Sean Robin Hughes

“I seem to be dealing with ever-escalating existential dread.”

The thought given utterance careened through the room, knocking gently on the UV filmed window and the galvanized radiator below it. Next to the radiator, framed by a wall of tacky yellow and white birds upon Einsteinian shapes that never seemed to coalesce, the therapist nodded dutifully from his oversized corduroy chair, scratching his secret notes with a well-chewed pencil on ivory paper.

“Have you tried being in the moment? Focusing on the now.” The therapist, Donnelly, asked. He was a stereotype given life, animated by an ironist of a god, and gifted the sense of humor of a week-old cod. Flies should have been buzzing about him if he had lived a hundred years prior, but these days, even dry boring people seemed to have successful careers.

“The moment is dread. How can one avoid the dark when one is literally wedged inside of it?” The Client shot back. The therapist knew his name of course, but did not invoke it, because there were consequences to using a name like that. Dire ones. The client was just The Client, declarative.

Donnelly would have frowned if he had the capability to grimace in The Client’s presence, but instead nodded thoughtfully. The Client saw through the ruse, but let it slide.  It had been quite a stretch between sessions, after all.

“So what should I do, Doctor?” The Client followed.

“Talking about it is a good start… but I should note that working through the emotion, while it is occurring, is always the healthier approach. I am curious why you feel such dread.”

“You don’t?” The Client leaned up from his position on the taupe couch, the cushions just as dreary and conflicting as the wallpaper.

“Should I?” Donnelly frowned this time, and deep down The Client appreciated the candor.

“You should. The world is shit, Dr. Donnelly. Filled with misery, death, and despair. People are born to slavery, wage slaves all their lives, fighting others over what should be well accepted basic principles, and are so closeted in their fears and dread, they think the only way to get ahead is to fuck over anyone that even tangentially gets in their way.”

“Oh, I don’t think it is quite that bad…” Donnelly started to protest.

“Oh, but it is! You show a man an empty bowl, and tell him that if it is filled he will be able to eat. The man will agree. But if you add that his neighbor will also eat, he argues that only he should have the food, his neighbor is responsible for his own. YET, YET, it is not the man that is filling the bowl, but someone else! If I fill the bowl, it is his own achievement and it belongs to him!?” The Client waved his arms from his prone position as if directly a choir hanging from the ceiling, which itself was again both taupe and terrible.

“I would posit that most men would not make such an argument.”

“But they would. Ask them if they should starve, they say no. Ask them if they should be unhoused, they say no. Ask them if they should be uncared for when ill, they say no. But introduce one other into consideration, and they will claim it depends on the situation. They do not believe that the society that very much enables an individual to survive should allow them all to survive. It is a wonder that the human race ever survived getting out of Africa. It is a miracle. Honestly, the fact they even managed to thrive was a huge mistake from the start.”

“Ok, so people are terrible. Let’s set that aside. People themselves would not be the cause of your existential dread, as you put it. So what is causing your dread?”

“The world is dying. All the splendor of the early days of man have all but exhausted themselves. Species disappearing faster than they can be discovered. Entire ecosystems collapse because some fat fuck out there wants another hamburger.”

“Now you are just getting preachy,” Donnelly sniffed haughtily.

“And you are being obtuse.”

Donnelly ignored the insult and continued, “The world is a vastly complex system of intertwining and contrary forces, greater than one single person’s understanding of it. The individual buying the hamburger does not think about the rest of world, he is thinking on his hunger.”

“He should be thinking about the size of his gut and if he will ever see his dick again,” The Client groused.

“And the world is fine. Ecosystems bounce back, species evolve into new niches… give it a few hundred thousand years after the human race is gone, and the world will be an amazing place again,” Donnelly said. He sniffed and rubbed a mindless fingertip below his nose, brushing against his wiry gray mustache absentmindedly trying his best not to think about his own mortality.

“You know, I don’t know why I come here, it’s not like you help me.”

“I do help you,” Donnelly countered. “When was the last time you had a panic attack?”

“You know the answer,” The Client waved it away.

“Answer the question.”

“Fine. 1991.”

“And what happened?” Donnelly pressed.

“I rather not talk about it.” The Client’s face soured and he leaned his head back, covering his eyes with his thick muscular forearms.

“Mt. Pinatubo exploded.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fire, destruction, cooling of the earth by a degree…”

“And… nearly nine hundred people died, and another twenty to thirty thousand displaced, millions of animals killed, agriculture disrupted… a cascading effect on the world for another decade afterwards.”

“It was a bad panic attack, ok?” The Client said defensively.

“And the reason that you have been my client since then, right?” Donnelly pushed.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. My mother made me do it.”

“Should we talk about your mother?”

“If you as so much as whisper her name in here, I might have another panic attack. Don’t get all Freudian on me, as I know it is total bullshit.”

“Well, I won’t invoke your mother. Last thing I need is a visit. But I do help you. Even if you may not realize it at the time.”

