible idea or at the very least outweighed the benefits of having them conveniently at hand.

Liz had been silently watching the water since they departed from the village of Oyster. As they got off on the dock, Jon asked her teasingly, “Thinking back to the time when you were a cape?”

Liz chuckled. “A little, actually. I still can’t believe I thought I was being all feminist by taking the name ‘White Witch.’”

I thought it was clever.”

They reminisced all the way into the tower and through the multiple body scans (making sure they had no weapons or explosives, ensuring they were not shapeshifters or androids, etc.). They stepped into a ballroom that were a rainbow of superhero costumes, here and there broken by much more mundane tuxedos and dresses. Jon himself was in his Mantra costume, even though he had been working with Dr. Bilatz for weeks now doing random tasks and using the Mantra gem to help him monitor and manage mystical energies. Liz was in a red dress that was at least an unconscious homage to Lydia Deetz.

“What are you doing in that…interdimensional nexus or whatever anyway?” Liz asked.

“He’s calling it The Outside now.”

“Really? Nice and simple. It’s better than the White Witch.”

They separated and mingled, Liz eventually chatting with a rapper who was also rumored in the cape press to have lycanthropy, Jon making the rounds of his various former teammates in the Rooks. Standing alone, apart from the crowd and nursing a Shirley Temple, was Tell in his full classic Robin Hood-esque get-up.

They exchanged awkward and token greetings, but it wasn’t long before Will got to the chase.

“Amar is supposedly coming tonight,” he said, clearly scanning Jon’s face for a reaction.

“Really? That was nice of them to include him.”

Tell didn’t even try to suppress a groan. “Hm. I bet it was Sans Pareil’s idea.”

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Probably, but you never know.”

“Look, I didn’t – I’m glad you’re not dating Amar. Seriously.”

Jon was surprised at the slight chill in his own voice. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know. Liz told me. Well, she didn’t tell me everything, but she implied you had other reasons. Still, though, I should…” Whatever Tell was about to say, he trailed off.


“It’s nothing. I really need to go find my plus one. She’s some journalist I met on a mission and I better make sure she’s not trying to score an interview off somebody. See you.”

Before Jon could engage another of his colleagues, the band that had been alternating between soft rock and something not unlike jazz surrendered to Athena, who took to the stage to give the requisite speech in her full breastplate and tunic.

After speaking eloquently but briefly on all the triumphs and the tragedies that had been experienced in the past year, Athena turned to the organization’s history. “Contrary to popular belief, I actually wasn’t on this plane of reality at the time, but I have heard this story told to me so many times in so many ways I may as well have been. 430 years ago, frustrated at the failure of his grand armada to conquer England, King Philip II of Spain, in a grotesque act of hypocrisy, had one of the kings of Hell, Viné, summoned and sent him against the English people. In response, Queen Elizabeth I gathered together the strongest but also the most unusual champions in her dominions – the Boggart, Sir Bedwyr, the Brass Head, Madam Pigot, and Jack-in-Irons. Only by using their gifts in tandem were they able to prevent tremendous loss of life and completely defeat what we would today call a class-A1 paranormal threat. It was a grateful Elizabeth herself who gave this menagerie of misfits the name the ‘Final Guard’, deeming them the last protection of her country when all other defenses failed.

This group continued to ultimately through tumultuous shifts in membership and even periods of total disbandment such as when Oliver Cromwell furiously condemned them as demonic and drove them all underground or out of England, but the Final Guard would always return in one form or another whenever the need was great. We have evidence that such gatherings of – let’s say – unique and exceptional individuals existed even as far back as ancient Rome and Nara Japan, but – and Liz, feel free to correct even the goddess of wisdom on this one [sincere laughter came from the audience] – but none lasted for longer than a generation. The Final Guard did, however, even after all of its original members had passed on or faded into legend.

However, its service still strictly belonged to the English monarchy until the horrors of the Seven Years War provoked the Masked Dragoon and Jill Holland to reach out to France’s premier champion, the Vicomte de Calbec, and set out to establish a new Final Guard that would no longer serve as the arm of any one government and would instead fight for the entire human race against exceptional threats. This mission has rarely been a simple one and many times the Final Guard has had to take sides in spite of our own ideals, most famously when we agreed to work in conjunction with the United States Army during the Second World War. But even in these tumultuous times we have kept true—“

Jon was listening with rapt attention until he thought he heard heavy footsteps coming in his general direction followed by a familiar laughter. He casually looked behind him and for reasons that were a mystery to him his heart stopped at the sight: a tall, very muscular, shirtless man, dressed only in leather boots and what could only be described as some kind of ancient man-skirt, along with perfectly combed and trimmed facial hair, long hair crowning his shoulders, and a forest of curly chest hair. It was Athena’s half-brother, Heracles, and walking with him with a hand against the chest that was far broader than Jon’s own was Amar.

Amar waved at Jon in such a way that it was almost theatrical. Jon fired back with about half a nod.

He was shocked out of his reverie by the room’s applause. Jon half-heartedly joined in and tried to go back to mingling, but his eyes kept turning back to the site of Amar fawning over the giant trash heap of hair and muscle.

Unable to do anything else, Jon walked casually up to Heracles and Amar. “Hi, Amar. I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Jon! I’m glad to see you again. It’s been a while.”

“Well, well, Mantra,” Heracles said with a grin. “I haven’t seen you since…”

“The Nero Imperative. Particularly that escape from the New Millennium Faction’s base.”

“Yes!” Heracles playfully slapped Jon on the shoulder, very nearly knocking him down. “I remember that well! Your friend here has quite the knack for running away from explosions,” he told Amar.

“Oh, I’ve seen him in danger, too,” Amar replied.

“Oh? We should arrange some kind of deadly, absurd adventure so you can say the same about me.”

