Anansi at 34,000

Been a while since I posted. Losing my USB has been a big blow to my writing interest. I always kept it close to me and now I feel foolish for not having everything on the cloud, but nothing I can do now but put the remaining content on there.

I don’t have the will to rewrite “Elseworld,” “Alive” or “Memory Catcher” now so I started on a new project instead.

“Anansi” is now at 34,000 words and should be done by year-end.

The Garden of Abel Finale: Chapter Eleven

Adam checked his watch again. It was a few minutes past one in the morning. Throughout the library, he could hear the turning of pages and the steady rhythm of typing. His table was at the end of a deserted row. There weren’t many students in the library at this time of the year, but even the sound of a few students typing still seemed loud in comparison to the silence of Adam’s office.

Bringing his cup of coffee to his lips, Adam took a sip before throwing it away in the garbage next to him. He didn’t like the taste, and the coffee was cold already. The only reason he bought coffee this time was to keep himself awake while he waited for a friend. Mark told him that it was important, yet Mark was keeping him waiting. Adam was tempted to text his friend for an update, but Mark had told him not to text him.

He turned his attention back to his computer. Twenty more essays to mark and then he would be done. If he could finish them sometime tomorrow, then he could take Evelyn out of town for the weekend, just like they planned.

A door opened to Adam’s right, and he peered up to see Mark standing in the stairwell, about fifty feet to his right. Mark didn’t say anything, he only gestured for Adam to join him. Adam quickly gathered his belongings before heading to the stairwell.

As he opened the door, the light in the stairwell allowed Adam to get a better look at Mark. Mark was thinner and darker-skinned than Adam remembered, the effects of fieldwork. Mark’s clothes were immaculately clean and ironed, as usual, but it was the face that grabbed Adam’s attention. Mark’s bloodshot eyes were a stark contrast to his dark skin, and the bags under his eyes looked like they could envelop his eyelids and force his eyes shut. Adam knew that Mark was taking some courses at the university, but he doubted that his friend was stressed out from studying.

“What’s going on?” Adam said.

“Do you think anyone followed you?” Mark said.

“No. If you were so worried about people following me, why didn’t you meet me at my office?” Adam said.

“People could be watching it. I don’t want to look suspicious by showing up at this time of day. Couldn’t take the risk of showing up at your place either,” Mark said.

“And I couldn’t text you because you were worried about someone looking through your phone records?” Adam said.

“Yes,” Mark said. A stairwell door opened a few floors below and Mark stiffened as he listened. He didn’t say another word until he heard footsteps recede and reach the first floor.

“Are you going to answer my question then?” Adam said.

Mark took a cautionary look down the stairwell before answering.

“The teleporter isn’t going to be used to start trade with other worlds. It’s going to be used to colonize them,” Mark said.

“How do you know that?”

“I was one of the people they selected to scout the new worlds. They said our goal was to analyze the environment and the technology of the natives. I thought they could use that information to figure out the resources the natives could offer for trading but my CO made it clear that the government was looking to plunder whatever they could from the planets, and take military action against the natives if they protest,” Mark said.

Adam always knew that this scenario was a possibility, but he hoped that his faith in people could be rewarded for once. Dr. Calvin wasn’t joking when he said he’d take credit for realizing that their first test subject died due to aging. Calvin and the rest of the physicists minimized his contribution to the invention, and now his work was being used to exploit other worlds, after the governmental council gave their word that they wouldn’t pursue that option.

“So you’re sure of this? There’s no room for misinterpretation? Your commanding officer clearly stated what the government was planning?” Adam said.

“Yes. Even if he never told me, it wouldn’t take too long for me to figure out. Me and three other people scout different areas, working different shifts throughout the week. We were advised not to engage with the locals, yet we’re supposed to monitor their movements, their numbers and their weapons. That’s what I did when I was scouting somewhere that the military planned to attack,” Mark said.

A few deep breaths didn’t help ease Adam’s hear rate. Colonization was the right word: The domination of land and its population by an external power. Setting up a system of trade would accomplish many of the same goals. Colonization simply offered room for more profit. Once colonization became justified, it would become even easier to move to the next step. The Canadians might start off using their own men to harvest resources, but fifty years from now they could start using the locals to do their work for them.

“I can’t let this happen,” Adam said.

“I know you can’t, and neither can I.” Mark took off the backpack he was carrying and reached into it, pulling the teleporter out.

It was Adam’s turn to be paranoid now. He snatched it from Mark’s hand and crammed it into his own, looking all around him in case anyone was watching. Just like Mark, Adam peered over the edge of the stairwell, worried he’d see some government agent peering up at him.

“They let you leave with this?” Adam said.

“No, I’m supposed to return it to my CO once I’m finished scouting. I never did. They can’t track my coordinates but they know the teleporter is in this dimension. They’ll find me soon though. Hopefully now you understand why I had to meet you like this,” Mark said.

“Why didn’t you leave? You could be in another dimension by now,” Adam said.

“What good would that really do? I escape with one teleporter and they can take their time and build another one. I thought of getting away from here, maybe finding another advanced planet and bringing their military back to fight ours,” Mark said.

“Why didn’t you? We still can,” Adam said.

“I thought about the two possible outcomes. If our military beats theirs, we’re back to square one. If their military wins, where do we go from there? They’ll know about the teleporter. They’ll see the spoils that come with it. Even if the military leaders hate the loss of life that came with it, the politicians won’t want to let such technology slip out of their grasp. That’s what I think, at least. Do you really trust people to do the right thing? After what happened with the physicists?” Mark said.

“Don’t try to manipulate me like that. I have to believe that if we explain that our government wanted to use the teleporter for slavery, then there must be some sympathetic ears that will do whatever it takes to end it,” Adam said.

