Connor awoke the next morning with no memory of how he had wound up in the top bunk of a childish-looking structure painted forest green and fit for children half his size. He rubbed his eyes roughly, the pressure causing a satisfying relief throughout his face. Waking up hungover after a night out with friends was nothing new for him, but his head felt much worse this morning than on those occasions. Did I even drink enough to have a hangover? He noticed he only had one shoe on. What the hell did I do last night? He considered looking through the timeline but thought better of it. Whatever he had done was likely to make him feel worse about himself than he already did.

He let out a long breath of exhaustion and took in the rest of his surroundings. It appeared he was in a room that belonged to a young boy or perhaps brothers given the bunk beds. The walls were painted to resemble the jungle outside the mansion and there were toys scattered all around the floor. A small television was mounted to the wall across the room. It was muted but clearly turned to the news station that was still reporting on the events at The Amelia Hotel & Casino from the night before.

“You awake up there?” He recognized Novocaine’s relaxed voice right away.

“Oh. Yeah. I’m up. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were down there.” He stared at the scene on the television as the missile sailed into the penthouse suite and an enormous flame burst through the open doors. That’s my fault. I’m a murderer. Or an accessory. Something.

Novocaine could be heard moving around on the bed below. He coughed. “You’re more fun than I thought you would be.” What did I do? “Never would have thought you could outdrink Overkill.” Novocaine laughed sharply. “Pissed him off good. Lucky he didn’t break your neck.”

“I-I don’t even-” Connor felt ashamed of himself. He knew how much fun he could be when he let loose. To get blackout drunk after being part of a horrific act that left three people dead, it seemed shameful and wildly insensitive. Even if he couldn’t remember what he had done.

“Relax, my man. You’re gonna have to if you want to fit in.” Novocaine’s dirty blonde hair appeared as he stood up beside the bunk beds. “Besides, your life’s different now. You can't constantly second guess yourself. Or anyone else in the crew. If anyone thinks you’re a weak link.” He made a slashing motion across his neck then grinned and turned away. “Come on, we’ll grab some breakfast.” He stopped and looked out the window. “Or lunch. Who the fuck knows what time it is.” The still unbalanced host scratched his ass as he moved across the room. Connor took another deep breath and dropped off the side of the bunk bed. He looked for his other shoe but had no luck in finding it. He chose to take the remaining shoe off and hope no one cared.

The hallway outside the room was more of a catwalk. One side was a long wall with several doors and another hallway that led deeper into the house. The other was open space with a railing that looked down over the kitchen. Most of his new colleagues were sitting at a long table eating breakfast and chatting. Their names flooded into his mind. Worm. The eccentric hacker with little interest in what anyone else had to say. Connor could vaguely remember the scrawny man saying more than a handful of words the whole night. But then again, his memory wasn’t exactly a reliable source at the moment. Worm was spooning cereal into his mouth mindlessly as he stared at a laptop on the table beside his bowl. He had large headphones on his ears that seemed to make his life more enjoyable in his own mind. At the other end of the table sat a man and woman that looked about as different as two people could look. The man went by Tusk and was shirtless, every inch of his dark body tone and muscular. His face made him look as though conversation was a burden yet he was talking openly with the woman across the table from him. Her name was Calamity and Connor believed she may have some type of personality disorder. She had kissed him, threatened to kill him, and told him stories of a dog she had when she was a child all within the first hour of sitting down beside him at the bar downstairs. Her hair was red, long, and frizzy. Exactly how it should be for a woman like her. Her eyes were wide and strained at all times. The only person he had met in the bar that wasn’t at the table was a monstrous man called Overkill. His absence wasn’t mourned by Connor. Being in Overkill’s presence made him feel as though he was walking on pins and needles. The pins and needles in this case being two fists the sizes of small trucks. Still, Connor figured that if he was going to spend his days with criminals, it was nice to have a man like Overkill. As long as he didn’t get himself killed by the brute.

“Hey, Glitch. Get down here you son of a bitch!” Calamity yelled when her conversation partner directed her attention over her shoulder.