“Well, you have taken every possible chance to show off,” Amar said before turning to Jon, almost as if he had forgotten he was there. “Did you know he’s so strong he can bench press a ten-wheeler? He did it as part of a workout routine while I was visiting him. Barely broke a sweat.”

“That is impressive, although I can name four or five people off the top of my head who can do the exact same thing,” Jon replied, trying to make it sound like just friendly teasing and failing.

As the war of barbs continued, Athena stood back in the crowd of talking people. She was making a beeline for her brother to confront him about yet again coming to an event uninvited when he hadn’t been a regular member of the Final Guard since the 1950s, but instead she stopped to observe Jon’s interactions with Amar and Heracles.

Sans Pareil saddled up next to her. “It’s a shame that Amar ended up with Heracles. I really was rooting for him and Jon.”

Athena was about to explain to Sans Pareil what was going on in the same tone one would talk to a too-old child about the non-existence of Santa Claus, but thankfully Adu Oginyae, who appeared out of nowhere as was his custom, did it for her. “You’re joking, right? You do realize that he’s trying to make Jon jealous, don’t you?”

Sans Pareil twisted his face in disgust. “You’d think someone who can read minds would just communicate his feelings honestly.”

“He’s still a human being,” Athena countered.

“And it’s still wrong,” Adu Oginyae added.

“So says the man who dates gorgeous yet love-starved celebrities and the saintly heads of affluent non-profits just to keep up his secret identity.”

Suddenly Heracles grabbed Amar, lifted him four feet in the air, and kissed him briefly yet deeply. Laughing, Amar then made his way to a door leading to an outdoor balcony. Jon said his farewells to Heracles – his words were terse, Heracles’ boisterously sincere. Seeing her moment, Athena walked up to her brother.

Forgoing the greeting, she simply said, “I trust you actually know what this is about, right?”

“You mean make some boy jealous?” Heracles said, chuckling. “I haven’t spent as much time with the mortals as you have in the recent centuries, sister, but I’ve never been that naïve. We’ve just been having a good time the past few months. And besides, I haven’t been with either a woman or a man of royal blood since that one glorious night in Edinburgh.”

“Please consider breaking it off gently,” Athena said, even though she suspected Heracles would ignore her advice as he always did in matters that did not involve storming enemy strongholds. “You shouldn’t even be involved.”

Heracles shrugged his massive shoulders. “He seems fine to me.”

“You’re worse than Father,” Athena growled. “At least he has the decency to delude himself that he’s in love.”

Amar pretended to be making the rounds, but only ran into former adversaries who had either played a role in foiling some plan he at least was involved in or knew him by reputation. The most Amar could be grateful for was that the shallow greetings outnumbered the icy glares. The only one who struck up a conversation with him was the Sentinel, who stood out even from the blindingly colorful crowd in his costume and its red, white, and blue motif.

At first, they chatted and joked about a little incident where Amar tricked the Sentinel and some British superhero, the Ebony Knight, into gathering together the scattered pieces of some superweapon or another. It soon turned into an argument about the merits of monarchy versus American democracy.

“I respect your people and their long history, but after living in this world for so many years, how can you still defend a system where power passes from one person to another just because of what family they were born into?” the Sentinel asked, gesturing so passionately that he nearly spilled his drink.

Amar rolled his eyes. “Yes, exactly. Why do you think I still believe in my people’s government, even after getting overthrown and exiled? I absolutely think that some societies could use at least a nominal leader who’s trained from birth for the role and isn’t some corrupt, unqualified lunatic who managed to game the system…”

Neither man was aware that their argument was being observed at a distance by Tell. Retreating further back, Tell whispered into his cell phone, “No, of course, you shouldn’t even think about taking him. He’s dating a veteran cape apparently, Heracles. So you’ll have to be more careful. Sure, we’ll keep watching until we finally get the opening we need.”


#10 – Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

On the tram, Jon swiped through a litany of bleak news articles and largely animal-focused social media posts on his phone, without stopping to truly digest any of the information. No matter how often people like the Final Guard saved the world, it still seemed like it was determined to go off the rails on its own good time. He only stirred when a pleasant ding alerted him that the tram had silently drifted to a stop.

Making his way impatiently through a crowd of costumed heroes and uniformed military officials who would have awed and intimidated him not that long ago, Jon made a beeline for the terminal W-42. Outside a glass portal looking out onto a vast hospital-white hanger was a sleek futuristic jet that resembled a giant gray plastic piece from some board game.

His only other companion at the terminal was a young man in an ill-fitting and old-fashioned suit, reading a beat-up paperback. It was some horror novel from the ‘70s whose title Jon didn’t recognize. Noticing that he caught Jon’s attention, the young man looked up with confusion, looked down again, and then, suddenly, as if some switch went off inside his head, he got up and grinned at Jon in greeting.

“Oh, hey. Jon, right?”

“Sorry I’m so late. I got held up at security.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I was told to expect that. The test to make sure you’re not a clone or whatever by itself is a pain in the butt, I know.” Jon was prepared for a handshake, but instead he got an enthusiastic nod. “I’m, ah, Morgan, by the way.”

“Hi, Morgan. Nice to finally meet you.”

After quickly putting his book away in his bag, Morgan led Jon toward the terminal gates. Suddenly, though, he abruptly stopped. “Um, you know, Dr. Bilatz—all of us, actually, are glad you agreed to join us, but the doctor wanted me to ask you—I mean, he now thinks the whole project could take as long as five months instead of just three. It kind of depends on what our backer is going to decide sometime in the next week. Is that still okay?”

Without hesitation, Jon replied, “Oh, definitely.”