There was only silence from the large man reclining on the couch. Donnelly took the lack of continued argument as a subtle compliment.

“Let’s take a different tack. Why do you think humans are so terrible?” Donnelly tried.

“That’s a tough one,” another protracted silence, followed by a heavy sigh. “Because they were made to be terrible, but it was the best attempt compared to everything that came before, so… kind of a win, I suppose.”

Donnelly looked over his notes. “You are concerned for the planet, for the animals and their ecosystems, you think humans are uncaring menaces and that they hate each other as much as they hate themselves, but that does not explain your dread. Why do you feel responsible for it?”

The Client sat up forcibly as if yanked by invisible marionette strings. “I never EVER said that I felt responsible!”

Donnelly tented his fingers over his notebook, chewed pencil between two of them. “That is the most forceful response we have had today. I think you may feel responsible. Think about it. Why would that be?”

Waves of emotions crossed The Client’s face, like shadows of cloud between his face and the sun. Doubt, concern, belief, fear, anger, grief, then acceptance raged across his features individually, each distinct and of its own. “By the Father, I think you are right.”

“Go on,” Donnelly waved.

“I never… I mean the Owled-One said something like that once, but I thought she was being petty. Maybe she was right? Maybe she was trying to tell me something important, but I was so offended by her rejection, riled and angry, I failed to see it?” The Client put his sandaled feet on the faded carpet, and ran his hands through his hair as he processed the discovery. “Then, the anger, the rage, was it displaced? It’s my fault? By the Father, it’s my fault! Shit! I can’t believe I have never seen this before.”

“Be careful with shouldering blame, it may not be all yours to carry. You can still feel grief, even a sense of accountability, but you are in no way culpable for the world as it is today. As I said, the world is a complex, interwound, highly volatile intersection of forces greater than any individual, even for those like you.”

“I gave them the skills, the training, the desire to push forward… I mean the Owled-one helped, as others did here and there. But the inevitable outcome of the forge is the machinations of man at a grand scale. That is it! I am filled with dread because the fucking humans are using the things I taught them to destroy everything around them. I feel responsible, and that is the dread… and the panic attacks to boot.”

“This is a marvelous breakthrough,” Donnelly waved a hand towards The Client. “But you are not to blame. A parent cannot blame themselves when their child dies of their own accord? Does the mother blame herself when her son dies on a foreign shore? Should she? He made his own choices, took his own path, right?”

“I suppose. But the sense of it… Doctor. I gave them the tools! I gave them the training, and put them to work all that time ago, and I have been standing by, just watching in horror ever since…” The Client nodded to himself, his mind working through the complexities and implications. “I am going to have to think about this a little. Maybe from home.”

“That is a brilliant idea. Your mother has been looking forward to you spending some time back on The Mountain. At least that is what she said to me last time we saw each other, which was years ago…” Again it wasn’t just any mountain, it was The Mountain, declarative. “And we are about of out of time, anyway.”

The Client wiped at his eyes, and Donnelly noted a sense of relief in the sunken hollows of The Client’s face.

“Yes,” The Client slapped his knees as he stood up. His muscular frame rose of the couch gracefully, preternaturally as a dragon rising through wisps of clouds. “When should we visit again?”

“It seems time works differently between us, but when you are ready, just reach out like you have in the past. Don’t wait so long next time, eh?” Donnelly joked. “I may not be alive.”

The Client narrowed his eyes as if taking the Therapist for the first time. “Ah, you are older. How long has it been for you?”  

“Eleven or twelve years now, I think.”

“Blink of an eye, eh?” The Client smiled.

“For some more than others.”

“Goodbye Dr. Donnelly, and you can use my name, it is… acceptable this time. Thank you.”

“Of course, you are welcome… Hephaestus. Give your mother my best.”

The God turned and the world shifted subtly, one moment there was a massive brute of a man standing in front of the door, and the next, nothing but the smell of hot ash and smelting iron in an empty room. The Therapist leaned back into his chair and glanced at his watch. He had at least an hour before the next clients were going to show up, but at least they always brought some treats to discuss their marriage over… and they typically used the door.

Donnelly glanced at his door, and lightly grinned at the reversed lettering on the glass of his office door.

Dr. Ephram Donnelly, Psy.D. Therapist to All

“Put this in your ear, Jackie.” Armond held out his hand expectantly, palm up, inviting Jax to take one. The comm earwigs were made of a blue shimmery crystal, and even the finely wrought miniscule pincers reflected the dim light within the van from every possible angle.

Jax took one carefully, looking over the magical object with a measure of fear, disgust, and reverence. Magic never sat well with her, and as a non-magical being, it felt… well, unnatural.

“Oh, don’t be a wuss. You stick it in your ear, it will blend in, no one will be the wiser. Once we are done, you pull it out and chuck it back my way. They’re completely harmless,” Armond added with a sly grin. He handed the remainder of the earwigs out to the others.