Novocaine looked back at him and smiled. “Careful with that one,” he said. “This version of her likes you, but who knows what the next one will think of you.” Connor smiled awkwardly and nodded, following his new friend down the stairs that led into the corner of the kitchen. As he walked, a faint aroma grew slightly stronger. Accompanied by the crackle of a frying pan with bacon in it. Overkill was standing in front of the stove, whistling quietly and swaying back and forth to the music coming through his headphones. When he turned, he was wearing an apron that said, Don’t fuck with the cook.

“Ay, how ya like your eggs tough guy?” Overkilled asked in such a plain tone that discerning whether he was resentful of Connor or just simply a boring person was impossible.

“Scrambled, please,” Connor said. Novocaine’s hand came down on his shoulder firmly as he corrected Connor and told Overkill that over easy was good for the new chap. The massive cook smiled and pointed to two plates full of over easy eggs and sausage links sitting on the counter nearby.

“Over easy is more my specialty,” Overkill said in his raspy voice. He turned back to the stove and flipped his strips of bacon with a fork he could barely control with his massive fingers.

Connor followed Novocaine to the table where they sat down across from one another. The wild card, Calamity, was to Connor’s right. The others were finished with their food, each plate practically licked clean. Connor understood why very quickly. The eggs were some of the finest he’d had since his grandmother cooked for him when he was a child. After the horrific event in his mother’s sedan.

He studied the dining room as he ate. There was little in the way of decor yet the space felt just as enchanting to look at as an overstuffed home belonging to some art collector. The architecture was modern. The walls were painted a crisp and flawless white. A set of sliding glass doors led to a covered back porch that sat adjacent to the pool.

There was a stiff finger poking Connor’s upper arm moments after he finished his food. Calamity was staring at him with her eyes that were filled with all types of crazy. “The Storytella will be here right soon I suspect. Can’t wait to see that chap. Always a real bit of fun, he is.” Her accent sounded foreign, but from where, Connor was unsure. It was thick but high-pitched and somewhat choppy. She rubbed her hands together as she spoke and licked her dry bottom lip as she tucked it inside her mouth. “Have ya eva met The Storytella, Glitch?” Connor shook his head. He had never even heard the name. Not even during his time working at the penitentiary. “Oh, lords. He’s a different kind of fella. Ain’t he, Tusk?” The dark-skinned man across from her barely acknowledged her. She didn’t seem to care. “Look right in yo’ soul, he will. Tell ya things you can’t even remember yourself.” She placed her hand on Connor’s wrist. “Ya ain’t hiding anything ya might be ashamed of, are ya?”

“Leave him alone, Cal,” Novocaine said sharply, stuffing a sausage link in his mouth afterward. “He’s got enough to think about without you botherin’ him.”

Calamity gnawed on her lower lip as she stared across the table, practically broadcasting the terrible things she wanted to do to the man through the look on her face. She slowly turned her head back to Connor. “Anyway, The Storytella ain’t one to fuck with or lie to. Just let him mind fuck ya for a few minutes then he’ll run off and tell Queen Bee what she wants to know soon enough and it’ll all be over before you know it.” She looked down the table at Worm who couldn’t be bothered by anything. “He’ll leave ya feeling unsatisfied of course, but who doesn’t?” There was an awkwardness hovering over the table now as Connor realized there was something between the odd woman and the quiet hacker at the end of the table.

“Who is this Storyteller?” Connor asked, looking directly at Novocaine.

The other man leaned back in his chair, spinning an impaled sausage link on the fork in his hand. “He’s a mind reader.”

“With a twist,” Overkill said from the kitchen where he was eating his own breakfast. His plate piled high with more food than all the others had eaten combined.

“Yes, with a twist,” Novocaine agreed, biting into his link, continuing with his mouth full of meat. “He doesn’t just read your mind though. He can put thoughts into it that fuck with ya. Make ya think things happened that didn’t. Make ya do things you never thought you’d do.” When Connor apparently showed how mortified he was by the notion, Novocaine said, “Don’t worry though. Queen Bee don’t let him mess with her people. Just her targets. She’ll have him poke around in there…” He pointed at Connor’s head with his fork. “... so she can get to know you a little better. Then he will be on his way.”

“What will she want to know about me?” Connor asked.