One month and two days ago

The landscape had shifted again to a beach with black sand with a shipwreck in the distance, lodged between three foreboding jagged rocks. Astavis was holding out his sword, standing guard over Madeline. The young British woman stood still as a statue, her accusatory finger cocked like a loaded gun at Amar. However, in the back of Amar’s head was an assuring voice, Madeline’s voice.

Jon looked at Amar with concern.

“Are you alright?”

Amar nodded and patted Jon’s hand.

Astavis glared at the two men and waved his sword at their necks.

“Take one step toward her, you die.”

Amar sighed. “I really, really don’t like you, but I’m still sorry for what I’m about to do.”

Astavis sneered, but in just a quiet moment the sneer gave way to a look of unfiltered horror. He too dropped to his knees and began to sob.

“Oh, my God. I don’t—I’m some kind of character in a book? I’m not even real.”

“Look, you still have a brain I could download my memories to,” Amar said, helping Astavis to his feet. “Trust me, you’re real enough now.”

The landscape shifted again, this time to a lonely mountain valley where they were surrounded by ruined buildings still bearing the blackened scars of some long-ago fire. Jon looked around in fear.  “The shifts are happening faster. It’s becoming unstable.”

Amar led Jon, who was still clutching the plans, to Madeline, who was now standing still with her hands pressed against both sides of her face. At Amar’s prompting, Jon gave the plans to her.

“I don’t understand these!”

“It’s alright,” Amar said aloud, afraid that trying to broadcast into her mind would only frighten her and make the situation worse. “You—well, part of you—spoke to me. It’s you. It’s all you. The engine is just a symbol, part of your brain’s way of coping with all the energy and information it’s channeling by compartmentalizing itself.”

Madeline read the plans again. Instead of gibberish and random images, she could see, in a way she could never describe even if she had a thousand years, all the possibilities in this universe blossoming in complex crystalline patterns. It was no longer just a representation of some books and all the extra tales and frustrated longing and joyous desire that they inspired in her since her aunt got her a copy of the first book at a used bookstore to keep her distracted while Madeline was spending the weekend with her. It was now a universe—organic and chaotic and orderly and cruel and gorgeous and infinite and wonderful and hideous. At least, it could be, at this juncture.

“I didn’t want to live in a world where no one’s doing a thing about the environment and crazy people who can build flying tanks keep trying to take over the world and crap like that,” Madeline said. She didn’t know how she knew everything she was saying. She simply knew it. “I wanted to live here instead so badly.”

She frowned as she continued to remember. “Something happened, though. It should have happened peacefully, naturally. There was some kind of corruption at the very root of it all. ‘And so, there appeared in paradise a flaw.’”

“Corruption?” Amar asked.

Madeline did not raise her head and instead kept staring at the plans. “It left now, just a few minutes ago. But it doesn’t matter. I know how it should all be now.”

She held out her hands and the plans lifted into the air. In a matter of seconds, the paper crumped away into nothing. It was no longer necessary, now that the mind of Madeline Finch of Cornwall finally realized that it was, in fact, the mystic engine.

“First things first…” She walked over to Astavis and gently kissed him on the lips. “Man, I used to fantasize about this so much. Don’t worry. You won’t remember any of this, but we will meet again.” In an instant, he was gone as if he was never there.

“God, I’ve caused so much damage and pain. I’m so sorry. But not a bit of it has to last. I think I can do that much.” Lifting her hand, suddenly, the world around them suddenly felt less tangible, real somehow. Amar thought he saw a flash of the Cornish highway they were standing on.

Madeline stood still, as if she was having a debate in her mind. “Thank you two for giving me that push. By the time I finally woke up to what I could do, it might have been too late for the world. Now at least I have a choice…”

Madeline began to visibly concentrate intensely. Suddenly she screamed and began to fall. Jon rushed over to support her, but by the time he got near her, suddenly, they were back to reality. Instead of where they were when they entered, they were now all standing on a small patch of Cornish countryside.  Cops and capes standing around them began shouting. There was no trace of any hole of reality.

Although she still looked as if she was suffering from the worst of all possible migraines, Madeline smiled at Amar. He could hear her in his mind. I think I might have burned out most of my powers, but both Tenedam and Earth will live. 

Jon noticed that standing around were also hundreds of people, including the guards and the Grand Duke himself, all wearing business suits and dresses and casual clothes. From the confused chatter, he noticed that they must have had no memories of where they were, what had happened, and their former personalities.

Josephine Manners, flanked by three menacing looking officials, made a beeline toward them from the edge of the crowd.

“Now will someone tell me what the hell that was all about?”

Amar started, “You were right that Madeline was—”

Jon discreetly interrupted. “She was the locus of the reality warp, but it was caused by some massive energy that seems to have exploited her love of Legend of the Steam Cities. We weren’t able to find the source of it, but we were able to break her connection to it.”

After looking Jon sternly in his eyes, she nodded in Madeline’s direction. “Good. We’ll make sure to give her a full medical and telepathic examination.”

Once the authorities with their help had scuttled away most of the victims of the reality warp to their true lives, Jon and Amar were generously provided a picnic lunch of fish and chips as their reward for saving the world from turning into an eternal, perfect cosplay.

“Why didn’t you tell Josephine the truth about Madeline?” Amar asked.

Jon shrugged. “There’s an…informal international agreement that an alpha-level paranormal has to be humanely contained if possible, which means they get to spend the rest of their life in a room so sedated they never even know what day it is.  I doubt even her losing most of her power would have saved her from that fate.”

“Gods…so you were willing to lie about that?”

“With a job like mine, you have to have rules but you also have to be willing to stretch them a bit. Even a guy with the reputation of an eagle scout like Sans Pareil understands that,” Jon replied.

Amar chuckled. “So we really did save the world with no casualties, then?”

Jon reached out for his hand almost instinctively. “Our first time.”