“Maybe if slavery was happening on their own world. People complain about the government spending money to help refugees, you think they’d support their government using resources to fight a war on another planet?” Mark said.

“Yes, if we explain that our government is likely to target them next,” Adam said.

“That would be a lie. The government is targeting worlds with primitive people and technology. Whichever world we try to get help from will pick up on that. Once they realize that, it’ll be too easy to back out. They’ll figure it will never happen to them, and that will be the end of our effort. If they don’t decide to detain us and keep the teleporter,” Mark said.

Adam always thought that Mark was too smart to spend his life fighting for someone else’s cause, but now Adam realized he was a pawn as well. Mark would likely go to prison for sharing his discovery, and Adam would probably join him. Adam was tempted to bring the teleporter to a military base, and explain exactly what happened. Self-preservation was a natural instinct, but Adam didn’t feel right using it to justify inaction this time. What if some other world invented inter-dimensional travel centuries ago, and stood by while this Earth was ravaged by colonization and slavery?

Adam’s mind was already racing through several possibilities. His favored one at the moment was getting the Japanese to put a moratorium on their patent. He and Mark could present their case. However, he couldn’t appeal to their conscience. Although the Canadians bested Japanese technology, the patent was still a revenue stream for the Japanese. Trade restrictions put a strain on the Japanese economy, and the revenue from the teleporters was probably the only reason that the Japanese didn’t put a moratorium on the patent in response to Canadian internment. It was obvious the Japanese wouldn’t want to eliminate the patent without something concrete in return. Adam knew the end of internment in Canada would appeal to them most, and he started backtracking, figuring out how he could provide it to them.

He thought of an invention he had been working on for the past year, one that was inspired by the teleporter. He never shared the idea or the work with anyone else, so the project was still secret.

When the government began looking into interdimensional travel, Adam thought of the possibility of them finding alternate versions of themselves. One of his favourite films featured such a storyline, where the hero met his alter, who then killed him and took his place in the hero’s home world.

Adam thought of how the situation could have been avoided: The hero had a distinctive scar on his chest that no one thought to check. Then Adam thought of what would happen if the technology existed to replicate scar tissue; not by damaging but the skin, but by creating a perfect model that instantly showed the same level of age and coloring. Adam now had such a weapon nearly perfected.

His plan began to come together.

# 

“No word yet?” Evelyn said.

Abel finally hung up. The phone rang ten times already. This marked the third time Abel called his friend today. Thirty calls over the past week. Mark was a busy man, but he always returned Abel’s calls within a day.

“Did you check with his family?” Evelyn said. Abel was seated in his office, with Evelyn’s arms draped around him as she stood behind him. She was trying to be his strength, his anchor, but her shaking hands made it clear she was scared too.

“His mom still hasn’t heard anything,” Abel said.

“Do you really think he could be…”

“Dead. Yes. If I’m right, the government will soon have a story for why he meant missing. Probably by the end of the week. Then they’ll come for me. I need to leave,” Abel said.

“We’ve been over this, where will you go? You wouldn’t be the first person that tried to get away, and you’ll just be another one they hunt down and bring back,” Evelyn said. Her hands gripped his tightly, as if trying to restrain him.

“I’ll be the first person that can escape to another dimension,” Abel said as he stood.

The plan wasn’t a sudden one, but it was a contingency that Abel didn’t put any serious thought into before. Three days ago, he dismissed his concern for Mark as paranoia. His contingency was a worst-case scenario that rested at the back of his mind. On the second day, the contingency fought for more room in his mind. Paranoia was turning into rational fear. Now the contingency had eliminated the competition dwelling inside Abel’s mind.

The grin on Evelyn’s face made it clear that she thought Abel was joking. However, the look on Abel’s face soon made it clear to Evelyn that he was serious.

“I have access to a teleporter. I can get off this planet,” Abel said.

“I?” Evelyn said.

“I need to go. You can’t come with me, but you can go to Japan, before internment comes.”

“That’s only a rumour,” Evelyn said.

“You have to wear a badge to show you’re not an illegal. Internment is the next step. Talk to the contact you have at the embassy. Get out and make it quick,” Abel said.

“I think all this stress is getting to you. You’re not thinking this through-,”

“By the end of the week, the government will detain both of us and we’ll be lucky to get out again. I don’t have a lot of time. I know what I have to do. I have a plan, but it will take time on my part. I’m going to have to spend a lot of time in other worlds. It will be dangerous and I don’t want you with me for that. All I know is that I’ll succeed and I’ll be back with you in a few weeks. Do you think I’m wrong about the government?” Abel said.

Evelyn looked up at Abel, with her eyes meeting his. Adam still took a moment to appreciate her beauty. Yet that brought up a problem. There were other women he liked more, who interested him more. Yet Evelyn was one of the few willing to commit to him when he said he didn’t want children. As Abel contemplated his plan, he realized that even if he avoided imprisonment or death, he would probably be stuck with her for the rest of his life. He never thought of her as a soul mate or someone he would spend his life with, she was convenient. Even as he contemplated going to another dimension, she seemed to hang on his every word. There was resistance, but not nearly as much resistance as Abel thought there would be.

Abel knew he was convenient for her too. It may have started off as love years ago, but that was faded now. Evelyn’s family had ostracized her since their relationship began and the xenophobia in the country turned most of the public against her. Abel was a constant. Evelyn could probably find another suitor as soon as she entered Japan. The only thing that soothed Abel’s worry was the knowledge that Evelyn’s relationship with him would still leave her tainted in society’s eyes. Abel’s disappearance would receive widespread international coverage. The Canadian government would be quick to spin a story of treason and Evelyn would be caught in the crossfire.