Garbles took one with a grunt, shoving it in his ear without a thought, and racking his oversized railgun like it was providing real world punctuation, then stowing it in it’s oversize instrument case. After the halfling troll made such a brusque example, the rest of the crew hastily pushed the commbugs into their ears, and Jax lagged behind, feeling inwardly guilty to be the last one to commit.

“So let’s review the plan one more time, everyone should know their parts,” Armond lifted his lip, his uberogre bloodline evident in the size of the lower incisors nestled behind the stereotypically handsome human face. “I will go in as a client seeking the manager. Once I have him secluded, I will frost him and take his rune deck. Got it?”

Everyone nodded or grunted assent in time.

Armond continued, “I will give the go-ahead over comms, then… Garbles, Frick?”

Garbles growled, of course, while Frick grinned widely, allowing his forked tongue to flick across his lips. “The troll and I station up near the doors, covering the streets, both the market-side and the main avenue. If it gets messy inside, Garbles goes in and takes the guards down while I keep the doors secured.”

“Right. Jackie?”

“I slip in behind you, stick to the edges and be as unremarkable and unnoticeable as I can be until the diversion starts.”

“Great,” Armond nodded at the newbie, trying to encourage her as best he could without letting the crew pick up on it. He knew of her hidden talent, of course. “And our diversion, Wick?”

Wick leaned his goggled head over the front seat, still tapping furiously at his oversized cobbled together laptop as he spoke. “I send the spike to the alarms, then I shunt the waterworks and flood the building. That leaves the runes for Jackie.”

“With the water flooding the bank, the water should distract the guards, and being the little pussies that they are, they will head under cover to avoid getting wet,” Armond flicked a hand along his suit sleeve, picking off a bit of white lint. “I drop the rune deck to Jackie from the upper floor, she wipes the runes at the vault level, and hopefully slips in undetected. The vault phasing should envelop her wholly, and she will be in and out, with the guards none the wiser.”

Jax felt her confidence escalate as she imagined entering the vault, purloining the riches within. “And I grab anything and everything I carry out the back to the van.”

Armond corrected her, “Ah, ah, ah – the first thing you grab?”

“The leather messenger bag with the gilded brass buckles that should be laying on the center table,” Jax sighed. “Why we need a silly bag of all things…”

“Good girl. The rest is gravy. That bag is what we were hired for, and that is our payday. Get the bag, get what else you can, and get out. And you should probably avoid any gold bars, a bit heavy,” Armond turned to the rest of the team. “Stay on comms, when you hear the all clear, go your separate ways. We meet up at the safehouse in three days’ time. Look for the signal in the window, if its not there, randomly circle back every other day until it is. Everyone good on their parts?”

Another wave of assent swept the back of the van.

“Great. Alright Nocke, let’s go.”

Nocke started the van, and the tires squealed briefly as they pulled out into traffic, headed towards the stout fortress of the Mercadian Central Bank three blocks away. The ‘goyle stuck his middle finger out the window to let the honking drivers what to do with their opinions.

Jackie, or Jax, as she preferred, did not necessarily want to live a life a crime. It was probably just a phase, she told herself often. Deep down she wondered.

Jacqueline Deanna Armas was born as a terribly normal human, to an abysmally normal family, and experienced a dreadfully boring childhood until her father had the audacity to shuffle off the mortal coil when she was twelve. Her father was a local political figure of some consequence, an admired Consul that moved within the circles of power that kept the capitol city of Mercadia functioning smoothly. No one had ever informed her of what happened to her dad, but it was then that she stopped calling herself Jacqueline, and insisted on being called Jackie. Because it was “Miss Jacqueline” or “Miss Armas” from the staff or “JACQUELINE DEANNA ARMAS” when she was in trouble with the nanny or mother. It wasn’t until she met her best friend Tulsi that she had finally encountered the name she loved. Maybe it was Tulsi, maybe it wasn’t.

And now, Jax was standing on the corner of the financial district, glancing upwards on the grand marble façade of the Mercadian Central Bank, where even the gargoyles that lived on the eaves looked fancy, their flapping golden wings shimmering in the morning light. Armond was a few paces ahead of her, and she clutched the slip charm tightly against her chest, muttering the activation word that only two people on the whole of existence had ever known, and no one on the street witnessed as the lithe human woman shimmered beyond their notice. She was nothing but an afterthought, a forgotten dream, a fragment of a lost conversation floating away into the air.

Armond must have really trusted her, she realized, as he held the door open a split second longer than he had to, just to allow her entrance without tripping the hex barrier at the front doors. She effortlessly crossed the threshold, the ancient power of the family charm was just as invisible as she was.

Jax laughed aloud, marveling at the power that laid against her skin, but the charm stole that away as well, whittling her voice to nothing more than squeak of a heel or a rustle of a pant leg of the other customers that crisscrossed the floor of the cathedral-like bank. A few gargoyles lined the upper architraves far above, taking their break, blowing over hot cups of coffee and taking delicate bites of their cinnamon pastries.