On the deck of an airship called The White Sands, Elizabeth, Jon, Madeline, and Kyle, better known by his cape alias as Tell, sat at a table drinking green tea. They were all dressed in the Victorian costume appropriate to the land, which Madeline generously provided. She was understandably sensitive to the inhabitants of the world ever finding out the true origins of their existence.

It had been a couple of weeks and it turned out Madeline had indeed used up most of her power. Luckily, it was not a sacrifice in vain. She still had an affinity with the Steam Cities world that enabled her to transport herself and others there whenever she pleased and gave her some low-level influence over it and its inhabitants. She decided to spend every other weekend and holiday having adventures there or at least spending time with Astavis. With a level of maturity appropriate to someone who created an entire world from the void, she decided to wait until she graduated from college before she would choose to live full-time in Steam Cities world or stay in her home world save for the occasional jaunt.

The small party had been largely silent, gazing at the dark blues and lush greens and hillside villages of the mountainous landscape of Meneathan-Tirsel below them.

“A whole new world,” Liz remarked to no one in particular. “It’s fantastic.”

Madeline smiled. “I know. I just wish I didn’t come so close to destroying our world for its sake.”

Liz reached out and gave her a friendly pat on her hand. “You know, you’re new to what I like to call the madness. Just try to enjoy yourself and don’t get too far into it.”

Both he and Liz were fans of Legends of the Steam Cities, but that was just an extremely convenient coincidence Jon was happily exploiting. Even Madeline’s presence, which might possibly help avert a disaster, was something Jon had planned on with the meticulousness of a supercriminal. In the two weeks since the reality warp was closed, Jon had kept in close contact with Amar, even though he was busy setting up a new life in Pittsburgh with the help of Josephine Manner’s agents and the local Paranormal and Superhuman Agency. So far neither of them had the guts to ask the other out, but Jon was eager to break the stalemate. However, as much as he wanted to, he could not do it without asking the only two people in the world who could ever get a say: his best friend and the one victim of Amar’s he knew well.

Jon had rehearsed how he would break the ice that morning. “So, I think I might ask Amar out. Like, on a proper date.” That was not what he had rehearsed.

“Are you asking us for permission?” Kyle said, his voice unnervingly restrained.

Jon didn’t have an answer to that. Leave it to Kyle to fire right into the core of the problem.

Kyle shrugged, but it did not belie the fact that his expression was furious. “You can do whatever you want. You’re an adult and you’re not even really in the community anymore, so what does it matter what you do, right?”

As Jon tried to decide in the moment if he should just let the matter drop or press further, Madeline reluctantly jumped in. “What’s the problem with him dating Amar? He seemed okay all the times I met him.”

Kyle’s tone was flat. “The problem is that he used to be a supercriminal, and not just any supercriminal. I used to be a drug addict a lifetime ago, and just because he was angry that I fired a couple of arrows that destroyed the super computer he was going to use to raise an android army to take over his homeland, he reached into my brain and made my addiction flare up all over again, just to make me pay. It took him five seconds to put me all the way back to square one.”

Madeline stammered an “I’m sorry” and looked away.

Jon caught himself before he could say “That was a long time ago.” Instead he just weakly muttered, “I know.”

“I know you know. Which is why…” Kyle shook his head and got up. “You know what? I’m going below deck for a while.”

“Kyle…” Jon started, but Liz put her hand on his arm to stop him.

Madeline awkwardly sprang up. “I think I’m going to go below too. I need to talk to the captain, anyway. There’s one more place I wanted to show you guys before we went home—an island with a shrine on it made of pure obsidian.”

Liz turned to Jon. “Well, at least we don’t have to have an audience.”

“That could have gone better,” Jon said.

“Maybe, but you know Kyle. He’s even more into the community than we ever were. Even if you go ahead and start dating Amar, he’ll probably remember some example of a cape dating a reformed supercriminal and talk himself into being okay with it. Just don’t expect him to be your best man.”

Jon sighed. Even if Liz was right, there probably was a long series of awkward conversations ahead of him until the two of them would finally argue it out. “Well, at least you support me dating Amar.”

Liz looked as if someone had stabbed her in the leg. “Jon, you know I love you, and even though I’m your sister from another mother I wouldn’t tell you who to date, like even when you dated that crazy fanboy who was secretly writing a blog about you…”


But this might not be the right thing to do, at least not for right now.”

“So you agree with Kyle?”

“No. At least, not really. I mean, he has a right to be angry, but he doesn’t have a right to tell you who you should date, especially when that person’s proven he’s changed.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“What I mean is Amar’s been through hell. A guy he loved now despises him, he had a breakdown, he attempted suicide, and he got thrust into a weird, dangerous situation just days later. Yeah, I know it was his choice, but I bet Josephine Manners did what she could to make it seem like he didn’t have much of one.”

“And it probably didn’t help that he felt like he owed me,” Jon said, showing no small hint of guilt.

“Exactly. You’ve been his rock right from the day when his life fell apart, but that’s kind of the problem, too, don’t you think? He’s building a brand-new life from scratch, and he’s got to build that life on his own.”

The thought had occurred to Jon, but he had dismissed it. With Liz saying it aloud, though, it could not be denied anymore.

“And if things really go south for us…” Jon wondered aloud.

Liz nodded. “I mean, never mind the really high recidivism rates for supercriminals. Just think of what might actually be good for him.”

Jon couldn’t admit aloud that he realized that Liz was right, but she knew him too well to think she didn’t say anything he was already considering.


“You know, I think this might be the best food I’ve had ever since I got to the First World…” Amar said, greedily but still somehow daintily slicing into a fat gyro. “It’s Greek, right?”

“Yes,” Jon replied.

“And they’re the people who took over, uh, the Mediterranean region?”

“Not really. I think you’re thinking of the Romans.”