Abel and Evelyn. Stuck together. Following each other’s lead without question for the past few years, and doomed to do it for the rest of their lives. Abel sensed that Evelyn realized it too. He had a feeling she wanted to argue more, but knew it would be pointless.

“What’s your plan?” Evelyn said.

“The Japanese have taken in a lot of their diaspora over the past few months. Normally you’d be just another one, but since you’re married to me, the Canadians will see this as a pre-meditated move.”

“It is a pre-meditated move, and the Canadians are going to put pressure on the Japanese to send us back. The Japanese won’t start a war for us,” Evelyn said.

“Right. So we’ll need something to bargain with. Internment’s already taking place in other states, it will spread here soon. I give it two weeks. Even if internment never reaches here we can still argue that the teleporter theft was punishment for it. The Japanese will then have more leverage for ending internment.” Adam said.

“The Canadians might end it, but there’s no guarantee that they uphold their end once they get their teleporter back,” Evelyn said.

“Which brings me to the next point-,”

“Don’t talk like that. We’re not in class,” Evelyn said.

“Sorry. I don’t plan on letting the Canadians get the teleporter back, I think I can convince the Japanese to put a moratorium on the patent, which will force them to destroy all copies and end its use completely,” Adam said.

“Then why would the Canadians end interment?” Evelyn said.

“The promise of getting me back, and that’s why I need to go to another world. I need to find someone else to take my fall,” Adam said.

Evelyn’s hands loosened their grip on Adam’s. She recoiled as if he was on fire. She was now a few feet away, with her eyes burning a hole through Adam yet again. She was taking the news even better than Adam hoped. This plan was something he struggled with for the past few days. It was a machination that would require him to embrace his basic instinct for survival and forsake all of the honesty and civility he prided himself on. He would be entering someone’s life, with the intention of ending theirs. It was an act of utter desperation, but it made sense. That is probably why Evelyn was still silent. It was a few minutes before she spoke again.

“We can’t. I love you, but I can’t go through with that. I’m just not that kind of person. I couldn’t do that to someone else,” Evelyn said.

She collapsed in the couch behind her, cradling her head in her hands. Adam knew it wasn’t a gesture of rejection; it was a gesture of contemplation. Conflicting thoughts were swirling in her head, and as long as there was uncertainty, Adam still had hopes that he could convince her. His plan hinged on her now. If he was to return to his world, with another version of himself, he would need a contact within the Japanese government to get an audience directly with the highest level of government. Evelyn was already in contact with Japan’s Defense Minister through her role at the embassy.

The Japanese government would have to broker the deal, in order to make it legally binding. Canada wouldn’t betray their terms if it could result in armed conflict. If Adam tried to negotiate on his own behalf, he’d promptly be imprisoned. His plan, his life, was going to fall apart without Evelyn. Adam didn’t want her to commit purely out of guilt. Guilt could turn to resentment far too easily, which could lead to betrayal.

The key to their relationship now was dependence. They both knew it, but if Adam was too blunt in expressing it, he could still stir up resentment. Adam knew he was never charming in the typical sense. He wasn’t the person that could dazzle anyone with his looks and charisma. However, Adam could do a decent job forming relationships with people over time. Experience taught Adam that once he formed a relationship, he was pretty good at making people do what he wanted.

He walked towards Evelyn, resting his hands on her shoulders. Adam started working his fingers and felt her shoulders loosen. She didn’t protest to his touch, she only voiced approval. A massage wouldn’t be enough to change her mind, and but the massage would hopefully remind her of what she could lose if she didn’t go through with the plan. She would lose him; she would lose her freedom. If Evelyn didn’t go to Japan, the only people who would be massaging her would be prison guards or inmates.

“What kind of people would we be if we go through with this?” Evelyn said. She wasn’t looking at Adam anymore; her head was still facing the ground.

“Survivors. What other options do we have if we both want to get out this alive and as free people?” Adam said.

“None, but what you’re saying… I can’t just send someone off to their death,” Evelyn said.

“So you’ll accept life in prison? Stay in Canada, where you’ll get more of the treatment you hate. Plus you’ll likely be interned. Go to Japan, and the Canadians will put pressure on the Japanese to send you back. The Japanese might do it. You could be a scapegoat for all the other Japanese diaspora they’ve sheltered. You can always take the chance the Japanese will protect you, but do you really want to rely on that? You’re guilty by association. Do you think I did the right thing stealing the teleporter?” Adam said.

“Yes. I know you did, and I stand by it,” Evelyn said.

“Then we’re in this together. But this plan isn’t just about us. I need to sacrifice one person to save the lives of millions of other people on this Earth and infinite other ones. Do you think you can help me save millions of lives?” Adam said.

“I…. I’m not sure Abel,” Evelyn said.

It wasn’t the ideal answer, but it wasn’t a no either. There was no point in trying to persuade Evelyn further if she was already tense. From this point on she would only get defensive and say whatever was necessary to end the conversation. If Adam convinced Evelyn tomorrow, she could be in Japan in two days and then Adam’s hunt would begin.

Alive: Part II Complete

For the past year I’ve been working on and off on completing my fourth book, Alive: Part II. I am proud to say that a rough draft is now complete at approximately 60,000 words. The book came out shorter than I intended but I’ll deal with issues of length later. The story ended how I wanted it to end and it feels like a good place for my characters’ lives to wrap up.

Now, I will be taking a break from the book for a few weeks before I go back to edit. In the meantime, I’ll start brainstorming and possibly start writing my fifth book, Hazard. This will be based on, or inspired by the poetry piece of the same name. While most of my books have dealt with issues of racial discrimination, this one will focus more on mental health and self-esteem. If you’ve read the poetry piece you might wonder how that ties in, but I will reveal that the resurrected protagonist took his own life.