Armond gracefully lifted his hand, waving at the wiry thin bank manager with the wispy mustache perched unsteadily on his top lip, his nametag catching the light. Jax peeled off to the left, finding the wall as quickly as she could so could focus on the exchange, keeping an eye on her boss, as he did what he did best.

Schmooze.

Was it his blood line? Some trickle of crossbreed magic in his blood? Maybe he was like Jax, hiding an ancient family charm somewhere on his person, one that was crafted by sirens, encapsulating their enchanting song? A thing to beguile others, make their eyes linger, their blood warm, and their pleasure centers tingle? Probably nothing like that. He was just exceptionally handsome and he knew how to expertly swing his charm around like a battle axe of his green-skinned kin.

“Ah, Mr. Armond! So glad you made it!” The bank manager smiled warmly.

Armond lowered his arm, taking the bank manager’s offered hand and shaking it warmly. Jax noticed he had put his other hand over the top, gently squeezing the bank manager’s clasp with both of his palms. The bank manager made note of it as well, and Jax grinned. The poor man had it bad. He was smitten.

“And I am so glad to have made it as well, Mr. Ducal. After receiving your call last week, I was most impressed that you had an investment opportunity already prepared so soon after our first meeting.”

The manager smiled graciously, “I would love to discuss it, ah, up in my office?”

Jax felt her eyes go wide. Was he serious? Was it really this easy? How did Armond just wander through his life having people just trip all over themselves to give him what he really wanted?

Armond smiled widely in return. “Of course. Show the way.”

Jax wondered briefly if Armond had that same power of persuasion over her. She had indirectly met him two years ago, as she and her friends had barhopped through the riverside district. It was supposed to be for her eighteenth birthday, but with liquid bravery being ingested amongst squealing inebriated women dressed in scantily arranged clothing, she couldn’t resist attempting to break her personal pickpocketing record. Armond had been surrounded by distractions, and lifting his pocketbook had been effortless. Even after all this time, she had yet to figure out how he had tracked her down, hours later, on a completely different quarter of the district.

Armond had confronted her kindly on the dance floor, throbbing music afloat in the air, as he pulled her aside, complemented her skills, and firmly rescued his wallet from her purse. Noticing the wealth of wallets within, he handed her a card, and offered her a job with a impressed smirk.

She wasn’t attracted to him, so that wasn’t it… but she was attracted to the freedom of what he had offered. But it was still her own choice, right? It was a way to break from the mold that had been set for her, the expectations that confined her, that worked to pin her under obligation and duty. Armond had offered her an escape. Maybe he was just good at giving people what they wanted.

Armond followed the bank manager with confidence, gliding among the thin crowds of both employees and customers, everyone seemingly busy in their own way. Jax circled away from the teller wall, rushing through shadows, doing her best to keep her feet on rugs and carpet, avoiding the marble floor. The charm covered everything, but best to maintain good habits. She positioned herself in the nook of where the expansive spiral staircase curled back on itself, nearly reaching the wall. She kneeled behind it, and looked upwards at the glass of the manager’s office.

Outside, Garbles and Frick should have setup near the main door, each watching a different street that lead to the bank, while Nocke idled the van out back, where Wick was probably pounding his keyboard with glee. As if their ears were burning, she heard the comms check far away in her ear, knowing the charm was doing its strange work to quiet the commbug.

“Avenue clear,” Garbles muttered.

“Market clear,” Frick added quickly.

“In position,” Nocke replied.

“Wick?” Frick followed up.

“Here, here. Uh, two minutes. Standby. I see Armond in the manager’s office through the interior windows, and I am assuming Jackie is at the stairs?”

Jax gently pushed one of the planters on the balustrade near her elbow.

“Ah, clever girl. Jackie is in position,” Wick added. “I see two guards as planned. Its the ugly troll…”

“Hey,” Garbles snarled lightly.

“Sorry mate, but trolls are ugly. Be proud of it. Unfortunately, the other is the old dwarf, the one with the metal eye.”

Frick sighed, “Jackie, just to be safe, stay out of eyeline of the dwarf. We don’t know if his smithed eye can pick you up or not. He may only see what the camera’s see, but better safe than sorry.”

Jax scanned the crowd and saw the older dwarf sitting on a stool near the teller windows. He was more interested in the magazine in his lap than the crowd around him. But why should he be worried? The last time the Mercadian Central Bank had a crime occur, he had not been born yet. She made a mental note of where he lounged and fully ducked behind the balustrade to ensure she stayed hidden.