Amar sighed. “I always get them mixed up for some reason. And that’s one of the things here I really shouldn’t ever get wrong, even around really stupid people?”

“Sorry, it kind of is.”

Amar groaned with mock annoyance. Already he spend a lot of time joyfully explaining how Josephine Manners had set him up working as a translator and teaching intro courses in Sumerian and Akkadian at University of Pittsburgh (which had no program in the study of ancient Mesopotomia until suddenly the university received a massive endowment from an anonymous donor and the program was established with a suddenness even by the sluggish standards of academia). Nor did he have to live in fear of being exposed and arrested like he did in the old days since, this time, everything was on the level.

Jon wanted to let Amar go on and leave it all unsaid. But something compelled him to say the words, “Amar, I know we talked about dating since the whole thing, but…I think it’s best if we’re just friends for now.”

Amar froze. Jon knew him well enough now that, from his expression, he was resisting the temptation to read his thoughts.

“Oh. I guess—I understand we did take things a little fast, huh?”

Jon chuckled mirthlessly. “Yeah, but I don’t regret it.”

Amar looked pained for a minute. “This isn’t because of…everything I used to do?”

This reaction was exactly what Jon was afraid of. “No, it’s just…I think you need to take some time, that’s all. I promise.”

For the rest of their lunch, Amar talked listlessly about apartment hunting and hurried away from the restaurant as soon as the bill was paid, but not before Jon was able to give Amar some news of his own: he had decided to take up a job offer. Jon had made it sound like he had made the decision weeks ago, but in reality he decided the exact second he could sense how much he had hurt Amar.


“Um, Morgan?” Jon asked. There were no windows on the plane. Jon didn’t complain, though. Leaving one’s dimensional plane was probably not a sight meant for even the steeliest multiversal tourist.

Morgan was no longer sit rigidly and nervously at he had for most of the trip so far, but was slumped over in his seat and playing with the wire of a set of headphones. “Do I look like Morgan to you? I’m Rob Riley, remember? God, Morgan and I don’t even look anything alike.”

Oh, right, Jon remembered. He has some form of dissociative identity disorder.

“Sorry, Rob,” Jon said sincerely.

“Whatever.” The body that had introduced itself as Morgan looked around the plane. “Were the hell’s the booze?”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of flight,” Jon said, ignoring Rob’s subsequent string of curses. At least they would arrive shortly and he would get the answer to his question. They were outside their home universe, their native space-time continuum, so, needless to say, Wi-Fi service was very bad. But Jon needed to know if he could still somehow drop a line to Amar.

Jon knew he had to do that much. Never mind the fact that Amar had avoided him for almost a month now.

#9: Mystic Engine

The plans that were confiscated from the girl were an utterly indecipherable mess. There were letters from a language he could not understand and images that appeared to be completely random—a cityscape here, a flower there. And something about the entire thing was…off, enough so that he felt tremendous relief when he looked away. How on earth were these things supposed to add up to the design schema for any kind of machine?

Suppressing the impulse to simply crumple up the plans and throw them in a fire, Grand Duke Ovladt turned to his prisoner, this “Madeline Finch”, again. She looked like she was on the verge of passing out, and indeed would have by now, were she not forced to stand in the grip of a guard.

He moved the plans to the edge of the table and reached for his quill and a notebook that was already a quarter-filled with the details of the girl’s capture and initial interrogation by the city guard. Ovladt leaned back in the tall leather chair.

“Let us begin. How did you get these?”

“I don’t remember.”

Ovladt did not scoff or become angry. As always in these situations, he was indecipherable. He never believed in being either the determined persecutor or the compassionate inquisitor. Instead he found it best to leave his prisoners teetering between the edges of hope and despair.

“Yet these are the plans for the mystic engine? Not some kind of hoax?”


“How do you know?”

Here she paused and frowned. “I…don’t know. I just do.”

Somehow, though, Ovladt knew that they were indeed the plans to the mystic engine or else some other artifact of similar occult proportion. Nothing had ever made him feel so uneasy as justlooking at it.

“Where are you from?” Ovladt resumed, ponderously scribbling down her words and his thoughts.


“Where is that?”

“The United Kingdom.”

Ovladt glanced at the only other person in the room, the apothecary Lacmyr. Cornwall? The United Kingdom? No such places existed anywhere on the island, he knew that much, nor did Cornwall sound like a likely place name from any of the five languages he knew. He hoped to see some recognition from her, since she was more well-traveled than most diplomats and captains he knew, but she appeared as confused as he was.

He turned around to Lacmyr. “The herbs you gave her, they’re not compromising her sanity?”

The apothecary Lacmyr was one of the few people he trusted (and that was in no small part because Ovladt’s continued existence was the only thing between her and a judicial execution for some or all of the uncounted murders by poison she was an accomplice to), so he believed her when she replied, “She’ll only be unable to lie or say nothing. There should be no side effects apart from physical exhaustion.”

The name she gave the city guard, “Madeline Finch”, did indeed sound foreign. He had assumed it was Darusean, but perhaps she was from far to the east, from one of the lands of which even scholars knew little more than a name. Whatever the mystery of the mystic engine, she was far more than simply a courier tasked with carrying the plans for the legendary mystic engine to his enemies. Somehow she was inexorably tied to its mysteries as well.

While closing the notebook, he called for another guard. After giving the girl a contemptuous look, the guard casually asked, “Shall we kill her now, Your Excellency?”

“Hm? Oh, no. On the contrary, take her to a comfortable but windowless room somewhere, and she’s to be allowed to rest and given whatever provisions she needs. Make sure there’s three guards at her door at all times until I say otherwise. Also have they found my court sorcerer yet?”

“No, Your Excellency. But we have sent an airship patrol to the borderlands to try to intercept his kidnappers.”