Hazard is a work I have been waiting to flesh out for a while. The protagonist and the backstory was clearest in my mind, but I have numerous details to sort out with the world-building. The pursuit of publication is another issue, but it’s one I won’t worry about too much now. I will keep trying to get The Doctor published, but aside from that I want to focus on becoming a better writer and building a platform for myself.

Next Publishing Mission

Earlier this year, I committed myself to finishing my fourth book, Alive: Part II and a short story entitled The Swap.

Alive: Part II is about 3/4 complete, and The Swap is now complete.

Instead of trying to get any of my books published for the moment, I want to pursue publication for The Swap. I have submitted it to two magazines so far, with one of those submissions ultimately being a waste. I made the mistake of assuming the manuscript format was similar to what is accepted for novel submissions (you can laugh at my mistake) but short story ones are a different creature entirely. I am pretty sure the editor of the magazine didn’t bother reading the story before he rejected it, and I can’t blame him.

There aren’t that many magazines that accept science-fiction stories of my story’s length so I don’t have that many outlets to submit to. I am hoping that one of the less than 10 options I have works out, but the odds of that are very slim.

If the short story submissions don’t work out I’ll likely post it here and then try to gain some traction online through other outlets. Trying to publish a book without any previous publishing experience is almost impossible so I figure that having a real publishing credit under my belt can help (marginally) when I continue that search.

The Black Hole of Social Media

I reached out to a former professor for advice on developing a career in writing and one of her main pieces of advice was to avoid social media as much as possible, it “eats time like acid”. This was something I started to accept months ago. I would open up YouTube with the intention of watching one video and end up spending 10+ minutes travelling down the black hole of related videos. I would open up Instagram with the intention of posting to my accounts and leaving, and end up spending another 10+ minutes scrolling through one account or page after another.

I began using Instagram within the past year in an attempt to build my following but I am not sure if it has been as helpful as I hoped. Twitter already taught me that people can like or even retweet your content without really engaging with it e.g. clicking a link and reading a blog post. I worry that the same thing is happening with Instagram. I have a small following but I know those followers and likes are not worth anything when it comes to them reading the content I create on this blog.

Part of the issue is that there are so many accounts and so many people wanting to gain their following. I try to engage with the small group of people who regularly like my content and checking in on 15+ accounts daily can still eat up a lot of time. As I complain about my need to return a favour I can understand why it can be difficult to go to someone’s site and become a regular visitor, even if you want to.

I have considered deleting my Instagram accounts but I am wondering if I need them simply because it looks good to have them. One day when I (hopefully) get an agent, will she see my lack of an Instagram account as a disadvantage for my marketability. At that point will a few hundred followers be better than none? Maybe it will be worth it then but right now all I truly see is a drain of data. I blame myself for the lost time since it is my attention span that causes the issue.

I have now made a resolution to spend my time on the bus either writing or reading. No more listening to music and I will allow myself ten minutes to post to my two accounts. The current book I’m working on, “Alive: Part II” began with a short poem I wrote and I hope to generate some more roots while I spend time travelling to a place I hope to escape soon.

Alive

As I’ve discussed previously, I completed a draft of my third book, Alive. I am now in the process of editing it. This edit encompasses everything from spelling and grammar, to fleshing out some characters more and making sure that I am showing, not telling.

Another part of the editing is ensuring that the book doesn’t start too slowly. The one time I was able to get an agent to review my work, her only criticism revolved around the novel’s pace. Her two sentences of feedback made it clear she took months to give my work a cursory glance, but I still want to acknowledge the feedback I was given.

Alive begins with an origin story of sorts, detailing my character coming to terms with the new abilities that his werewolf bite gives him. Although these parts were interesting to me, I realize they represent a slow start for my potential audience. With that said, I have begun to think about what I want the book to start with. Below is an excerpt I am considering moving to the front of the book, before using flashbacks to fill in the gaps.

*********

Mason’s head was pounding as he rose from his slumber. The sensation reminded him of nights where he drank himself to sleep, waking dehydrated and red-eyed. Mason eyes weren’t open yet, they felt like they were weighed down with miniature sandbags. He tried to bring his left arm to his head, but it was being held down by something. Mason tried again, but was barely able to move his arm an inch before it was pushed down again. It was the same story for his right arm, and his legs. He could feel the surface beneath him, definitely not a cot. His senses were slowly waking up as his brain did. He could feel stiff, cold metal on his skin, it reminded Mason of an unpadded stretcher.

Keeping his eyes closed, Mason tried to listen to the world around him. He was sure that six days of drugging would dull his senses, but he needed to start using them as soon as possible to escape his mental rust. The room felt colder than his Torville cell. He was likely underground again. Sounds came first. Like the Torville cell, there weren’t many to speak of yet. Mason’s headache worsened as he tried to focus, picking up on the sound of water dropping somewhere behind him. He heard one drop at a time, with each one sounding like a firecracker going off. It was likely a tap with a leaky faucet.

As Mason thought of the water he realized how dry his throat was. He tried to lift his arms again, exerting more force this time. He felt the resistance again, probably leather straps. The straps slowly stretched on either side of him as he continued to push. He didn’t feel as strong as he did six days ago, but it seemed like he was still stronger than the average man. His body wasn’t immune to drugging, but perhaps its rapid healing was helping him to recover faster.