Jax sighed as she remembered herself as a fourteen year old that only felt alive when she was making away with small paltry thefts under the careful watch of her caretakers. It was the one thing that infused her soul, the sole activity that she craved above all things. When she went counter to the expectations that had been set for her, she was finally made real, and not some cardboard cutout that her mother insisted attend the senseless functions full of boredom and populated by dull, unremarkable people. On one of her early thievery jaunts to the undercity, Jackie and her best friend Tulsi had stolen a particularly expensive set of watches, but somehow one of them had tripped over a sleeping guard dog in the process. The dog had alerted the owner, one thing led to another, and after a heated pursuit in which they lost their pursuers, the two had collapsed into a pile of giggles behind a garden wall. The laughter was deep and relentless, fueled by both raw adrenaline and exhausted leg muscles. Tulsi had slugged her in the shoulder, looking over their their pile of oversized watches, and had said, “I wouldn’t do this with anyone else, Jax.”

Jax smiled at the memory. She glanced up above and it appeared that the blinds had been drawn while she was lost in thought. Armond was either cleverer than half, or lucky as hell. How does one get the bank manager in his office and close the blinds for privacy? Did that wispy man, what was his name again? Duscald? Duckle? Ducall? Something like that. Ducall was up there trying to seduce her boss. She stuck her tongue out and play-gagged at the thought.

“Alright, no cameras in the manager’s office. You are clear, Armond. Let us know when to pop the distractions.”

“Finally. I was wondering how long it was going to take you,” Armond replied, as if he had been impatiently waiting for hours. “Jackie?”

Jax looked up and saw Armond’s face, and she knew he was looking at an empty space. She tugged a frond of the nearby plant back and forth as an impromptu signal.

“Ah, there you are. Heads up.” Armond dropped the rune deck from the second floor balcony. “Alright, Wick, spike the alarms and punch the water.”

“In three, two, one—“

The comms were overtaken by the peal of thunder as the water rune was activated at the dome of the bank ceiling. Hundreds of gallons would cascade downwards in the next few minutes, with both atmospheric and water magic at play, the storage tanks on the roof dumping their contents through the enchanted seal, drenching the customers and employees alike.

“Front door is locked.” Garbles came back through on comms.

“Streets are still clear, no audible alarms out here,” Frick added calmly.

“Sorry, Ma’am, the bank is temporarily closed, fire alarm testing.” Garbles voice came up again and was followed by the far off sound of a disturbed customer. Jax couldn’t make out whatever she had to say. “No Ma’am. We are definitely testing. Right now, in fact.”

Frick laughed over the channel as Jax rushed through the downpour. Her form may have been invisible, but the rain bouncing off of her was very much visible, but thankfully, both of the guards were at the main door, attempting to figure out how the doors had locked on themselves.

Jax made it to the vault enclave without issue and spun in place to face the central floor where the customers and employees were all huddled tightly against the teller windows, attempting to stay out of the torrential downpour. The water bounced off of desks, stone, and furniture alike, spiraling in a great shallow whirlpool around the central drain positioned at the middle of the expansive floor.

She flipped the rune book open, turning the slate pages as if it was a deck of cards in the hands of an expert gambler. The last sheet was the rune for the vault enclave, it’s mark matching the oversized one below her feet. Jax took her wet forearm, swiping across it. The chalk came right off on her sleeve, and before her, where before she was facing the main floor of the bank, now the enclave faced a sizeable vault room, a number of small tables near the center, with safety deposit boxes on every wall.

The transition had made her lightheaded. Phaseportal magic was complex, and to traverse into the vault, which technically, was in the same place as the main bank floor, took a fair amount of energy. Whatever batteries had powered her transition, she was glad that the energy they leveraged hadn’t disrupted her charm. To the employees and customers of the bank, they still only saw the floor of the bank getting soaked by the cascading water falling from overhead.

She dropped the rune book on the table next to the simple leather bag with brass buckles. Nothing else was on the tables. She grabbed the bag, hitching the strap over her head, and releasing the Slip charm with the safe word. As if she had been dressed in pillows covering every square inch of her body, she suddenly felt unleashed. Her voice was free again.

“I have the bag,” she exhaled. “Nothing else in here except the deposit boxes.”

“Good girl, that’s all we need. Get out of there. I am headed to the van to leave with the others. Garbles, Frick, as soon as Jackie is clear, get gone.”

Jax ran back to the enclave, picking up the rune deck from where she had dropped it. She swiped over the rune deck again, and the chalk returned to its place. In a half a breath, the central floor was back in front of her with nary a sound or flicker of energy. She surreptitiously slid the rune deck in-between a planter and the plant within it, ditching it as quickly as she could. She huddled her shoulders and ran through the dwindling downpour.

“Ah, love, this way,” one of the tellers called out. She was an elderly human, and to her eyes, Jax probably looked like a drowned rat. “Oh you poor dear, you are absolutely soaked. Where were you?”

“I, uh-huh, was in the bathroom,” Jax made her voice crack as if she was on the verge of ugly tears. She turned her shivering up a couple notches.

“That is terrible. Terrible. You poor thing.”

The troll guard finally managed to get the doors opened, and sunlight flooded into the wide bank chamber, illuminating the fog that was forming from the massive humidity change.

The old teller patted Jax lightly on the back, walking her towards the light.