“It would be just like him to get himself abducted by that little pack of worthless vagabonds just when he can finally be useful for a change. But no matter, the important thing for now is that we have all the pieces to the puzzle in our keeping. We can solve it at our leisure. Now go.”

“Your Excellency,” the guard said with an extravagant bow before departing.

Lacmyr looked at her master curiously. “So you sense it too, then? There is something…off about both those plans and the girl.”

“Yes,” Grand Duke Ovladt said, feeling an involuntary shudder. “As if we are on the cusp of the secrets of Creation itself.”


“This was probably not a good idea,” Amar muttered, more to himself than to Jon as they lay in bed.

“Maybe,” Jon replied, but kissed Amar’s hand regardless. “On the bright side, though, since we’re in a place that doesn’t really exist, maybe it never happened.”

“If we get out of here,” Amar answered. After a few more seconds of resting his head against Jon’s arm, he rose and started to dress. Jon, with a bit of reluctance, followed suit.

Expanding an amount of courage equal to the amount he needed to get through a few life-threatening situations, he asked, “What did you mean, a moment ago?”


“‘This wasn’t a good idea'”.

“‘Probably’, I said.”

“Why is that?”

Amar waved his arms around. “The circumstances, obviously.”

“So, what happens if and when the circumstances change?” Jon couldn’t help but be a bit surprised that he was being more direct than usual with his romantic and sexual partners.

Amar only answered with a quick but sincere kiss.

“Well, speaking of what’s going on, what should we do next?”

“You’re this count or whatever’s court magician, right?”

“Grand Duke and court sorcerer, but yeah.”

Amar sat down in a meditative position. “Well, then, they’re probably looking for you. Let me reach out with my mind and get us caught by the bad guys.”


It took a few hours, but Amar planted a “spontaneous thought” in the mind of the commander of the guard at the nearest village, who rapidly sent word up the command chain. By that evening, Jon and Amar were being hailed for their harrowing escape from the Grand Duke’s enemies and being sent back to the capital in a luxurious airship that Jon compared to a floating yacht.

It was a windy but warm night when they finally arrived back in the city. They were brought into a palace seemingly large enough to encompass a major city’s entire downtown area. Past the museum-like atriums and the shining banquet halls, Amar and Jon were escorted by two guards to an office lit by a few sparse candles.

Sitting behind a ridiculously spacious desk was a tall man with long, curled hair, draped in purple and black robes and jewels. Amar knew nothing about Legend of the Steam Cities apart from what Jon mentioned, but even so, he guessed right away  was face to face with the series’ grand antagonist, the Grand Duke Ovladt. Behind him, almost hidden and sitting against the wall with her face between her arms in a jeans and an Amanda Palmer t-shirt was Madeline Finch.

“There you are,” Ovladt said without even looking Jon in the face. “I was concerned that you would have gotten yourself killed just when you were in a position to provide me with a service other than quasi-accurate prophecies and occasionally effective sigils.”

Saying nothing, Jon bowed. Ovladt made a gesture to one of the guards, who brought a map etched out on dark red parchment. “Decipher this, even if it takes you all night.”

“Your Highness,” Jon muttered as insincerely as he dared. Still, he stared at the map for about five minutes and all he saw was a messy plethora of words and drawings that added together to nothing and everything and that seemed to literally shift before his eyes. Without thinking, he turned to Amar. “I think this might be what we’re after.”

At that, Madeline stirred from her reverie. “What do you…”

The Grand Duke angrily interrupted. “What on earth are you doing, consulting with some servant? And I thought you of all…”

Amar stepped forward. “We don’t have time for this cosplay nonsense.” He snapped his fingers and the guards in the room stepped forward. Their expressions looked uncertain, but they still moved like professionals on a job. At that, Ovladt’s face blossomed purple with rage. “Who the hell are you to speak to me like that, you puffed-up little worm? I will have you and your master impaled before the city gates. I will…”

“Guards, this man has been impersonating the Grand Duke for months now,” Amar announced matter-of-factly. “Don’t listen to anything he has to say even when you are far from this room and make sure you give him the worst, dankest accommodations these premises have to offer until we decide what to do with him.”

Without a single word or even a change in their demeanor, the two guards dragged the Grand Duke out of the room, who was ranting about the witchcraft being used against him.

“You know, in the books, it took about 600 pages before he got his ass beat like that,” Jon said, genuinely impressed.

“Well, no offense, but I’m really starting to miss the real world, especially its toilets. And besides, I think the real threat is over there.”

Madeline was standing as far away from the two men as possible. She was hungry, exhausted, and nearly broken from being berated by these people that shouldn’t even be real. “Threat? You just put some hoodoo on those guards and I’m the threat?”

“Amar, wait. It’s this…thing.” He showed Amar the parchment. “I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s what’s generating the reality warp.”

Amar shook his head. “It’s just part of it. You were right. Consciously or not, her powers are why this is happening.”

“That can’t be true,” Madeline would have shouted if she had the energy. “I’ve been through hell the past few days. If I was responsible for any of this, why would I put myself through all that?”

“That’s a good point,” Jon answered.

“I couldn’t sense it before, but now that I’m close…in psychic energy terms, she’s like an atomic bomb,” Amar explained. “And there’s something else here, too…”

Amar could sense Madeline’s exhaustion and, during his brief conversation with her and Jon, he had been mentally testing out her psychic defenses, looking for vulnerabilities that would let him overload her consciousness. It was too much of a risk to try to force her to reverse the reality warp, at least if she was fully aware of her powers by this point. A small part of him worried about what Jon would make of such tactics. However, since she had the ability to completely liquefy both of their insides with just a a little concentration, subtlety and kindness were liabilities.

However, Amar underestimated Madeline’s instincts. He found himself almost completely locked out of her mind just when he was about to bring his own power to bear. Worse, the walls of the castle were suddenly gone and Amar felt a cold wind at his face. Suddenly, it was no longer nighttime in a capital city. It was a bright afternoon on a snowy mountain.