Mason opened his eyes, seeing a concrete ceiling about ten feet above him. The concrete extended to the surfaces all around him, forming a cage that was about fifty feet wide. There was a metal door ahead of him. Metal bars, which allowed someone on the other end to peek in, broke up the last few feet of the door. There was no one there now but Mason was sure that there would be soon. Mason’s red uniform contrasted with the brown straps that were holding him down. Craning his neck, Mason could make out the gold crest on his left breast and the golden belt across his waist. He was a soldier now, being sent to do someone else’s bidding.

There was an opportunity to escape now; nothing was tying him to this cell. He had no loyalty to Torville or Alexandria. He and his mother travelled to Alexandria when he was fifteen. For his mother it was a vacation, for Mason it was the possibility of a new life. Mason was at the age when his naiveté was quickly being assaulted by reality. He started to realize the real reason that teachers advised him to aim for a realistic career. By this time he already suspected that it played a part in having few friends and no girlfriend. Even his few friends were never comfortable inviting him into their home. He and his mom were always given the worst seats at restaurants, even when others were free. People crossed the street to avoid them whenever possible. Mason went to Alexandria hoping that things would be different. That idea alone demonstrated his naiveté. For some reason he thought that a location was enough to change people’s beliefs.

The only thing Mason was sure of now was that he was going to transform again. Actually, Mason couldn’t even be sure of that. It was the council’s educated guess at this point, educated by folklore. If that guess was wrong Mason could be in for days of torture before he was beheaded. The problem was what he would do even if he escaped. If he got away and transformed in the wilderness he would still be as mindless as if he transformed in Alexandria. Of course there would be more casualties in Alexandria, but Mason didn’t really care. He found that there was normally a tendency to romanticize strangers, imagining that they have the personality and values you admire. Mason learned to stop doing that long ago, mostly because his fantasies rarely came true. William was one of the few exceptions, but Mason didn’t want to overestimate how many Williams there were in Alexandria. It was easy for his anger to justify casualties, especially since he wouldn’t remember, but Mason’s conscience was more powerful. He knew he wasn’t a murderer. Let alone a mass murderer. He had to escape.

His head continued pounding, with the pain emanating from the center of his scalp. His throat and mouth felt dry. He licked his lips and felt chapped skin. He felt something pushing at the base of his throat, and tried to take deep breaths to alleviate his nausea.

Mason heard a door open somewhere in the hallway outside. There were footsteps now. Mason didn’t need his enhanced senses to hear boots making their way towards the gate. If someone saw him trying to escape while he was still locked in the room he would have to break the door down to escape. He doubted his strength would allow him to do that. He laid back and closed his eyes just enough to make out the doorway. Hopefully anyone looking in would think he was sleeping.

Someone appeared behind the bars a few seconds later. Mason could only make out a bearded face from his angle, someone who looked to be about fourty.

“Still sleeping,” the main said as he turned to his right.

The man lingered for a few seconds before Mason heard a key at work. The door swung open, with its hinges screaming in protest, revealing a stocky figure enclosed in a gridded leather uniform. The black, long sleeved shirt was stamped with Alexandria’s insignia, a red wolf’s head. Mason knew that was Alexandria’s military uniform. As the bearded man entered, two more followed behind him, who were likely prison guards. They were wearing blue uniforms with armoured chest plates comprised of a thin sheet of red metal that wrapped around their torso.

From what Mason learned in school, many armies no longer used such armour, preferring to craft their uniforms out of thickly padded leather. The armour posed too big a sacrifice for mobility in close quarter combat, and still left the head and neck too vulnerable to attack. It was possible to armour soldiers from head to toe, but even Alexandria probably didn’t have enough metal to afford that. In long- range combat, a hail of metal-tipped arrows could pick up enough velocity to tear through armour like butter. The armour only made sense for prison guards, who would only need an added level of protection as they attempted to restrain one unruly prisoner at a time.

The trio moved closer and Mason had to shut his eyes completely to make sure they didn’t realize he was awake. He could hear two people moving to either side of Mason, until they were both standing by his shoulders. The one to his right placed his hand on Mason’s neck, and Mason felt it rest on his pulse.

“Still alive, pulse feels stronger than it did yesterday.” The man said.

“It’s been a day now; I guess he’s in some kind of coma.” It was the bearded man’s voice; he was still standing close to the door.

“How long do they want us to keep him here commander?” The voice was from his left now.

“Don’t think they were expecting him to be unconscious this long. We’ll have to see what they say. Doubt it will be more than two days. Week’s almost done; any info he has on guard rotation won’t be much use after that. We don’t need much else from them at this point.” The bearded man said. He was in charge of this group, but it seemed like he still reported to someone else. The ranks were probably similar to the ranks in Torville, where commanders held rank over prison guards and a small group of soldiers, while also reporting to a Marshal.

“Are we done here then?” The guard on his left said.

“Almost, I want to rule something out,” The commander said.

Mason heard the commander walking over to him, with his steel-toed boots clicking off the concrete. There was the unmistakable sound of a weapon being unsheathed. It didn’t sound as loud as it did when Lance drew his. Maybe it was quieter because the commander was further away or because Mason’s senses were still recovering. However, he hoped it seemed quieter simply because the blade was smaller.

The commander got closer, Mason tried to isolate his heartbeat, finding it and tracking it until he was right beside Mason’s feet. The commander pulled up the left leg of his uniform, and Mason stopped himself from shivering as cold air hit his calf. He knew what was coming next, and braced for it.

The commander tore through his skin with his blade, making a shallow ring around the left side of Mason’s calf. Mason’s own experiments on his body caused him to barely feel the cut. The commander was convinced he wasn’t playing dead, but now there was a bigger problem. His body would start to heal itself in a few seconds, and he’d either be experimented on again or promptly burned.

“Rayner, get a medic to patch up this…”

Mason felt the burning itch spreading across his calf. The commander’s heartbeat was accelerating like a horse freed from its gate. A hand grabbed Mason’s ankle, and Mason could feel warm breath blowing on it.