“No one leaves, Mrs. Rowlson,” the troll guard sniffed haughtily. “We have to take names and information of everyone in here.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Brgx. This poor child was in the BATHROOM! THE BATHROOM! When the fire alarm went off. Do you think any woman should be subject to that abject humiliation!? And then BE SUBJECTED TO QUESTIONING as if they are a common criminal? Look at her! She is a highborn, and she was in the wrong place at absolutely the wrong time, and you are going to be a sensible clod-brain and let her into the sunshine. And if there are any problems, all of them can come to me for addressing. Do YOU understand?”

“Um, yes, um, yes ma’am.” The troll looked as if he had just been slapped.

Mrs. Rowlson gently guided Jax out the front doors and into the sunshine. The street looked completely as it had, not an enforcer or badge in sight. “You head home, dear. Dry off, and we will see you next time, right? Let me flag you a cab.”

The old teller ushered Jax to the street, and out of the corner of her eye, Jax caught Frick smiling devilishly in the market crowd, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You should see this guys, Jackie is being escorted onwards to her escape,” Frick laughed.

“You are a natural, Jackie,” Wick added.

“She is a highborn natural, and I think she has earned to be called Jax now,” Armond appended. “See you all in three days.”

A cab rolled up, its team of domesticated Griffins snapping at their leads. The driver nodded at the teller, and Mrs. Rowlson gently helped Jax into the cab. “Take her wherever she wants. Here is a handful, keep the change.”

“Thank you,” Jax whimpered.

“Be safe, dear.”

“Oh my gods,” Frick was gasping for air, he was laughing so hard.

“You stupid Sylvan, get out of there,” Armond admonished, sounding like a disappointed father.

“I am, I am. Too good to miss. On my way.”

The cab rolled forward, and Jax picked a random location from her memory, calling it through the driver window. “Crusher and Tully Street, please.”

She leaned back in the seat, feeling the fabric under her hands, her clothing feeling clammy and tight across her back. The bag was nestled in her lap, the buckles gleaming brightly against the dark leather. She ran her hand across the leather, resisting the urge open the bag here, in the cab, to see what had was the impetus for the greatest bank robbery that Mercadian Central Bank had yet to fathom.

But she resisted. It could wait until she was off the street. And first, she could pull the damn earwig out, then maybe get into some warm clothes. After that…

What to do for three days? She felt a tingle under her fingers, but thought nothing of it.

It was probably just nerves.

“Aron, look at this,” Dr. Brian Soren grabbed the thin glass of the monitor and swung it into his research partner’s field of view.

The fellowship doctor pushed his glasses upwards on his crooked hawkish nose and squinted over the top of the lenses anyway. Dr. Aron Alvarez was older than his partner, but tried his hardest to match the younger doctor’s latent youthful energy. He pointed at the monitor with his well-chewed mechanical pencil, “What… is that?”

Brian shrugged. “It’s the output feed from Patient 23. The signaling appears to be correct, but that-“

“Yeah, that shouldn’t be there,” Aron rolled his wheeled chair closer to the monitor, shoving the poor pencil back between his teeth, clamping down viciously on its bright orange plastic octagonal barrel.

“So I am not crazy, that’s refreshing. That level of activation on his visual processing seems, off, right?”

Aron waved at the oft forgotten research assistant manning a laptop near the door. “Luce, pull up Patient 23 on the large monitor, then tap his chart to my tablet please.”

The large monitor nearby shifted to a view of a small section of the patient floor, in a simple room with only walls of hung fabric, and Patient 23 strapped to his bed, like any other patient on the floor. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

“What is he looking at?” Brian wondered aloud. “Do you think this is a side affect of the interfacing protocol?”

Aron waved his hand over the tablet display, flicking quickly through the chart. “I don’t think so… it might be a preexisting condition. What was his baseline?”

“Yeah, not there. At least in this snapshot, I am not seeing activation like this. His baseline is drearily normal,” Brian looked back at the sampling feed on the now shared monitor. “I mean look at the seg2 beta waves, they are off the chart, and his gamma is elevating at a steady rate. His heartrate is up, and his breathing has increased. A panic attack, maybe? Should I get a nurse to the floor?”

“If they see anything concerning they will come running. Which means that while this is odd for our sampling, it is not odd for our nurses. At least not yet.” Aron dismissed the concern as he continued to flick through the chart. “Long medical history here, some psych evals. Possible schizophrenia, some other mental illness. I would say the bulk of them are within our parameters for the test candidates. He did get through the protocol.”

“He did get through the protocol,” the younger doctor concurred.

“Interesting. There is a deep brain stimulation referral in his chart from his mid-twenties, timestamp of March 2024.”

“But he never went through with it?”

“Appears that way, but doesn’t say why. And, again, he did pass through our protocol, which means that there was no foreign hardware in his head or his chest that would indicate a DBS surgery, it would have shown on the scan.”

“This is a crazy thought… do you think it is too soon to try an activation of the processing framework?”

