It’s the eyes. That’s what the white color is. Two dark hazel dots surrounded by white globes. For a split second, they’d disappeared, lids closing over them. Then, they’d opened again. Looking directly at me.

It takes another moment of visual comprehension for the rest of him to come into focus—I say him because I know who it is. Somehow, I do.

He’s crouched, hunched over, ghoul-like. Black mud and grime cakes his clothing; a look that he has seemingly embraced, slicking back his hair with it. The same black mud(unless it’s paint) is smeared across his already dark-skinned face.

In one hand he’s holding a pistol. It looks like a Beretta M9. It’s odd, completely out of place in Rithium, a world of swords and Wild West guns and cobbled-together machines. There’s nothing about the game’s aesthetic style or a player’s unique craftsmanship to it. It looks like something that was built in a factory; cold and utilitarian and inanimate.

Slowly, Oscar raises a mud-coated finger to his lips. Shhhhh.

Something seems to catch in my throat, making a click sound. Thoughtlessly, my eyes flit from Oscar to Sater and Tanya, up ahead of me, neither of whom seem to know what’s going on. They’re both frozen, both listening.

I look at Oscar. His neck flexes as he shakes his head, slow.

That’s it. I think, resigned. I belong in a loony bin.

Oscar gives me a chin twitch, motioning me over.

I don’t move.

He brings up two fingers, wags them, waving me over.

I don’t move.

Because if I do, I will truly and finally discover just how crazy I really am.

Oscar cocks his head, eyes narrowing. He shakes his head at me, disappointed.

I shrug apologetically. Inside, my heart is jackhammering my ribs.

I’m miming with a ghost.

Unless he’s not a ghost. Or even a projection of my drug-addled mind. There are alternatives.

The last time I saw Oscar, the back of his head had been leaking blood, or brains, or both. And before that, he’d been mental, in a rage. At the time, I’d been afraid he was going to kill me.

This Oscar isn’t like that. He’s watching me intently, but without any clear signs of malice. He just wants me to step away from Sater and Tanya, and over to him.

Could be a trap.

I suppose it could. Whether or not it’s Oscar. But if it is—

Oscar holds up a finger, tracing it in the air. Silent, crackly letters manifest in front of him, bright and neon. Though it’s perfectly legible, he traces the words quickly, like a hastily scratched note.

“JACKIE”

My breath catches. My racing heart trips over itself, reeling. There’s a long, painful moment before it starts up again.

It’s as if there’s this brass chain that’s been hanging from my neck for that last ten years. Etched into the length of each link is Jackie’s name. Jackie, with a flourish at the top of the J and a heart shape at the top of the I. And someone just came along and yanked on it.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

I shoot a look over at Tanya and Sater. Their backs are still to me.

The text has already dissipated. Oscar makes another waving motion at me, then holds up three fingers.

After a second, he lowers one of the fingers.

My heart starts hammering again. As if on it’s own, my body is tensing up, getting ready to spring.

He lowers another finger.

Oscar lowers that last finger, making a fist.

Then, he unfurls.

Twigs and tree limbs snap and crack, pulled toward the sudden influx of air.

Someone yells out. It takes me a second to realize it’s me. A startled yelp, if I’m honest with myself.

Oscar reappears directly in front of me, in a whirl of upset twigs and leaves. His shoulder crashes into my chest, ploughing me backward.

Some of the oxygen in my virtual lungs ejects with an “Oof!” My feet leave the ground. My body’s practically horizontal in the air. I can feel Oscar’s arms pulled tight in a vice around my torso.

I can see the blue sheen of the sky beyond a layer of twisted branches. Bizarrely, some of the branches seem to be twisting inward toward me, a vision punctuated by a sickening cacophony of crackles and sputters.

What follows appears to be some kind of gravitational anomaly. Ribbons of matter compress, taut guitar strings of wood and leaves and air circling me, wrapping, some of it flying hard and fast toward my face.

My eyes clench.

There’s a whooshing pop of air.

I hit the ground. Only it’s not the ground. It’s flat and alien and cold. The sky is an unobstructed curtain of blue.

My hands immediately go to the holstered guns at my hips. I’m a quick draw. Always had a knack for it.

Of course, by the time my pistols are leveled at him, he’s standing over me, his Beretta pointing directly at my face.

“Easy.” Oscar says.

“I was just gonna say that to you. Whoever you are.”

There’s a surprised expression on Oscar’s face. Followed by a hurt look. “You know who I am. Don’t you?”

I stare at him. I can make out certain idiosyncrasies. The occasional, nervous twitch at the end of his eyebrow. The way he clenches his jaw, but in a way that’s a little offset, like his bite is off.

“Yeah,” I say, exhaling. “I know.”

Oscar studies my face for a second, then grins. He puts his gun away. I put away mine.

Something swells in me. A series of deep, powerful emotions, rolling one after another, waves on the sand of my mind. So powerful that it’s a wonder I’m not crying, not bawling my eyes out. Then I realize: there are no tear ducts in Rithium. It’s all internalized, roiling inside me. Unless Oscar can see some—if any—of it on my face. The face is a portal into the soul, after all.

But it’s not enough. That’s one of the things I’m feeling; that I need to externalize. Whether he knows or not, whether he forgives me or not, I need to tell him that...that…

I’m sorry.

I sit up, running my hands over a smooth, obsidian, marble-like surface. There’s a strange blemish the size of my hand running across it, a crack of white, as if struck by a god’s hammer.

Oscar clasps his hand in mine, pulling me to my feet. “Careful.” He says.

What I see next makes me dizzy.

I’m...I’m standing on the Opus tower.

Vast plains of the land of Rithium stretch out below. I can just barely make out the tall walls of Opus in the lower part of my vision. The rest is the valley and plains surrounding it, much of it wooded and sloping.

The forest seems to have been cut back quite a bit since the last time I was here, allowing for a wide range of visibility in every direction in a circle outside the walls.

I can’t help but wonder how exactly Tanya was planning to infiltrate this place.

Perhaps the same way you just did? Somehow?

“You’re working for the feds, aren’t you?” I say, almost without fully understanding what it is I’m saying. I haven’t had time to consider all the implications of that yet, but it’s an isolated realization.

Tanya’s words echo in my head. “Don’t face these guys head-on, Kit.”

“We’ll talk,” Oscar says. He steps toward the edge. “But first, I want to show you something.

On the distant horizon, adjacent to Oscar’s silhouette, are the black peaks of mountains, tinged with silver snow, making him look like a giant. A torrid breeze rustles the hair on the back of his head.

I take a few careful steps, until I’m standing next to him. One more step, and I’d be tumbling down the side of the tower, like Saruman in Return of the King.

Oscar puts a hand on my shoulder and points toward a stretch of forest southwest of the city walls. There’s a dark specter circling there, imposing itself on the panorama—a black dragon. The points of it’s scales glint sharply in the sunlight. As it swoops low, it’s massive maw opens, and a jet of flame erupts downward into the trees.

“I’m gonna guess that’s yours.” I say, a dark pit opening up in my stomach, though I’m not quite sure why.

Oscar claps my shoulders. “We’re going to smoke them into a corner. The guy, anyway. Tara Vellis might require a bit more...finesse.”

Just then, there’s a loud pop behind us.