by Sarah Noffke
Many people ask me where Ren came from. Well, he was probably born from my own fascination with British culture and my upbringing watching BBC programming. But honestly, at the end of the day, Ren Lewis is me. He’s the things I think and never say. He’s the uncensored part of me. Don’t get me wrong. Ren is smarter, wiser, more powerful and cunning than I’ll ever be. Even I have to draw the line at some of the things he says and does. However, he’s my alter ego. So now you know. Honestly, Ren is the part of all of us that we’ve caged because society says we should. And that’s probably for the best because few can pull off the snark like this man. The world would be an awful place if everyone was Ren. There can be only one and here I leave you with his final tale.
Note
Between Ren: The Monster’s Adventure (#3.5) and this book there is another story. It hasn’t been chronicled yet in its entirety, however events related to that story will be mentioned in this one. Readers of the Dream Traveler tales and of Ren’s stories should be on the lookout for The Dream Traveler Apocalypse novel, due out early 2018.
Prologue
Death. It’s the one thing we can’t avoid and yet we spend our entire lives trying to circumnavigate away from the experience. We fear death more than change, I’ve found. It’s the greatest change. Our very undoing. Our existence being blotted out. Our consciousness being extinguished from this earth, never to be known in the physical realm again.
Everyone dies. Everyone. No account of immortality has ever been documented and yet we continue to fear this certain fate. Humans take every precaution to secure their life but there is no home safe enough. No healthcare plan that can prevent disease. There is no escape. Death is the shadow that follows all of us. And its promise is a real one that it has never failed to deliver.
For centuries explorers, scientists, and religious followers have sought a way to make the hooded figure of death fail in his quest. And none have persevered. But they didn’t know what I know. They sought fountains of youth and treasures and other sacrificial regimens that would secure their immortality. But it’s not about the blood that runs through our veins. It’s about the approach. Death can’t be thwarted with a miracle cure. It has to be outmaneuvered. People who seek immortality fail to see that they are trying to live forever by never dying. They are idiots. They are wrong. They will always fail. And they aren’t me, the most strategic man on this planet.
I’m Ren Lewis and I’m going to live forever.
Chapter One
“Jesus Christ! Just give me five minutes to myself,” the man with too much gel in his hair plugs says, slamming the door. He pushes his back against the paneled surface, as though trying to bar it against a zombie invasion on the other side. “Damn it,” he says, ramming his fist into his thigh and then immediately grimacing from the self-inflicted pain.
This guy is a real fucking idiot. And he’s absolutely perfect for the job I’m about to give him. He hasn’t sensed me sitting on the leather sofa against the north wall of his office. This isn’t a man who observes his environment. He coasts through life, taking advantage of the things that do grab his attention. He’s not a loser or a winner, just a greedy politician who has experienced a series of undeserved successes due to my actions.
Another distressed sigh falls out of his mouth.
“You fear you’re about to lose the election,” I state, grabbing his attention.
His round eyes jerk in my direction on the far side of the gigantic office. Then they narrow with menace as he pops off the wall.
“How did you get in here?” he says.
Yes, the fucker is more concerned with how I got around Secret Service than the more important question. Bloody git.
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned with who I am?” I say, casually propping my legs on the glass coffee table in front of me. “I’ve gotten past a few hundred guards and you would rather know how than the important question of why.” I click my tongue and shake my head. “You really are a fucking moron.”
“How dare you! Who do you think you are?” Douglas says, stomping forward, leaning over the table, trying at intimidation. I knew that insulting the dumbass right off the bat would keep him from calling security. People like him are easily distracted and more intent on defending their egos than preserving their safety. People are so incredibly easy to manipulate.
I ignore his idiot question. Again he’s asking the wrong thing. “Who I am and how I got here are actually useless pieces of data for you. They may be curious bits of information but still they are inconsequential,” I say, casually drumming my fingertips on my knee, and he catches the hypnotic gesture immediately. I pause, realizing this job is going to be incredibly easy. This guy has the brain capacity of a jar of mayonnaise.
“What do you want?” he says, standing tall, tying his thick arms across his chest.
“Now you’re asking the right question. Sit down, Doug,” I say, knowing all through the election that he grimaced every time his opponent shortened his name. This is a man who wants to inconvenience people by making them say his full name. People like Christophers and Matthews and Jeffreys really need to get over themselves and go by the shortened versions of their names.
His beady eyes bulge. I tap my fingers on my knee again and it’s immediately caught by his peripheral vision. I’m not going to hypnotize him yet, just trying to keep him calm, a result of watching a single one of my hypnotic movements.
“Without a real effort, I broke into your office, one of the most heavily guarded places in America on this night. Take a fucking seat so we can get this meeting over with,” I say.
The man, who could skip a meal or three and be better off for it, studies me as his gerbil brain considers my words. Again I drum my fingertips and pretty much on cue he slides down and takes a seat in the armchair on my right. I knew he would take that seat instead of the one on the left. It’s why I positioned myself on this side of the sofa.