“It wouldn’t hurt him at all. But it might fry our framework without the calibration steps,” Aron replied, but he again appreciated his younger cohort’s enthusiasm for the project.

“He is mostly calibrated though,” Brian pushed. “We are missing the spin up on the neural processors, but we could bypass those and just dump the raw data from his sampling-“

“Ah, yes, directly into the test framework,” Aron interjected. “That’s clever, Doctor Soren.”

Brian smirked. “Come on, its not that clever. We did it with the chimps.”

“Luce, can you shunt Patient 23’s sampling feed directly to the testing framework?”

“Of course, Doctor Alvarez,” the research assistant replied attentively. “Syncing, and the feed should be up in, three, two, alignment… and one.”

The monitor overhead shifted position as the viewpoint shifted from the overhead camera looking downwards at the patient to what the patient’s brain was interpreting as visual input. The screen was hazy, with only shadows and lights, like the patient was seeing nothing but an impression of the space he was within.

“He is awake, isn’t he?” Aron asked.

“He is definitely awake. Maybe the testing framework needs to be adjusted. Hold on.” Brian flicked to the tuning interface on his own tablet, and started adjusting the electrical signaling. Within moments the screen immediately tightened up, the lines emerged, and the shadows retreated.

“There is someone standing next to him? I didn’t see a nurse on the overhead,” Aron wondered aloud.

Brian looked up, and scrunched his eyebrows towards the bridge of his nose in confusion. “That’s no one I recognize.”

“That’s not one of our nurses?” Aron tried again.

The man on the large monitor was dressed in scrubs, but they were a darker color than they should have been, and his face was nearly gaunt, with sunken cheeks and only a wisp of gray hair at the center of what would be his hairline. His eyes were vibrant and shining, looking over the patient head to toe as if examining him.

“No, we only have Jerry on staff, the rest are women. And I am certain that is not Jerry,” Brian confirmed.

“His mouth his moving. He is talking to Patient 23. Shame we can’t pick up language yet.”

“Why is that again?” Brian asked.

“Funding.” Aron replied curtly.

“Shame,” Brian commented. “That would be handy right now.”

Aron stood abruptly. “Call my cell, I am going to go down there and see this for myself.”

“S-s-s-sure.” Brian stuttered. He picked up the phone and dialed.

Aron pushed his ear tab and answered as he walked out the secured double door towards the patient wing. The flooring was an impeccably white, somehow refusing to age like the drab yellowing paint that covered the walls. The lights overhead were their typical clinical glow, illuminating everything with a flatness that made the hospital stereotypical. Brian’s breath in his earpiece kept him company as he filed past the other patient’s beds heading directly to the privacy curtain of Patient 23.

Aron pulled the curtain back with energy, attempting to scare the strange man standing next to the bed. Best to have him out of sorts and ready to be verbally lashed. Strangely, Patient 23 was by himself, his eyeline locked into place towards the curtains at his side.

“Ah you arrived. Grab that man!” Brian exclaimed.

“There is no one here, Doctor Soren.”

“What do you mean there is no on there? I see him on the screen.”

“There is no one here,” Aron repeated. He glanced under the bed, into the curtained enclaves of Patients 22 and 24 on each side, and there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Doctor Alvarez approached the side of the bed and pulled his flashlight from his coat pocket, flashing the light in each of Patient 23’s eyes. The pupil response was normal, but the patient refused to turn his head, as he continued to mutter under his breath. The good doctor lowered his ear to the fumbling lips of Patient 23, trying to hear what he was muttering.

“…no idea. It was not their fault. You shouldn’t… I know… but… no… its not, its not,” Patient 23 whispered.

“Do you hear that?” Aron asked his compatriot over the phone.

“No. Just a minute. ‘Luce, switch over to the overhead.’ Its just you, Aron. There is no one else there.” Brian relayed, his voice jumping away from the phone every time he called over to the RA, “‘ Luce, back to the framework output.‘ Oh my god, Aron, that… that man is standing right next to you!”

Aron spun, only to find emptiness in the curtain enrobed space. He thought he caught a whiff of something in the air, a smell of cloves and the cold of a desert winter’s evening. It reminded him of the stars wheeling overhead when he camped with his dad out on the desert playa all those years ago, the dark absolute and all consuming, just the sound of the crackle of the fire and the far off calls of the owls amongst the cactus.

Contrasting the deep calm of the fireside memory with his dad, there was an overwhelming sense of primal fear tingling through his limbs, his sixty year old muscles tightening under his aged flab that would not melt away regardless of how many miles he put on his runners. A bead of sweat trembled down the center of his back, tracing his spine beneath his undershirt.

“There is no one here, Brian. Just the patient and I.”

“I swear to the heavens above, Aron, he is standing right next to you!” Brian was near manic, his voice escalating with the same fear Aron felt growing in his limbs.

