"Above all, Thosians stick together. That quality has empowered us to survive centuries of persecution. And in times like these, when the darkness presses in, we are reminded that it is not our individual abilities that give us strength, but our community and cooperation that will see us safely through these difficult times."

-- Overseer Marzocco, emergency public address

---

Joran tries to ignore a headache as he weaves through a crowded corridor. Unwashed black hair hangs in rivulets over his eyes, and he swipes it aside in tired irritation. His pale skin only accentuates the bags under his eyes and a pitifully thin week-old beard he still hasn't bothered to shave.

Urgent voices reflect off the paneled walls and blue-gray tile floor. Most of the pedestrians are families, bearing luggage and harrowed eyes. He quashes his annoyance at the traffic clogging the hall, but the only emotion that replaces it is sadness. These people have lost almost everything — and they're the lucky ones for getting here at all.

His watch vibrates - a voice call from his wife, Celia. He taps his earbud to answer.

"Where are you?" she asks before he can manage a greeting.

"Heading to the Hub early. I didn't want to wake you." He wanted at least one of them to get a full night's rest.

"You said you would take the day off."

"Yeah, Saturday."

"That's today!"

"Is it?" He glances at his watch. "Heck. I already volunteered to man a transport bay."

"Well, then cancel."

"I can't just cancel, they're counting on me."

She sighs. "Did you at least pack a lunch?"

"Sorry, I forgot."

"I'll bring you something."

"Don't worry about it, I can pick something up at the Hub."

"No, I'm bringing you lunch so I can make sure you haven't gotten yourself killed out there."

"I'll be fine."

"You'd better be. I love you."

"Love you too."

He ends the call and steps from the corridor into the Hub, immediately feeling small under the presence of the massive room. The huge hexagonal atrium is built with sleek brushed metal arches that extend high above the crowds, between which wide lighting panels hang, simulating sky light. Five sides of the room feature tram stops leading elsewhere in the city-sized complex, holographic signs broadcasting their destinations and arrival times. The sixth side holds a series of eight smaller rooms - the transport bays. The only way in or out of this complex, known to its citizens as the Hearth.

It began as a school for Thosian children to master their emerging supernatural abilities, but has evolved over the years into a safe haven for Thosians of all ages. Joran has lived at the Hearth ever since he graduated from the Academy. His ability is teleportation, though his grades weren't high enough to get hired as a Ferry; that is, until the present emergency called for volunteers.

Joran has always been, in a word, mediocre. Straight C student in public elementary school, then middle of his class when he switched to the Academy. The best thing to ever happen to him was Celia, a Photokinetic a grade above him and out of his league, but she stuck with him anyway for some reason. She's been worried about him lately, but the refugees have it so much worse. He owes it to them to be here.

A sharp voice catches his attention. "Mr. Cate!"

Ms. Grenwich has a rat's nest of a clipboard, a green pencil skirt and razor-edge glasses frames. She's the kind to take charge when things go sideways, and Joran is more than happy to follow.

"You're here for Ferry Duty?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Thank goodness. Bay Seven needs some attention."

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"On it," he says, and hurries off.

Navigating between groups of people sitting and standing in nervous clots, Joran heads for Bay Seven. It's a round room with another skylight panel hanging from the ceiling and a table in the center. On the table is a laptop, a paper list of survivors' names and coordinates, and a small pyramid-shaped crystal.

The crystal isn't for decoration; it helps him keep his orientation. The most difficult part of teleporting is navigation, especially over long distances, and having an anchor point is vital. He types the first set of coordinates into the computer to generate a map. Then he closes his eyes, feeling the crystal on the table shine like a beacon in his mind, and envisions the path from here to there, imagines it compressing down into a single point, as though the two places are aligned on top of each other.

Cold air starts to seep through around him into the Bay. Soon the room dissolves completely, replaced with a snowy yard outside a mansion. Trees covered in dead leaves look black against the blank sky on either side of the imposing building. Joran puts his hands on his knees and hangs his head, waiting for the nausea to subside. Jump sickness, from being unused to such long trips. It feels like the air is pulsing with energy.

Once he's a little more stable he tromps up the front steps and knocks on the heavy hardwood door. He's starting to shiver already, but it doesn't take long before he hears approaching footsteps.