Tusk said, “If you have any ties to people that could threaten her.” There were three identical light brown markings on the man’s chest that looked like dry mud or some kind of paint. Their design was elaborate and unfamiliar to Connor but the way Tusk spoke seemed like his words were the only ones that should dare penetrate the invisible wall between him and the person he was speaking to.

Calamity nodded in agreement then said, “And she’ll want to know what fucked you up enough to help her blow up a building.” She laughed much like a hyena might.

“I didn’t go looking to help her. She made me do it,” Connor said defensively, squeezing the fork in his hand tight.

“Sure, kid.” Overkill said. “None of us want to be considered killers and criminals, except maybe Cal, but we’re all sitting here together waiting on the newly crowned Soul of Savagery to return from whatever terrible escapade she’s on… and you helped her get that crown. So… if you ask me. I think you might be a fucked up individual, Connor Kove.” Connor felt his shoulders slump. Perhaps, the brute was right. There was plenty enough in his past for him to be considered a bit unhinged. He didn’t want to admit it out loud though. He had done everything he was told after waking from his coma; therapy, rehabilitation, support groups when he got old enough to attend them. He had to admit though, there was still a small part of him that felt an anger toward his mother. One he knew he could never resolve but couldn’t quite squash entirely. Had that lingering hatred pushed him into following Ellen’s lead so easily? Had he even followed her easily? At the time it felt like he had no choice but to leave the penitentiary with the woman. Were the others just worse people and projecting their guilt on him?

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

He was still asking himself these questions when Calamity’s lips pressed against his cheek. “Bye handsome. Maybe you could swing by my room tonight? I’ll make sure to take care of that unsatisfied feeling The Storyteller will leave ya with.” She stood from her chair, her hand sliding across Connor’s shoulders slowly. Her hips swayed purposefully as she followed Tusk toward a hallway leading out of the dining room.

“Don’t mind her,” Novocaine said. “She’s got one than one screw loose.” Connor wondered if they all did, including himself.

____________________

The Storyteller arrived by helicopter at midday. He flew himself, just as Novocaine said he would, and he approached the two men while they lay by the pool with an air about him that immediately made Connor hate him. He was every bit of twice Connor’s age, possibly three times by the looks of his wrinkled skin and large, droopy bags under his eyes. His head was bald but for a gray ring of hair that laid just above his ears. He wore dress clothes that resembled those of a hardworking man that never quite made enough money to dress fashionably. The top buttons of his white collar shirt were undone and glimmers of silver hair managed to show through the shadows around his neckline.

“Gentlemen,” the old visitor said. His voice rising slightly toward the end of the word.

“Storyteller,” Novocaine said, sitting up and taking off his sunglasses. He had suggested they not make a big deal out of the man’s arrival. Anything that flattered the man would only be more aggravating to endure. “It’s nice to see you again, sir.”

The Storyteller took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped sweat from his forehead. “And your name is?” he asked.

“Novocaine, sir. We’ve met several times.”

“Ah. Yes. Novocaine. The junkie, if I remember correctly.” The old man put his handkerchief away and scowled at the hot sun.

“Not anymore,” Novocaine said meekly enough to make it obvious he was lying.

“Does the medication still flow through your fingertips freely?” The Storyteller unbuttoned the single button that held the flaps of his sports jacket together. Novocaine nodded. “Then forgive me if I don’t believe a word you say Mr. Caine.” Novocaine glanced at Connor, confused by the strange way he’d be addressed. The old man was walking away a moment later. Suddenly, he stopped and turned back to them. “Give me thirty minutes, then I’ll expect you in the study Mr. Kove.” Connor’s heart sank. He had been hoping he could continue to go unnoticed.

“Of course, sir,” Connor said.

When The Storyteller was inside, Connor stood from his pool chair and walked to the edge of the pool. His eyes set on the jungle around them. A flock of birds were flying overhead, their freedom sending a strong sense of jealousy through him. The idea that The Storyteller was going to dig into his past made him feel itchy and uncomfortable; anxious like a man awaiting a colonoscopy. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“What? What that asshole does?”

“Yeah.”

There was no sound behind him for a moment.

“Like a dagger through the heart. Whatever’s made you, you. He’ll find it. He’ll make you relive it like the realest goddamn dream you’ve ever had.”

