Donovan lifts his head and pushes his elbows behind him, sitting up slightly, but remains pinned beneath Dia. “So that’s the point of this whole thing: we’re all just looking for something inside ourselves? What are we trying to redeem?”
“If I told you that there’d be no point in taking the journey.” Dia’s playfulness melts away. Her luminous blond hair fades into darkness, and her eyes start to lose their intoxicating blue shimmer. Her gaze becomes an inky black stare, vast and endless and devoid of hope. “Now wake the fuck up, Sleeping Beauty – nap time is over.” With a crisp slap to the face, Cole awakens.
Chapter Ten – Reality Rebooted
New York City
August 26, 2011
2:19 am, Eastern Daylight Time
Dia’s plan was for her and Cole to appear on the rooftop of a fifty-story Manhattan skyscraper. It was the location she’d pictured in her mind when she tore open the rift. A solid plan in theory, but in practice their ‘appearance’ was more of a ‘landing’; from a height of about seven feet they burst from the glowing tear, slamming into the marble tiles with a bone-rattling thud. It was as close as she could manage. Teleportation, after all, isn’t an A-to-B proposition – as she’d eventually explain to Cole, it’s more like throwing a paper airplane at a bee from the window of a moving car. It’s theoretically possible to score a bull’s-eye, but more often than not you’re just lucky to come close to the target.
Cole has returned to his natural, unaltered state: thin, wiry, and completely exhausted – and only with a vague memory of the dream he’d just experienced. His cuts and bruises remain healed from his previous transformation, but he has a new set of injuries from the fall. Bumps and scrapes, nothing he isn’t used to. Lying flat on his back, his eyes flutter and he cranes his neck, trying to piece together the events that took place just seconds ago, but now feel like fragments of a distant memory.
Equally battered, Dia comes to Cole’s side, offering a hand to help him back to his feet. Her dark hair is wind-blown, and a streak of dried blood and lipstick are smeared across her face. Her bottom lip is split and her jawbone is starting to show the beginnings of an angry purple bruise.
Taking her hand for support, Donovan regains his footing. “Where the hell are we?”
“The top of my building.”
Cole glances in every direction, each side offering a panoramic view of Manhattan’s glittering skyline. They were definitely on a roof top, but he wasn’t sure how they’d arrived there. “So how did we get…wait, did I pass out? Am I drunk?” He massages his temples in small circles. Memories of his dream (if that’s what it was – he’s still not so sure) float through his mind like a swirling haze. “Did we have sex? When we were back at Platinum did you slip a roofie in my drink?”
“Yes,” Dia replies in a dry monotone. “I found you so unbelievably attractive that I drugged you, abducted you, and then took advantage of you while you were unconscious…right here on the rooftop terrace of my condo.”
Cole stares back at Dia for a moment, not sure how to respond.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, ma’am. Your delicate sensibilities haven’t been compromised.”
Cole takes a step but his legs turn to rubber. He stumbles, and Dia lunges to grab his arm.
“Whoa, take it easy there, cowboy.” She pats him on the back. “If you’ve never been through a gateway it can be pretty disorienting. Most people throw up the first time through. Some even hallucinate.”
After regaining his bearings, Cole runs his hand along the back of his arm where the large coiling snake tattoo had been, marveling at his unblemished skin. “So wait, how did we get here? And where did that big tat go?”
Dia’s eyes widen. “Wow, that really was the first time you’ve ever triggered, wasn’t it? You’ve never manifested before. And the Collectors really didn’t have you marked as a target?”
Cole squints his eyes hard, and bends at the waist, cradling his forehead with both palms. His skull feels like it’s been torn open with a rusted hacksaw. With some assistance from Dia, he makes his way to a lounge chair and starts piecing together the puzzling events of the last few minutes. “Okay, just for the sake of argument, let’s pretend I was knocked unconscious twice in the same night, and now I’ve just teleported across the city through a wormhole or something.”
“A rift,” Dia corrects him.