“Everything okay commander?” The guard on the right said.

“Rayner, go get Marshall Talbot. Tell him this is an emergency.” At this moment, Mason missed William’s curiosity and excitement. The commander barely made it through his sentence, pausing and stuttering like a toddler trying to read a book. Burning or beheading seemed like a more likely fate by the second.

There were footsteps to Mason’s right as Rayner ran to the door. Mason focused on the footsteps and heard Rayner make a left turn. If Mason wanted to live much longer, he’d probably have to follow Rayner soon. He tried to follow the footsteps for as long as he could, but they disappeared ten steps outside the door, and his headache intensified to thank him for his effort.

“What’s happening commander?”

“Raleigh, come here.” The commander said.

Raleigh walked over beside the commander, and Mason now had two people staring at his calf.

“Do you see a cut?” The commander said. His voice was a little steadier now.

“No, but I saw you make one. I saw it bleed.” Raleigh said. Now his heart was joining the race.

Something cold touched Mason’s calf, likely a sleeve. It wiped away the blood and left his calf truly bare again.

“I saw the cut heal, right in front of my eyes.” The commander said.

“How’s that possible?” Raleigh said. Now his voice was starting to shake.

“These people like witchcraft, probably learned how to do it from his parents.” The commander said.

“I’ve heard that too, we can’t keep him here.” Raleigh said.

Raleigh was giving orders now, but the commander didn’t seem to notice.

“Of course not, I’ll convince the Marshal.”

“How do we kill him though?” Raleigh said.

“Beheading, fire, maybe both.” The commander said.

Maybe the marshal would insist that Mason be kept alive, but that was a long shot now. Mason couldn’t play dead anymore. Either he tried to escape now or risk getting killed when the Marshal and more soldiers made their way to this room. The straps felt like they could break, but if they didn’t the two men with him could panic and end his life.

He was tired, dehydrated and nauseous, but he couldn’t let that stop him now. Mason clenched his fists, pushing himself up from his torso. The straps went taut as his arms pushed against them.

The commander and Raleigh both stepped back, with their gaze averted from Mason’s legs to his face. The commander stood a few inches taller than Raleigh, and he still had an unsheathed knife in his right hand. It was Mason’s turn to panic as the straps around his arms held taut for a few seconds before they mercifully snapped. As they did, the commander rushed forward, with his long arms guiding the knife toward Mason’s neck. Mason legs tore through the straps and his right leg connected with the commander’s elbow. The knife sliced through Mason’s left shoulder, grazing flesh but missing bone. As the commander’s arm followed, Mason grabbed the wrist and twisted it as hard as he could.

The knife fell to the floor but Mason barely heard it over the commander’s scream. Looking at the hand, Mason realized that the palm was now facing the opposite direction. The bones in the wrist were shattered, leaving the hand flopping around like a dead fish. Mason grabbed the commander’s graying hair and slammed his head against the stretcher. He could hear the commander’s nose break and caught a glimpse of blood spatter on the stretcher before he threw the man aside, hearing the body crash to the left of the stretcher.

There appeared to be a reason Raleigh was only a guard. Mason’s eyes darted back and forth between the commander and Raleigh for the past few seconds, and Raleigh stood rooted to the spot, with his hand on his sword’s hilt. He probably wasn’t even used to having a sword; it could be a liability when dealing with some prisoners since they could try to take it. Whenever Mason was brought to a cell in Torville a squad of unarmed guards, who basically served as glorified orderlies, accompanied him.

Now Raleigh was in a situation where he needed to be a soldier, and he was struggling to make the transition. Once the commander’s hand was broken, Raleigh finally sprang to life, unsheathing his sword. Mason grabbed the sides of the stretcher, using it to anchor himself as he pulled his left leg free. He jumped off the stretcher before a blade came crashing onto it. While Raleigh raised the sword again, Mason rushed towards him and tackled him to the ground.

This time, Mason heard bones breaking in Raleigh’s chest. Raleigh didn’t scream but the air rushed out of him, sounding like a draft from an open window. Raleigh collapsed, with his arms around his chest and Mason stumbled to the ground. It was already obvious to Mason that he wasn’t going to cope with sound well if he got outside. Not to mention the nausea and fatigue that was still plaguing him.

His shoulder burned as the cut sowed itself back together. As Mason got to his feet again, he felt his stomach squeezing its contents upwards. He kneeled forward and a stream of green, acidic vomit hit the floor, splattering onto the door and the walls. It was as if a pair of hands was wrapped around his stomach, desperately trying to wring out its contents. The vomit continued pouring out in one painful burst after another.

When it stopped Mason collapsed backwards, with his hand on his stomach. There was pain there now; making him feel like his stomach was stepped on. He probably only lost a minute or two, but every second counted now. Mason realized he was barefoot, and tried to tiptoe through the puddle of his own making. He felt the acidic vomit on his toes as he reached the door and turned left.

There was a dead end to Mason’s right, but the concrete labyrinth continued for about one hundred feet to his left. The concrete was jagged, and threatened to cut his feet as he ran, but Mason knew that a few cuts were the least of his worries now. As he came to a stop at the end of the hall, Mason felt his head spinning. The hallway looked like it was doing a cartwheel. He rested against the wall on his right, trying to regain his balance.

Peeking around the corner, he saw two guards flanking a single stairwell about fifty feet ahead of him. Both guards were armoured from head to toe. One sheet of armour wrapped around each leg, another around the torso, the arms and a helmet for the head. The helmets had metal flaps at the front, which were currently raised as the two guards talked to one another.