Jon, who was still holding the plans for the mystic engine, shouted. Literally appearing out of nowhere and bearing down on them with his sword drawn was a furious Astavis.

Without thinking and completely abandoning his efforts to subdue Madeline, Amar lept and knocked Jon out of the way of Astavas’s rampage. Amar felt the sting of his sword grazing his back. The heavy snow cushioned their fall, but within seconds, they were actually lying against a cobblestone street on a rainy day. The people around them began shouting and running. A couple of guards in uniform and carrying rifles ran toward them. Astavis, however, was still there.

“What are you doing to cause this madness, sorcerer?” he screamed at Jon.

“Believe it or not, I’m a huge fan,” Jon shouted back. “But I can’t believe you think we’re causing this, you moron!”

Amar tried to make his way back inside Madeline’s mind, but by this point, it was like trying to tunnel through a mountain with a tablespoon. Instead he became dimly aware that the terrain had shifted to the most gorgeous and well-manicured garden he had ever seen in his life. Madeline fully stood up and pointed down at Amar like a vengeful god.

#8: Over the Moors

“If I’m dead, how am I still feeling pain?” Amar muttered as he more stumbled than ran.

“Just got to keep moving until we literally can’t anymore,” Jon panted out. “They can’t land the airship anywhere around here, but still the further the better.”

“If the ground is so soft, why does my body feel like one giant bruise?” Amar whined.

“You’ve been in much nastier situations. I’ve heard stories.”

Amar grunted. “Those were then. This is now.”

Jon looked around. It was dusk and a chorus of insects rose up to welcome the night. All he could smell was his own sweat. He wished he was in his suit. At least the Technocrat designed them to absorb and negate the smell of sweat.

As they kept moving, Jon noticed the storm clouds were starting to gather. Just when the need for shelter was about to get real urgent, Amar tugged on his arm and his voice whispered in his head. Over there.

Growing out of the side of a gently sloping hill was a cabin.

“There,” Jon said. They moved toward the cabin at a snail’s pace. Jon knocked and called out, but there wasn’t even the sound of footsteps. They waited for what seemed like an hour with Amar resting on the ground.

Jon muttered to himself and started searching the pockets sewn into the interior of his robes. As Amar watched him in total confusion, Jon pulled out a lockpick and began work on the cabin door.

“Superheroes typically pick locks?” Amar asked, amused.

“No joke. It’s required for all Final Guard members on the field. I guess it was too low-tech to get changed by the reality warp.”

It took some tries, but eventually the door creaked open. Amar looked reluctant to cross the threshold.

“Are you sure about this? People who live out in the middle of nowhere tend not to react well to trespassers.”

Looking around, Jon noted that the somewhat spacious cabin had walls were decorated with stuffed birds and a couple of deer heads.

“It’s not a home, it’s a hunting lodge…I hope.”

Amar could smell the rain on the wind and see the sky getting darker, so he did not argue the point.

There was no other furniture in the entire cabin except a wooden table and some chairs, so Amar kicked off his mud-caked shoes and made a beeline for the bed. He would have probably fallen asleep right there if Jon hadn’t shouted triumphantly, “Amar, I found food!”


“In the back, there’s a….whatever you call it, a really old-timey pit to keep food in storage. And some wine too.”

“I guess they don’t have toilets too?”

Jon groaned, then laughed. “No. Why? You got to go?”

“Actually, not right now, but I’m already dreading when I have to.”

Jon came back within view with fruit, cheese, and a peach wine. For the first time, Amar noticed how easy smiles came to Jon’s pale, red-bearded face, much like how the experiences from the past day had curiously made him aware how Jon pulled at his own long hair when he was nervous or afraid. “There’s not much, which I guess is a good sign they won’t be coming back anytime soon. It still looks safe to eat, though.”

Amar sighed. His exhaustion outweighed both hunger and thirst. “Good.”

Jon waited a moment before he asked, “Don’t they use earth closets or something where you’re from?”

“Yes, but I didn’t realize until now that your vastly superior civilization has spoiled me.”


After they ate and took care of their bodily functions (to a reasonable degree of satisfaction), Amar and Jon sat down on the bed and talked through the pouring rain outside. Not once did either bring up the mission they were on. Their discussions ranged from that time when Jon and the Rooks stopped Amar from copying his consciousness into a organic supercomputer (which turned out to be a scam being run by a cabal of mad scientists they all had to fight against, anyway) to the ridiculous cost of rent in Chicago.

“But do you like it here?” Jon, who was reclining on the bed and resting his against the wall, wanted to know. “I mean, not here, but my world, I guess.”

“I don’t know if I’ve just been there so long or I’m trying to cope with the fact I’ll probably never see home again, but…yeah, I do like it here for the most part. Still, though, I think of Kadingir every day.”

There was an awkward yet pleasant pause. Jon broke it by gently asking, “Do you mind telling me about it?”

Seeing Amar’s surprise, Jon stammered out, “If you want to. I don’t…”

“No, it’s fine! I just…I’d like to. I forgot you’ve never actually been there like most of the Final Guard has. I guess the place on Earth that I’ve been to I’d compare Kadingir to is eastern Europe. Gorgeous blue mountains, deep forests, ancient villages tucked away in valleys…” Amar didn’t look sad as he talked, but his words certainly took a bittersweet tinge.

“How did your people get there?”

“Oh, that’s a whole epic right there, but I guess we’ve got time.”

“I know I do.”

“Well, okay, like anything, there’s variations, but the basic story most of the temples still teach is that our ancestors were created by the gods over the sea. That’s literally their name in my language. The gods over the sea were proud and cruel and wanted to be worshiped by all beings in the world, but they were opposed by the gods of the land who were more or less the gods your people know as the Babylonian pantheon: Ishtar, Marduk, Sin, and the rest.