“All right, a rift that you tore open after cutting your wrist…right before asking me to beat the crap out of you. Can you please just slow down and start from the beginning? What the hell just happened back there?”
Dia pulls a chair across from him, the metal feet scraping across the marble times. “Okay, getting punched by Heinreich caused you to trigger: the rush of adrenaline – or anger, or whatever it was – started a biochemical event that altered your physical properties. It’s called ‘manifesting’. Whatever you have buried in your subconscious comes rushing to the surface, and it results in an actual, physical change.”
Cole glanced down at his arm once again, bringing his fingertips to his narrow bicep. “So why did I look different?”
“You mean the jacked arms and the tats? It’s all part of the manifestation process – it’s like your self-projected image. It’s what your ego wants you to look like, or on some level how you see your ideal self. Usually the differences are kind of subtle, though. I’ve never seen anyone triple in size.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “So just because I wished for it hard enough it came true? Wow…when I first heard about that book ‘The Secret’ I thought it was all bullshit, but maybe they were on to something.”
Dia waves both hands in the air as if to erase the confusion surrounding her explanation. “No, no, no, it’s more than just a simple desire. If it were that easy then anyone could do it. You tapped into something primal, and the universe responded.”
“So pain causes it?” Donovan asks.
“Not for everyone. Look, I’m really not the best person to explain all this,” she concedes with a small shrug. “Come downstairs and meet my friends…they’ll get you up to speed.” Dia rises and starts towards the rooftop exit in the center of the terrace.
Cole stands to follow, and hears a crunch underfoot; stone rubbing against stone, shifting beneath his running shoe. Two bullet holes are by his feet, embedded deep into the marble tiles. “Hey, check it out,” he shouts across the rooftop, pointing at the damage. “Looks like we had a closer call that we thought.”
“I’ve had closer,” she smiles. “Come on, we have a lot to talk about.”
As Cole follows Dia through the doorway and down the spiraling staircase, he can’t help but think about his wingman back at Platinum. Just happy to be in one piece, he breathes a small sigh of relief and whispers under his breath, “I hope Jens is having a better night than I am.”
Chapter Eleven – Circumstance
New York City
August 26, 2011
3:18 am, Eastern Daylight Time
Frigid water slaps his face, soaking his hair, dousing his t-shirt. Jens snorts and coughs, eyes snapping open. He tries to wipe his eyes but his arms are immobilized; wrists bound to cold metal, ankles painfully strapped together. He’s tied to a chair in a large empty room – an abandoned warehouse, he guesses.
The last thing he can remember is driving to Platinum, chugging way too many Bolt and Brews, then stumbling into an alley for reasons he can’t quite piece together. And then, he vaguely recalls a massive bald guy who looked like a Hawaiian tourist, slamming a cinderblock-sized fist into his face. And then, darkness. Not the good kind, like a black-out after binge drinking, or when he passes out on his couch sprawled on potato chip wrappers and XBOX controllers. This is a new sensation and it’s not nearly as fun; like waking from a car wreck, but a lot more terrifying.
A Japanese man stands before him, dressed in a dark suit and jacket, a gray scarf draped around his neck. He’s clutching an empty water bottle in one hand and a smoldering cigar
ette filter in the other, the final dying embers crumbling to the floor. Behind him is a small rusted metal table fitted with drawers and compartments, with a red tool box sitting ominously on its scarred surface. And behind it stands a man twice as large as any Jens had ever encountered. It’s the Hawaiian tourist.
Jens shifts his jaw back and forth. He runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth to check if any teeth are missing, tasting a coppery tang that stings his scratchy throat. “Where am I?” he mumbles, not expecting a response.
Goto flicks the remains of his cigarette away and drops the plastic bottle to the concrete floor with a hollow rattle. “Not to be impertinent Mister Jennum, but I happen to be a little short on time this evening. This conversation is going to be somewhat one-sided, with me asking the questions, and you answering in short order.”
Jens’ eyes grow wide as a realization sets in. “Oh shit…I know what’s going on here. You guys are here for Vinnie Three Thumbs, aren’t you?”