“Don’t suppose you’d let me drown myself?” Connor asked, staring at wavy images of his mother and brother in the pool water.

Novocaine stood. “Truthfully, I can’t swim and I doubt the others give a fuck what you do. So, if you decide to go that route, make sure it’s what you want.” He chuckled the way a man who had seen his fair share of death would. “But I can tell you if you do go through with speaking to the old man, I’ll have the good stuff for you afterward. I’ll take the pain away. All of it. Not just the bullshit he’ll put you through. Everything that’s ever bothered you. I’ll give you relief for as long as you need it. Hours if you want that much.” He smiled mischievously as he walked forward. He put his hand on Connor’s shoulder. A brief but powerful surge of numbness shot through Connor’s shoulder that lasted only a second before it wore off. Even as brief as it was, it still left a surprisingly satisfying sensation. Connor rubbed his shoulder and stared at his friend, silently wishing the other man would do it again. “There’s a whole lot more where that came from. But you ain’t gettin’ it if you go and drown yourself.”

____________________

As with all the other rooms in Ellen’s mansion, the study was decorated efficiently and much larger than truly necessary. The Storyteller was sitting at a desk positioned in front of a tall window. Long burgundy drapes fell to within inches of the forest green carpet beneath them. The Storyteller was now wearing reading glasses and just his white button-up shirt. His sports coat hung over the leather chair he was sitting in. Connor half-expected there to be a name plate stating the man’s name on the desk. There wasn’t. The old man was scribbling in a large tome-like leatherbound book.

Connor cleared his throat. “Um. Mister, um.” The Storyteller looked up from his scribing and smiled in a way that all but stated the fact that he was looking forward to what was to come.

“No name necessary. Just sir. I much prefer it to my real name. And lords, don’t you dare call me by that foolish nickname I’m known as.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

The Storyteller took off his thin-rimmed glasses and laid them on the table. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Connor Kove. I wasn’t sure we’d ever meet. You were considered a suicide risk, you know.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

The old man waved a hand at Connor. “Forget that. What’s important is that Mrs. Pakarhanni seems to understand you’re something special. An asset is how she put it, I believe.” He slowly began to flip through the pages of his tome, licking his finger to grip the corner of each page more easily. “Please, sit down. It’s about time we have a talk.” Even when his words were kind, the old man sounded like an arrogant prick. He reminded Connor of his boss at the penitentiary.

Greer Holt ran the prison much like a tyrannical dictator may run his country. Troublemakers were killed or disappeared, prisoners were sent to solitary confinement for much longer than any laws would allow. To cut back on expenses, he’d make the men share their meals, calling it a teambuilding exercise. All it really did was cause more fighting and more stringent lines between the cliques and gangs.

Connor took his seat, his fingers wrapped tight around the arms of his chair. He tapped into the timeline in his head and searched for this exact moment. Strangely, there was a black blur covering his interaction with The Storyteller.

“You won’t find anything in there,” The Storyteller said, staring at Connor with what looked like interest. Interest that faded to pity as he considered Connor’s circumstances. “You won’t find me in your thoughts because I don’t want to be there… so I don’t write myself into them.” A wave of confusion so strong it felt physically imposing hit Connor hard. In his mind, throughout his body. If he had been standing he likely would have been sitting now. “Yes, shocking to hear, I’m sure. You’ve likely considered yourself blessed since the incident with your mother.” Blessed. Connor almost laughed in the man’s face. He felt anything but blessed. His mother tried to kill him. Did kill his brother. And herself. “Sadly, you’re not special at all. You’re really just a vessel for my brilliance. And not much more from the looks of it.”

Connor clawed at the timeline desperately, searching for any sign of The Storyteller in his life, past, present, and future. There were none. “How do you know me?” Connor finally managed.

“Know you?” The Storyteller asked. “I don’t know you. I’ve known of you for years. And we’ve had a bond for quite some time, I suppose. But I most definitely don’t know you. Until now, I’ve had no reason to care who you were as a person. I just need you to exist. And you barely managed at times. Suicide.” He scoffed. “A cowardly act if you ask me. But then again, you weren’t exactly raised by strong characters.”