Despite their mundane conversation about food, their costumed figures still filled Mason with fear. The dark red metal evoked the image of a bloodied knight. Even though the armour would hinder the guards’ mobility, the narrow hallway wouldn’t offer Mason much room to maneuver either. This was the type of environment where such bulky armour would give someone an advantage.

Mason thought back to his escape from his cell. The commander looked like he was at least two hundred pounds, and Mason remembered how he was able to toss the commander to his side. He remembered the commander’s feet actually leaving the ground before he crashed to Mason’s right.

With that memory in mind, Mason took a few deep breaths, relieved to see that the hallway stopped spinning in front of him. There was no more time to waste. Mason planted his legs and bolted around the corner, feeling like he was running faster than he ever had before. He was three strides in before the guards turned to face him.

The flaps on their helmets went down and their swords came out of the sheaths. One guard held his sword out to his left, the other to his right. If they were to swing, the swords would create an arc that would cover the entire length of the hallway, cleaving Mason’s torso from the rest of his body. The stains on the concrete made it clear that some unlucky prisoner met that fate previously, and Mason was determined not to join them.

Even with his enhanced vision he could barely make out their eyes staring out from above the metal flap, four orbs encased in metal. The stairway behind them led to a closed door. It would be another hurdle for Mason if he got by the guards, but it also prevented them from calling for backup.

The swords were about four feet long, so Mason waited until he was just out of their range before leaping. His jump took him over the swords, leaving them sweeping through the air, and he landed at the foot of the staircase as the guards tried to reorient himself. A quick look at the door showed there was no way to open it from the inside. Before the guards turned around, Mason grabbed the top of their helmets, hooking his fingers in the eye slit and pulling the helmets off. The guards turned to face him as their helmets hit the ground. Their swords started to swing in his direction but the swords fell to the ground as Mason slammed the guards’ heads together.

As their bodies hit the ground, Mason grabbed the man on the left, hooking his fingers under the armoured torso and lifting the man onto his shoulder. Another bout of dizziness hit him and Mason’s knees buckled for a few seconds, but his balance returned and he started carrying the man down the hallway and back to the cell. The soldier probably weighed at least three hundred pounds with the armour on, but he only felt slightly heavier than a bag of wet concrete.

Turning the corner, Mason dropped the body on the floor, where it wouldn’t be visible from the doorway. He then ran back to the other soldier, and repeated the process. By his count, his whole escape took about ten minutes so far.

Mason stripped one of the soldiers of their armour, and then grabbed one of their pairs of boots. The boots were too small for him and felt like they would crush his toes with each step, but they would do for now. Between the armour’s weight and the boots, Mason was forced to slow his pace as he walked towards the door. With every step, he was worried that the door at the end of the hall would swing open and reveal the Marshal with a squad of soldiers behind him. That thought got Mason’s heart racing more than anything he’d done in the past ten minutes.

Mason’s legs were shaking as he reached the top of the stairs and banged on the door. His metal covered fist hit the door three times before a portion of the door slid aside to show someone’s face on the other end. Mason noticed the sounds that filtered in, chatter all around him. There was wind coming in from windows, the shuffling of paper, the clicking of boots. The panel was a few inches below Mason’s face, and the majority of its length was taken up by a face leering up at him.

Mason took the armour from a guard who was about the same height, but he was worried his skin would give him away. The guard below would only be able to make out a thin sliver, but it could be enough.

“What is it?” The man said. He looked to be about Mason’s age, probably a young guard hoping that he’d be able to move up the chain soon. He’d be eager to impress, and Mason’s experience told him these were the worst guards to deal with. However, he realized he could manipulate the guard’s eagerness to impress.

If Mason had any luck left, the guard wouldn’t notice that his voice sounded different. The door seemed to block out most noise so maybe this guard didn’t hear the other two speak much.

“The prisoner’s up. The commander’s worried he might wear down the straps if he keeps pulling on them. He just wants a third person to help hold down the prisoner while he loosens the straps and reties them. You need to come quick though.”

The words barely left Mason’s mouth before he heard a lock come undone. The door swung open and the guard stood revealed in front of him, forcing Mason to look back down the hallway to hide his face.

“Just head down there, they’re waiting for you.” Mason said.

The guard rushed past Mason, nearly becoming a blur as he jumped down the flight of stairs. Mason quickly stepped out of the underground cavern and pushed the door closed. The guard looked back at him as he got halfway down the tunnel, but it was too late by then. The metal panel slip closed and the guard’s voice would be drowned out until the marshal came by.

As Mason turned to face the room he was greeted by another guard. The man was standing at a wooden desk about twenty feet ahead of Mason, staring back at him. The desk spanned most of the length of the floor, leaving only about ten feet on either side. Orange brick boxed it in, leading to an open door that was about one hundred feet away. Mason could make out doors on either side of him, leading to other areas of the station. Most of the chatter he heard before was coming from that direction. The regular holding cells were likely back there. It seemed like Alexandria also treated him like a special prisoner. He only had one hundred feet separating him from freedom now. There were two more guards stationed by the door ahead,

“Your break isn’t for another twenty minutes. Get back in there.” The guard said as he quickly resumed his review of the papers in front of him, making his sword bob in its sheath. He appeared to be in his thirties, with a fatigued voice that made him sound much older. Days of monotonous work were taking a toll on him.

Meanwhile, Mason’s senses were taking a toll on him now. Six days of drugging, six days without practice honing the senses. Everything was coming in a flood now, especially his sense of smell. There was the scent of vinegar from the mixture used to wipe the floors, onions wafting off of the guard’s breath. His stomach started to feel uneasy again, like he might festoon the station’s floors for a second time.

“The commander told me to send the other guy in and go on break now. You can ask him if you want.” Mason said.