Goto cocks his head to the side and then glances back at Mister Heinreich, who offers a confused shrug.
“Dude,” Jens pleads, “please tell Vinnie that I had no idea Jennie was his little sister. Until I saw her driver’s license I didn’t know they were related, and that she was born in…well, it doesn’t matter what year it was, but she looks at least twenty-one! You’ve seen her, right?” His eyes dart nervously between the Asian and the giant. “Right guys?”
Goto leans in, his nose just inches from Jens’. “My apologies, Mister Jennum, but perhaps I didn’t express myself clearly enough. That happens from time to time. It has been a very long, rather disappointing evening, and I haven’t had a latté or a steam shower in several days. Needless to say that puts me in somewhat of a foul mood.”
“Okay…?” Jens replies, his voice trembling.
“I am going to ask you a series of very pointed questions. And you, Mister Jennum, are going to reply with very specific answers. Preferably using as few words as possible.”
Jens blinks like an owl and nods twice. Water runs from his hairline and trickles down the bridge of his nose.
“Let’s begin,” Goto announces with towering authority, straightening his posture. “How do you know Miss Davenport, and what is her relationship to Donovan Cole?”
“Miss who? I’ve never seen that girl before in my life! Until Cole walked up to her at Platinum I don’t think he had, either.” Jens swallows hard in a dry throat, and then a thought drifts into his head. “Wait, if you’re a cop shouldn’t you be showing me a badge, or giving me my phone call or something?” He’s seen TV and he knows how these things are supposed to work. At least in theory.
Goto ignores the question. He begins to stroll around Jens’ chair in tight circles, his polished leather shoes clacking the concrete floor with each deliberate step. “Then how did you know to come to Platinum tonight of all nights, Mister Jennum, and that Miss Davenport would be at that precise location, at that precise time? That’s quite a coincidence. And very convenient.”
“Why do you care how Cole met that chick with the angel wing tattoos? Is she a hooker or a drug dealer or something?” Jens shifts uncomfortably in his chair trying to break free of his bonds, but the wires only tighten, biting into his skin. “I have nothing to do with this. If you’re running a sting operation you legally have to tell me. I saw it on CSI once.”
Goto ignores Jen’s struggle. He can see he’s that trying to wriggle himself loose, but makes no attempt to stop him. “We have very specific instructions for this assignment, Mister Jennum, and as I mentioned before, time is running short – as is my patience. Since sodium pentothal takes quite a while to take effect, it looks like we are out of options. We’re going to improvise.”
Goto circles back in front of the chair, his dark gaze focused on Jens. He locks his feet in place and reaches out to his side, palm facing upwards. “Mister Heinreich, if you’d be so kind.”
Heinreich flips open the red toolbox, the lid protesting with a loud creak. He extracts a pair of bolt cutters and drops them in his associate’s hand.
Jens’ heart leaps into his throat. He bucks and squirms, hips rising from his seat, but his constraints refuse to budge. They slice his wrists and scrape his ankles through his jeans. “Please dude, don’t do this!” he screams. “I need my fingers – all of them! I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but please don’t do this!”
“Relax,” Goto sighs. “Those days are over, Mister Jennum. The era of recreational waterboarding and testicular electrocution are far behind us. And as long as you follow my instructions there will be no need to resort to more extreme measures.” He stoops to Jens’ eye level. “But bearing that all in mind, it has been several years since Mister Heinreich has had the opportunity to use enhanced interrogation techniques, and from what I’ve been told, he can be very…persuasive.”
Jens glances over Goto’s shoulder. Mister Heinreich nods and cracks his knuckles into his palm, each pop echoing through the abandoned warehouse like a wine cork.
With three quick snips Goto frees his prisoner, the metal bindings clanging to the floor.
Jens is too terrified to move. He remains seated, massaging his aching wrists, staring expectantly at his captors.