“Now,” I say, pulling my feet off the table and sitting forward. “I’m the man who is going to help you win this election, but you have to do everything I say from this point forward.”
He explodes at once, tossing his hands over his head. “I’m so far behind in the polls! There’s no way I’m going to win. They are asking for my concession speech. Jill has this election won,” he says, his words coated in defeat.
“It doesn’t matter what the polls say. Who the people voted for. What the Electoral College does. The person I decide will be the next president of this country,” I say.
His mouth pops open wide and a loud laugh storms out. “You? Yeah, right. There’s no one with that much power.”
I arch an eyebrow at him and then create an almost exact replica illusion of a woman. It’s of the candidate who is currently winning the election. I place her in the seat opposite of Douglas. The one with the phony contract and pen sitting in front of it. The seat Douglas didn’t take. “Jill, it appears that Dougy here doesn’t want to be President. I guess the job is yours,” I say and push the contract toward the illusion, who is regarding her opponent with a calm expression, her blonde hair pushed away from her face in the manner that she normally wears it. “Go ahead and sign the deal and you’ll be the next President of the United States.”
From my side vision I watch the fucker beside me shift in his understanding of what is transpiring. It has taken longer than necessary for his reaction to burst out of him, probably due to his low IQ.
“What?” he says, rocketing to a standing position, his hands finding his helmet of hair. “How did you do that? Where did she come from?”
I snap my fingers, but only for effect, and the illusion of the politician disappears. “I’m the man who can make anything happen,” I say and lower my chin and regard him with a cunning stare. “I’m the man who can make you President of this bloody country, but you have to sit the fuck down and agree to everything I say.”
His aged spotted hands are shaking now.
> “Sit,” I repeat, as he stares at the chair like he’s thinking Jill will reappear.
The buffoon nods absentmindedly and nearly misses the chair, taking a seat without paying attention.
“So-so-so,” he stutters, peeling his eyes off the empty chair and looking at me. “What do I have to do to be President?”
“Everything I say. And after you’re President you only do what you’re told. You report to my organization every night. You pass the legislation we tell you to. And you don’t do a fucking thing unless we approve,” I say.
“Who is your organization?” he says.
I pull the contract from the other side of the table, positioning it in front of him before handing him the silver ballpoint pen. “The Lucidites,” I say.
The Ivy League–educated idiot regards the contract and then me.
“What is this?” he says.
“Fucking sign it,” I say simply.
He begins reading it, which will take the airhead over an hour.
“It says exactly what I’ve just told you. If we make you President then you do everything we tell you to and nothing else. If you do anything that violates the contract then you will be impeached and imprisoned for heinous crimes,” I say.
“What crimes?” he says.
I dismiss the question with a wave. “We will figure something out. Do we have a deal?” I say.
“Absolutely,” he says now with no stress in his voice, just a giddy laugh.
Yes, I could have used mind control on this fucking jerk but it would wear off and need to be reapplied. This was the better strategy. And the contract is bogus but this ape doesn’t know that. Doug just knows that a man more powerful than him is going to ruin him unless he answers to the Lucidites. And we absolutely would tear him down for insubordination, I’d see to it personally.
I withdraw a card from my inside pocket. “You will tell no one about this deal, is that clear?” I say, now putting intention behind the message. I do need to use mind control to ensure he doesn’t fucking blab at the victory party tonight.
“Yes,” he says, staring at me with a blank expression.
“Good. Sign,” I say, again using intention but now because staring at his wrinkled face is making me sick. This meeting needs to be over.
“Call this number every night of your presidency. Report all important details and follow all instructions given to you. And never act of your own accord. If you have questions about decisions then you call this number. Is that clear?” I say, folding the contract and placing it in my breast pocket.
He nods and then shakes his head. “Can I still pass the retina scanner security bill?”
I regard him blankly. “Why?” I say.
“Because I think it will be cool to have to have eye scans to enter all government facilities,” he says, and sounds slightly high now. He probably is.
“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” I say, ready to be out of the warm office.
“Yes!” he says, throwing a victorious punch in the air.
“Don’t fuck up because we will be watching you,” I say and teleport away, leaving the soon-to-be President alone and probably baffled about my sudden disappearance. He’s definitely not violating the contract after witnessing my party tricks. He probably won’t take a piss without our permission.
Chapter Two
I teleport straight into the conference room of the strategic department as I intended. Three of the closest agents startle, one grabbing her chest like my sudden appearance gave her a mini heart attack. One nearly busts out of his seat but after realizing it’s me he just tenses and presses his fingertips into the arm rest.
“Do you have to do that?” Trent says from the front of the room. He’s got his dumb dreadlocks pulled back in a ponytail like he’s a fucking horse.
“I do,” I say, calmly taking a seat at the table.
“It’s just that after the Dream Traveler apocalypse everyone is still on edge. It was a colossal fight and has put a lot of Lucidites into PTSD,” Trent says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Taking the Head Strategist position has really aged him. Maybe I should tell him that.