“He is fine… I am fine… leave it, leave it. Its not their fault… So..mmm…” Patient 23 muttered audibly, his lips fading into unintelligible speech. His eyes remained fixed at Aron’s side, locked onto the empty space.

In his ear, he felt it before he understood what he heard. Click.

The phone disconnected, and Aron was alone with the Patient.

“He, uh… he… wants to talk…” Patient 23 muttered, pulling on his straps hard, as if he was going to escape.

“Where are the nurses?” Aron said aloud. The lights were dimmer now, as if the power had lessened on the entire floor.

“You do not need a nurse. You no longer need your technology. Such things are, what? Trivial? As they say?” An amused voice whispered delicately next to Aron’s ear.

Aron was frozen in place, as if time had stopped, entrapping him in a moment like an insect in amber.

The voice continued, “You know, humans are meant for more. This is just the first step, this place. You all fight for a place in your meager tiny universe, and for what, a blip of in the span of the smallest measure of time? In the math that makes up everything, everywhere, you are but a single mote of dust, less than. An atom of the dust. Your time is fleeting in this incubator of experience, where you are meant to gather your uniqueness like a coat gathered around your frame, and carry with you to the next stage, the transcendence of spirit onto the next plane, the next reality. But what do all of you do? Look for ways to muck it up.”

Aron felt his lips release, “Who are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“I built that machine to help others see, to capture their memories, in the hopes that it makes mankind better. And to discover that something is subverting my life’s work, it matters to me.”

“I am subverting nothing but your intentions. And your work here only matters to you. Your father knew what was important. When he met me, he wrapped his arm in mine and sang a song of his family as he walked across the bridges of flowers. What will you sing? Do you remember the songs? Do you remember the smell of the fire? The clove and cinnamon in your tea? Do you remember what your father was actually trying to teach you?”

“Stop it,” Aron said through gritted teeth.

“I am Death, Aron Alvarez. Michael here was trying to convince me not to take you and everyone else in this study, but I have not been swayed. Do you think that you can look through other’s eyes and discover truth? You cannot find truth through your own eyes! Humans are insipid, insecure, infinitesimal bags of wet meat that somehow have souls… these beautiful immaterial constructs of everything that their physical beings are not! You are born when you die! This world is but an egg for you to break free from, and yet, here you stand, believing that you are going to make mankind better,” Death paused. “Look at me, Aron.”

Aron turned finally, feeling his limbs loosen. On the floor, his cooling body laid, tears in his physical eyes. Next to him stood a very different person than what he had seen on the monitor. It was an older gentleman, dressed in the simple garb of a farmhand at the Agave farms. A poncho, well worn and nearly colorless from the merciless sun, was flipped over his shoulder.

“I am the Greshak. For Michael there, I am a kind psych nurse from his youth that illustrated selflessness. For you, I am the man that taught you the value of hard work. For Brian Soren, I am his liberal aunt that taught him the truth of being bold and brilliant among the dullards. For Lucinda, I will be her little sister, who was lost to cancer ten years ago and showed her what true love actually is. That is what this world is meant to be, Aron. Not a search for truth, not a hunt for what can be observed… It is meant to be a search for the connections, the things that bind your experiences together. Out there, beyond this place, is a new frontier for you. And if you cannot figure out the basics, you have same choice everyone gets.”

Aron looked around the floor, seeing all of the patients of his neural uplink study lying dead in their beds, somehow knowing that Brian and Luce were in the lab, slumped over in their seats. Somehow he knew his work was being destroyed by some unassailable force, the destruction of everything contained within the nuance of what would be labeled as a gas leak and an unfortunate series of failed storage drives. His life’s work, gone in only a moment.

“And what is that choice?” Aron responded.

The Greshak shrugged. “Oblivion.”

“Not much of a choice.”

“It is for many. Do you not see? The interconnectedness of your lives is what matters. Not the bullshit of what you think is important. Your experience is wholly shaped by others. As their experience is wholly shaped by others, including your own impact on their lives. Why would anything else matter? I can tell you that Brian was shaped by you, as was Lucinda, but you never thought of that did you?”

“I guess not.”

“You must think on these things. The universe is so much larger than you realize, and it gets, what is the phrase that is popular now, ‘it gets real’ out there. So for many, oblivion is actually a very simple and easy choice.”

“Do I have to choose now?”

“No.”

“When do I have to make the choice?”

“Tomorrow, Today, or Yesterday, after all, time doesn’t matter. But idling here will quickly disconnect you from the world you know. And no one likes a ghost. Just let me know when you are ready to be picked up.”

The Greshak was gone. Aron floated through the curtains, wandering the ward, but the bodies were already gone. The lights had changed. New windows appeared on one side, then smiling children with casts on their arms appeared one moment, then the next, a wall went up nearby, and he heard the cacophony of an emergency department cascade through the halls with overhead pages going faster than he could make out.

He stood there for maybe ten years? Maybe it was a hundred. It was impossible to tell.

Eventually, he knew he would call out for the Greshak. Eventually, he knew what his choice would be.