Goto hands the tool back to Mister Heinreich and digs into his jacket, extracting a cell phone. Jens recognizes the device and pats down his jean pockets, quickly realizing they’re empty.
“Escaping with all your digits intact will be exceedingly simple, Mister Jennum.” Goto drops the device in Jens’ lap. “I think it’s time we rang up your good friend Mister Cole. I believe you have the number.”
Chapter Twelve – Revelation
New York City
August 26, 2011
2:33 am, Eastern Daylight Time
Gazing around Dia’s expansive penthouse, Cole realizes that the living room alone is larger than is entire apartment. White marble columns frame a walkway that leads to a sitting area; a meticulously decorated space that overlooks the entire city through soaring floor-to-ceiling windows. They provide a vantage point that only a privileged few can afford in the wildly overpriced borough of Manhattan.
“This is incredible,” Cole says, peering out at the skyline. Then he blurts out, “How do you afford all of this?” before biting his tongue, wishing he hadn’t.
“Well, when you can tear open a gateway to any location, bank vaults become a lot like ATM machines. Except you don’t need a swipe card, or a pin number. Or for any of the money to actually be yours.” She tosses her purse on a small table situated by the rooftop entrance and stops, staring into a round, gold-framed mirror. She pivots her head and flinches when she touches the swollen purple welt that’s forming on her angular cheekbone.
Fascinated by his surroundings, it takes Cole nearly a full minute to notice someone sitting on the couch. A scruffy blond kid is leafing through a comic book, bare feet propped up on the coffee table. He has a narrow face, crooked nose and a day’s worth of beard stubble, and is sporting a golden-brown tan that makes him seem much more California than New York, as does his wardrobe.
“Welcome home, D!” the kid shouts without looking up from his reading material. “How was your night?”
“Oh, it was fab,” she calls back from the hall, still scrutinizing her reflection. “It started with a dry martini, and ended with me getting smashed in the face and shot at.” She pokes the purple went again, frowning.
The scruffy kid drops his reading material and ambles into the hall, leaning lazily against a marble column with arms folded across his chest. “Sounds like a typical Saturday night for my girl.”
“More or less,” she sighs. “It was the Collectors again. Heinreich and Goto. It’s all good though. We made it out of there without much of a problem.”
Not much of a problem? Cole furrows his brow; Dia’s summary of the evening’s events seem exceedingly casual. And her lack of concern is more than a bit troubling.
The kid barks out a
wheezing laugh. “What have I been telling you about your little jaunts downtown? You can’t just breeze into a bar in a crowded city, D. Especially here in the Big Apple. I don’t wanna say ‘I told you so’, but…”
“Well what was I supposed to do, Brodie?” Her words come out sharply, suddenly outlined in razors. “I was thirsty and I needed to get some air. You expect me to just sit around here all weekend like I’m under house arrest?”
Brodie lifts his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. “Well, you-know-who isn’t gonna be happy. All I’m gonna say about it.” He sticks his thumb towards Cole without looking in his direction. “So, who’s the stray?”
“Brodie Hamilton, this is Donovan Cole. I met him at the club tonight right before I got jumped. You should have seen this guy in action! If it wasn’t for Cole manifesting and knocking out Heinreich I’d be locked in The Basement right now.”
Brodie scowls. “Bull shit…he knocked out a Collector? Heinreich?”
“I shit you not. He turned into this muscular bad-ass and one punch later – bam!” she slams her fist into her palm. “That big bastard went down.”
“Bro, you’re totally one of us!” Brodie grabs Cole’s hand for what he assumes is a handshake, but quickly pulls him close until they’re chest-to-chest, clapping his back. Cole had never been on the receiving end of a one-handed ‘bro-hug’ before (surprising, considering the amount of time he’d spent in gym locker rooms), and definitely didn’t expect one from a stranger. “So what do you use as a trigger,” Brodie asks, suddenly more alert. “An injection? A pill?”
Cole scratches the back of his head. “A trigger?”
“You know, like what did you use to manifest? When you want to Hulk-out and start busting some heads?”
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