Mason knew he made a mistake before he opened his mouth. This guard would definitely be well acquainted with the people working for him. He would know that the voice sounded different. The guard lost interest in the papers in front of him and quickly turned back towards Mason. Mason looked at the ground to hide his face but he could hear the guard walking towards him.

“Don’t hide your face when you’re talking to me,” the guard said.

Mason heard the guard snap his fingers, and soon there were two sets of footsteps coming towards him.

Three pairs of boots came into view as he examined the white tiles beneath him. There were three armed men less than ten feet away. Mason knew what he had to do. He rushed forward, pushing through the phalanx ahead of him. He heard someone’s bone break on impact, and heard two more cracks as the trio landed on the ground. Even if he didn’t have enhanced strength he doubted the three soldiers would stand a chance against his armour.

Mason realized how wrong he was as the central guard managed to slide his sword into the thin groove between Mason’s torso and his legs. It was what they were trained to do, another reason that heavy armour wasn’t that practical anymore. Mason wished he’d remembered that tidbit earlier.

All three guards were sprawled on the ground, one was clutching his arm, one was clutching his chest and the third appeared to be dead from landing on his neck. The damage was already done. The sword was nearly at a ninety degree angle, with the tip lodged somewhere in his chest, but fortunately missing his heart. Mason could see another foot of the blade hanging down from his torso, with the hilt hovering halfway down his thigh.

The pain reminded Mason of the mauling that got him here, the pain of having chunks of flesh torn out of his body. However, he realized that the mauling was far worse. He could still stand, and as he made his way around the desk it was clear he could still walk. The sword missed his spine. Some of his organs were probably skewered but strangely, it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Mason knew he could just be in shock, but he also knew that Torville’s testing increased his pain tolerance and his curse seemed to increase his pain tolerance. Each step brought increased pain, causing the blade to shift and tear through more veins and muscles.

Although the pain might be dulled, his body was still struggling to cope. He could feel another wave of nausea hitting him. The coppery taste of blood was haunting his throat, and he saw that the sword’s blade and hilt were being baptized by their new home. Looking ahead, Mason saw the open door. He couldn’t see any people ahead of him.

The stone path outside seemed forked to the left, where it likely led to the front entrance. Mason could make out horses neighing somewhere behind him, the stable would be too far behind to reach without being spotted. The horses were almost drowned out by the sound of footsteps and Mason knew that at least ten other soldiers were making their way towards him.

He grabbed the sword’s hilt, feeling it bury itself deeper as he leaned forward. With his hands on the hilt, Mason pulled downward, feeling the sword leave severed veins and punctured organs behind. By the time the sword crashed to the ground Mason could feel the burning itch running from his chest to his hips. The pain from the stab would be temporary, but beheading was permanent. Mason made his way over to the side of the desk, knowing that his blood was creating a trail right to the door. He looked back, seeing the door on the left side of the desk.

The brown tiles continued into the next room, where five guards were now running towards him. They were all armed, and they didn’t have bulky armour slowing them down. There were likely more men coming from the other side of the station as well. The hall continued down for hundreds of feet but it wouldn’t take the guards that long to cover the distance. Once they did, there was a good chance they would turn Mason into a kebab.

Mason tried to run again, even with his strength, the armour and the injury prevented him from getting anywhere close to his full speed. A light jog got him to the outside. The path forked to his left, where it led to a wooden gate where two more guards were standing in wait. The gate was about fifty feet high and continued all around the station, where the moonlight was reflecting off the barbed wire at the top. The doors on either side of him were held open by nails bolted into the earth in front of them and as Mason expected, the door could only be locked from the inside.

Going back wasn’t an option, and if Mason tried to go around to the stables the gate would still trap him. Trying to go straight through the gate would likely result in death, the guards at the door already had their eyes on him and trying to cover that distance would give the other guards more time to catch up and surround him.

The gatekeepers didn’t know anything was the matter now, but they would once they saw men chasing after him. The shortest distance to cover was to Mason’s right, where the gate was only about fifty feet away. Mason hurriedly started pulling the armour off, hoping to make a run for the fence and climb over. The torso would take the most time so he didn’t bother trying to remove it. His helmet came off first. Then his arms, boots and the armour over his pants. By this time, the guards could tell his skin was darker than theirs and they were making their way over. They would have about two hundred feet to cover.

The guards in the station were moving past the desk when Mason took off for the wall. The guards by the gate were about fifty feet away. He could feel muscles and organs in his body stitching themselves back together. The burning sensation made him feel like his heart was on fire. The blood flow from the injury was slowing down already, morphing from a spring into a leaky faucet.

Even without the armour, he was only able to muster a light jog as he made his way for the fence. His legs felt heavy, as if he was trying to run through wet sand. His wound was healing fast, but it seemed like it was stealing more energy from him in order to do so. There was little chance of making the gate in time and Mason didn’t feel like he had the strength to fight all of the men off.

Images started dancing through his head. His head flying after a slice to the neck. His intestines hanging loose after a slash across the stomach. After everything he’d been through, Torville still managed to send him to his death. He always thought he would go down fighting if a day like this ever came, but like a lot of his other dreams, it seemed like it would remain a fantasy. He might be able to fight off a few of the soldiers, but their numbers would overwhelm him quickly. He’d be hacked to pieces and likely follow in his mother’s footsteps.

Warm tears cut through the dirt on his face, cascading over dry skin before they hung off his cheek and fell to the stone path. They sparkled briefly under the moonlight before they splattered beneath him. The guards from inside the station were now outside, and the men from the gate were just a few feet behind them. Despite the danger in front of him, Mason’s eyes were suddenly drawn upward.