A man answers the door, and Joran gives a respectful bow. "Joran Cate, Ferry of the Hearth. I'm here to bring you in."

The man grins and spontaneously pulls him into a bear hug, punctuated with a hearty slap on the back.

"We've been waiting so long," he says. "Come in, come in."

"The Ferry is here!" the man announces as they enter. "Children first. Make sure you have your bags."

The foyer is dark and warm, lit only by little flames balanced on the fingers of a couple Pyrokinetics. Several Thosian families are gathered here. They sit up from leaning against each other to grace Joran with grateful smiles and gather their luggage as they talk excitedly. A little boy comes up to him with a backpack, teleporting side to side like a glitching Holovid.

"I want to be a Ferry like you when I grow up!" he exclaims.

It feels strange to be admired like this, but strange in a good way. Joran kneels down in front of him. "Study hard at the Academy, and you can do anything."

It's a little hypocritical, since Joran didn't become a Ferry at the Academy, but the boy seems pleased. "Is that where we're going now?" he asks.

"Yep. Come here," he says invitingly. He embraces the boy and feels for the beacon, letting the foyer fade away and be replaced by Bay Seven.

"Woah," says the boy, "We just went really, really far, didn't we?"

"Someday you'll be able to teleport that far too. Now wait outside, and I'll bring the rest of your family."

There are about a dozen more to transport. Several thank him with tears in their eyes, and he basks in their gratitude. But every trip is more difficult than the last, and the nausea isn't going away anymore. On the second to last jump he misses the Bay and materializes outside, startling the family gathered there. He apologizes and makes his way back in, leaning on the wall for balance and hoping Ms. Grenwich is too busy to notice.

Just one more trip. He can do this. He focuses on the foyer, feeling its warmth glow around him, warmer and warmer. He arrives in an unfamiliar room with a crackling fireplace. What happened? Where is he? He turns to look around and the whole room tips, knocking him to the floor. The ornate ceiling spins overhead, and he hears a voice calling. The man from the foyer rushes in.

"Hello? Is that you, Ferry?" He rushes to his side and leans over him. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," insists Joran, pulling himself to his knees. "A little jump sickness, that's all."

"You don't look fine," worries the man.

"It's just one more jump. One more." he gets to his feet and leans on the man for support.

The room disappears, and Joran feels for his beacon, but it seems to be wavering, like a reflection in running water. He stretches desperately for Bay Seven, but it slips just out of reach, and he scrambles to feel for a safe landing point. They crash back into the world and Joran stumbles to the ground, head pounding. He can't tell which way is up. He wipes his nose and feels a sticky warmth on his hand. Blood, he realizes, and passes out.

...

Joran turns his head against a fresh pillowcase. He's in a hospital bed, and Celia is pacing nearby, her back to him. He tries to sit up, prompting a wave of dizziness that nearly makes him throw up, and he collapses back into the pillow with a groan.

Celia gasps and rushes to him. Her eyes are a little puffy, and glowing lights flicker across her skin in concert with her emotions. "Hey hey, don't try to move. The doc says you overstressed your projection cortex."

He closes his eyes and she rests her hand on his forehead. "You're an idiot, you know that?" she murmurs. "You could have been killed."

"Is the other guy alright?"

"They found you both on a maintenance catwalk under the Hub. He's fine, but they said you'll need at least a week to recover, maybe more. I'm not going to say I told you so, but you need to listen to me next time."

"I'm not a child," he snaps. "I don't need your permission."

Her colors flash with hurt, and he fumbles to apologize. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just sick of being useless. I finally got a normal job, and then I screwed it up."

"You expect too much of yourself."

"And you deserve better," he says bitterly.

"Hey, don't talk like that. You're so brave, and you care about people so much. You give me hope, because I know as long as we're together, things will be okay. I don't think I could handle losing you." Her voice breaks with emotion.

A lump forms in Joran's throat. "You won't."

"Better not."

She wraps her arms around him and sobs into the pillow by his ear. He holds her tightly, and when her breathing slows, he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she looks at him.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"Still nauseous. It's better when I hold still."

"Probably a bad time then, but I did bring you lunch like I promised."

She doesn't get up, and so he strokes her hair and lets his mind wander while they lay together in the hospital bed. Hope, she said. Joran smiles and closes his eyes. As long as they're together, things will be okay.

~fin