There was a terrible war between the gods of the land and the gods over the sea that nearly split all creation asunder. The gods over the sea forced our ancestors to fight against the gods of the land, but the gods of the land convinced them of the wickedness of the gods of the sea and allowed our ancestors to settle among their people after the gods over the sea were finally defeated for good.”

“That’s kind of a weird creation myth, though.”


“Yeah. Like, claiming that these evil gods made your people to fight for them.”

Amar laughed. “Yeah, this scholar actually wrote a book about that where I’m from. She argued that it was an allegory for original sin or something like that. Maybe she’s right.

Anyway, there really isn’t much about our early history when we still lived on the First World. But the legends do agree that there were never very many of us and we kept to ourselves from the normal humans. ‘The Strangers’ is what the old accounts call them. There are stories that we helped them against invaders or we were complete jerks to them and made them worship us as gods or whatever, and there’s this entire genre of legends about the Strangers tricking us or stealing from us, but the bottom line is that in the really old days our tribes kept away from their tribes.

But then while our ancestors stayed semi-nomads, just building temples and shelters we’d return to every now and then, the Strangers started building cities, and out of them came city-states and next kingdoms and finally empires. And the more organized they got, the more they feared and outright hated us for our powers.”

“Didn’t your people have an advantage, though?”

“At first, sure, but even 20 of us can’t hold out against a trained army of hundreds that knew how to make and use weapons of metal. And it got so bad that they literally did send armies to hunt us down, even when we fled into the most inhospitable deserts and mountain ranges. Then one day a woman named Kutalu traveled to all of the surviving tribes and promised them that she could take them all to a new world like the one they knew, but where there would be no Strangers who would track them down with their horses and bronze weapons.

A few refused, but most did listen because Kutalu was apparently already famous. See, through our entire recorded history, most of us just get one of a few powers, what you call telepathy, telekinesis, pyrokinesis, and clairvoyance. A few of us each generation have two of those powers. But Kutalu…she could manipulate the very fabric of the universe itself.

In fact, we’re…I mean, my family are descended from Kutalu or so they say. Kadingir was founded right at the point where my people crossed over into the new world. Kutalu’s descendants were tasked with protecting the gateway between worlds, hence my family ended up ruling Kadingir.”

Amar paused, as if considering something. “Hey, do you mind if I share something telepathically with you for a bit? It’s going to disorienting, but I think you’ll find it worth it.”

Jon was confused, but nodded without hesitation. Suddenly, as if a switch was thrown, his view of the room around him went away. Instead he was standing in the midst of a rocky desert. He could feel the dry heat weighing down on his skin. All around him was a crowd of hundreds of people in simple tunics and robes, whispering to each other in a language he could not understand. A few were crying. He could taste his own fear.

Stay calm,  Jon. I’m just broadcasting a memory to you. A very, very old memory that telepaths have been preserving and passing down across many generations.

Wait, Jon thought, finding it somewhat difficult to distinguish his thoughts from the long-dead person whose memory this was. You mean this is…

Yeah. This is the memory of a man named Ipqu, who watched Kutalu perform a miracle.

Jon could not control Ipqu’s eyes, but eventually Ipqu turned his attention away from the people around him to a woman near the center of the crowd, whom none had dared stand near. She was a young woman in her twenties with olive skin and raven-black hair whose clothing was distinguished from the crowd only by a silver necklace bearing the image of a star. She bent her torso, as if deep in meditation and prayer. Then, slowly, she lifted her arms to the cloudless sky. There was a flash of light that Jon at first thought was a trick of the sun, but he quickly realized it was actually coming out of thin air. The bright, cloudless sky started overlapping with a night sky full of unfamiliar stars, the desert sands impossibly giving way to lush grass. As the transition unfolded, many of the people either started excitedly talking between themselves or fell to the ground, praying. Suddenly, she collapsed, and several people rushed forward and helped her up. A voice Jon did not recognize, certainly her voice, could be heard inside his, actually Ipqu’s, head. Jon didn’t understand the words, but they were clearly soothing, triumphant.

When she finished speaking, the memory ended as soon as it began. Once again, he was in a hunting lodge in a moor in a country that shouldn’t actually exist. Already Ipqu’s memory felt like an odd daydream.

Amar, who had been sitting with his feet to the floor, flung his legs onto the bed and rested his head on his knees.

“Sorry if that was—”

“No, it’s okay.”

Amar didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?

“Of course. It was beautiful. I’m just surprised you shared it with me.”

“Yeah, well…” Amar abruptly stopped. Even though he had nothing to say, Jon saw that Amar’s dark eyes remained fixed on him. It was ridiculous, but he did have the sensation that he was actually seeing Amar for the first time, from the small, u-shaped scar on his left cheek to the flicks of gray in his black beard to the occasional dark brown freckles on his skin. He noticed he actually did bear a slight resemblance to Kutalu herself.

Finally Amar broke away and shattered the silence. “I guess I was just trying to show I trusted you too in my own way.”

“Really? But you don’t—”

“It’s just that before you tried helping me, I thought I lost everything and that I didn’t even have hope for any kind of a future.” It was there that Amar’s voice cracked. “It’s just odd. I blamed you for taking away my chance at a new life, but if we get out of this alive it’s going to turn out that you gave me a real one. How can I not trust you now?”

Jon gave what was meant to be a brief pat on Amar’s hand, but his hand lingered. Their eyes locked again. Amar’s fingers lightly touched his hair. And then, without thought, he was pulling Amar close for a deep kiss.

Mea Culpa

I’m going to be a bit late with this week’s post, but it should be up by Saturday. Thank you for your support!

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