“Oh, stop exaggerating. It was a little tiff and now it’s over. Let’s move on,” I say, seeing that fear surface in the agents’ eyes in front of me. This last year a new evil decided to rear its head and tried to destroy the Lucidite Institute in an attempt to destroy the world at large. It all seemed very comic book to me, but even I admit the danger was real. Several societies of Dream Travelers banded together to protect the Institute, which is fully responsible for repeatedly keeping the earth out of an apocalyptic age. People died. The Institute was destroyed. I stepped in and saved the fucking day. It was all very boring. However, that’s the past and if the last year has taught me anything it’s that I deal with the past and move on. It shouldn’t be buried or painted on the walls. The past just needs to be let go of. Simple. Easy. Effortless. And it is this philosophy that has changed me in the last twelve months, since Adelaide and Lucien have come into my life. Since all the other changes, I’m almost nice now. And since I have taken this new approach to life and decided it unwise to dwell in the past then I’m not going to be divulging the avenger’s adventure that almost killed us all. That story will be chronicled elsewhere though. It’s a history the Lucidites want remembered. There were lessons learned in those battles that we shouldn’t easily forget.
“Well, maybe you’ll consider teleporting into the corridor next time,” Trent says. He’s lost his usual spark since the war. But I’m certain it will return. He’s resilient, which is why I chose him to replace me as Head Strategist. He just needs time to evolve through the pain.
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. “But you know I have a horrid memory and will probably forget. I’m such a fucking airhead and can’t be helped.”
I turn and face the three agents sitting closest to me. “All right, you stooges, the election is set. Go rig it so that billionaire clown Doug wins,” I say.
They just stare at me. God, Trent really has lost the strict management I had in place. I slam my palm down on the table, making the three agents jump. “Now!” I boom and they all three scramble out of their seats, leaving the conference room mostly empty.
Trent clears his throat. “You know, that really should have been my order to give. I realize that you took over during Dream Traveler Apocalypse but this is still my department,” he says.
There he goes with the exaggerated talk. “Well, I think you should fire me for my insubordination,” I say.
“I’m considering writing you up,” he says, and a smile breaks the solemn expression he’d been wearing. I know he feels the weight of his agents’ pains, but that’s a mistake. That’s a burden that will only make his thinking flawed. I know that from personal experience. It’s how I’m able to operate presently. I don’t allow myself to feel others’ pain. My own is enough. And I know how to compartmentalize so I can get shit done. I don’t shove away my pains anymore but I do block them until I have the right capacity to deal with my hurts. I’m like a fucking monk these days with my sage perspective.
“If you keep making a big deal of the past events in front of your agents then they will never progress,” I say to Trent. “They are looking to you to decide how to process. You need to put up a wall and don’t let them see the stress.”
He presses the back of his hand to his long forehead. “I don’t know if I can do that. I’ve tried,” he says, his voice heavy.
“I didn’t say not to feel the pain or not to process it. However, when you are in front of those agents or anyone at the Institute then you need to put on an arranged face and persona. Leaders don’t get the privilege to be human. You need to be stronger than that,” I say.
He nods; the solemn expression is back.
“Dougy will be calling you like a good boy every night. He has been given his reporting instructions,” I say.
“And he agreed?” Trent sa
ys.
I lower my chin and regard Trent with a look of disdain that he fully deserves. “Of course he fucking agreed. You might have lost your mojo, but I still have mine.”
“This is fucking atrocious,” I hear from the back of the room.
I wheel around to spy my daughter, Adelaide, slumped in a chair, her arms crossed and a look of offense on her freckled face.
“Oh, I thought I smelled something foul,” I say. However, I actually knew she was lurking in the back of the room the whole time. I had spied her upon first arrival. “Should have realized the smell was you.” I turn back to Trent. “I do apologize for my offspring’s unprofessional nature. I have no idea where she gets her vulgar language from. Probably from growing up penniless on the streets of London,” I say.
“You know damn well that Jill Rodgers should be President,” Adelaide says.
“No, actually I know that the best future for the United States rests in having a President that we can control and monitor. Jill’s personality was thoroughly studied by people who know way more about human behavior than you and she didn’t qualify. She’s not moldable and would potentially resist or rebel against our efforts to control her as President,” I say.
“By ‘people’ you mean ‘you.’ You’re the one who studied the candidates and you picked him. You picked that jerk over Jill Rodgers,” she says, her words full of anger.
I turn back to Trent. “Speaking of firing people. I’ll totally understand if you want to give Addy the boot. She’s probably best suited for cleaning toilets.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up with a half-smile.
“We were about to make history,” Adelaide groans. “And you fucking ruined it. America was about to have its first female President.”
“When the hell did you give a damn about the United States?” I say.
“I don’t, but I care about women and us making progress, since you men like to repress us with your chauvinistic ways,” she says.