“Who are you? How do you know me?” Connor wanted to be harsher, to let out the frustration that was building from all directions; this unbelievable reality check, The Storyteller’s smug arrogance, his mother. Always his mother.

The Storyteller flattened the page of his tome gently and picked up the quill beside it. Dipped it in black ink. “Perhaps it would be easiest if I simply showed you.” He looked out the window. Connor’s eyes followed. The rest of the mansion was well maintained and clean but the study appeared dusty and untampered with. Dust particles could be seen floating around in the ray of sunlight shining through the window. “Is the junkie still out by the pool?” Connor shrugged truthfully. “Find out.” Connor began to move from his chair. “Not like that, you imbecile.”

Connor sat back down and looked for Novocaine in the timeline. As his mind wandered from the study, the world around them emerged. He found Novocaine still lying by the pool. “He’s there.”

“I think it’s time for him to go for a swim.”

Novocaine’s earlier words ran through Connor’s head. Knowing his friend was unable to swim, he began to fidget. The Storyteller began to scribble in his tome again. Connor looked at the timeline again. Novocaine was standing, completely sure in his actions, but oblivious to their fatal flaw. He stripped off his shirt and stood at the edge of the pool. “Don’t,” Connor said. “I understand.”

The Storyteller stopped writing and looked up. “You enjoy his company, do you?”

Unsure if he should admit such a fact said, “He can’t swim. That’s all. He told me earlier.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Now, The Storyteller’s arrogance sounded defensive. As if it was blasphemy to claim he was unaware of something. “I made that fucking man. I know every goddamn detail of his personality. I know he can’t swim.” Spit began to form in the corners of The Storyteller’s mouth. “And if I want him to know how I’ll make it so! I am his god. I’m your god. I created you, Connor Kove. I gave you your ability. And I could take it back in a blink of an eye.” The other men and women in the mansion had superpowers just like The Storyteller but none of them felt like a god like the old man did in that moment. His demeanor, his tone. He forced Connor to believe him.

Despite feeling angry moments before, Connor was now full of fear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” He had no interest in preserving his ability. In fact, if even a little more courage coursed through his veins he may have told the other man to take them back. But, he did care about surviving this interaction. Sure, there was a time, or several, when he considered ending his life, but something inside him had changed unexpectedly. Those thoughts were long gone.

“Offend me?” The Storyteller scoffed again. “A pitiful servant like you could never offend me.” He laid the quill on the revealed page of the tome and slammed the book shut. He took a deep breath and looked at Connor with eyes that seemed to burn with an unashamed complex. “Your mother was a pathetic whore that would do anything for a fix.” The mention of his mother vanquished any fear and got Connor’s full attention. His bottom lip hung slightly open, his heavy breathing escaped slowly and angrily. “A stupid fucking whore that was willing to kill one son and give the other over to men she knew nothing about… all for a few fucking needles full of heroin.”

“Shut up.” Connor whispered the words firmly. The Storyteller sneered at him.

“Too hard to hear the truth? Do you prefer the bullshit your grandparents told you? That your mother shot herself too that day.” The old man pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his forehead, just as he had done by the pool. He scowled at the sunlight coming through the window. “Your mother’s alive and well.” He laughed. “I suppose well isn’t the right word. She’s still living a less than desirable lifestyle. I’ve made sure of that.”

Connor had long ago determined he had a long fuse. How could he not with a near-constant spark eating away at his wick? It stemmed from his mother’s actions years before and relentlessly worked its way toward the fury he kept locked away deep inside himself. And with this prick of a stranger belittling him and his family so unforgivingly, he thought he may snap right then and there. But when The Storyteller said his mother was alive and still suffering through a living hell, the spark fizzled out as he realized the only reason he had a long fuse to begin with was because he thought the spark would never reach the dynamite. But now there was a new feeling emerging. One he’d always wondered how it would feel to embrace but had always been too scared to do so. “She’s alive?” His calm tone surprised the other man who looked at him through squinted eyes and nodded. “And she’s still addicted to drugs?” The Storyteller nodded again. “Can I see her in my timeline?”

“No. But I can make it so.”

“Please,” Connor said. A murderous haze clouding his mind.

“Well,” The Storyteller said. “That didn’t take long.”