We started jogging towards the warehouse when I stopped and shouted:

“Oh, I’m such a FUCKING IDIOT!”

Ignoring the confused looks and one glare of the magi-SWAT crew, I spun on my heel (nearly tripping in the process as I hadn’t completely recovered yet) and dashed back to the overturned Prius.

“Sorry, Alice!” I half shouted as I ran around it and slammed my shoulder into the roof along with a push from my magic, knocking the vehicle back onto its tires and further damaging the roof.

I gripped the door handle and yanked, but being knocked on its side had damaged the door to the point that it didn’t budge. I debated yanking the door off for half a second before realizing the window was broken. I bent over and stuck my torso into the door, doing a quick scan before spotting the box with the blood stick. I grabbed it and pulled it and myself out of the car.

I had to stop myself from just breaking the box open in my haste. I took a second to breathe deeply before calmly (or as calmly as I could manage) undoing the latches on the case and popping it open.

The stick looked no worse for wear, sending a shuddering breath of relief out of me. My hand reached out to grab it, my black nails reflecting the light of the afternoon sun, but stopped just before grabbing it.

If the stick didn’t find my brother here, I was out of options. I didn’t have any leads except to go into the warehouse and hope there was something there that would lead me to him. I almost didn’t want to grab the stick because of what would happen to my mental state if it didn’t detect anything.

After hesitating for what felt like an hour but was more likely to be less than a minute, I closed my fingers around the stick…

And felt nothing.

I felt the strength go out of my arms, my shoulders slumping. The simultaneous urges to hyperventilate and to stop breathing entirely fought for supremacy, resulting in a hitching breath that was akin to a sob. I forced myself to growl through the despair and disappointment and slowly stood—

...The last time I used this thing, I wasn’t wearing my amulet.

Grasping at alternatives like a drowning man, I reached under my shirt and grabbed the amulet, tearing it off my neck with a sharp tug (which hurts a lot, by the way. Movies make it look so simple).

The magic of the stick was suddenly detectable. I had forgotten that it had its own, slight aura. It must be closely related to the astral, for my amulet to cut it off so completely.

But I still didn’t feel Conner.

I swore sulfurously and shot to my feet, my arm arcing behind me to throw the stick into traffic—which is when I felt a pip of something.

I barely managed to pull my arm back, but not before I had let go of the stick. It tumbled through the air in front of me and I panicked and tried to catch it with both my hands and my magic. Between the three of them, I managed to gently push it into my chest without breaking it. I quickly got my hand on it and ran towards the warehouse, holding the stick in front of me like a baton.

I felt something, and that something became more and more clear as I got closer to the warehouse. I ran past the confused stares of the magi-SWAT without sparing them a glance, focusing on the sensation the stick was giving me until, after several dozen yards, the vague sensation snapped into focus.

My brother.

A hand clamped on my shoulder and brought me up short. I glanced behind me to see Roy holding me back with just one hand. “Whoa! Where’s the fire?” He asked.

The other members of Elysium special forces arrived a moment later, and I gestured at the warehouse with the stick. “My brother is in there!”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “We figured—“

I shook my head vehemently. “No, no, no! He’s in there! This stick is a Navajo artifact that shows blood relations! I know exactly where my brother is!”

I turned and looked at the warehouse. “He’s—He’s underground.”

Albright frowned. “Why are you just now using it?”

“Because I got shot with a fucking rocket!” I almost shouted. “Also it doesn’t have the biggest range, so we were waiting until we were near our destination where, I will remind you, we were shot with a fucking rocket.”

Albright nodded and glanced thoughtfully at the warehouse. “Overall, this doesn’t change much. I know you’re anxious to get your brother—which we will facilitate—but you need to stay with us and allow us to work without running ahead and getting shot to shit.”

I nodded, nervous energy making the movement erratic. “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

I moved the stick into my left hand and drew the Webley with my right. I walked over next to Kristy, who gave me a reassuring smile. “We’ll get him back,” she said with the happy assurance of someone quietly competent or who didn’t know better. I prayed it was the former.

* * *

Now the initial excitement of finding my brother alive (because he was alive; the stick let me know that much with a high degree of certainty) had worn off, we approached the warehouse at a light jog. It was… odd.

First, there was the fact that our version of a “light jog” was closer to an Olympic-level sprint. Each person here was either physically enhanced in some way like I was or was using some form of magic to hurry them along. Greg and Roy took long, loping strides that ate up the ground, their legs moving with deceptive slowness. Another strike against Walt was that he kind of did the Naruto run, with one arm hanging behind him and another on the hilt of the blade that hung reverse on his back, with the hilt sticking out behind his hip. The effect should have been fuckin’ dorky as all hell, but he somehow pulled it off with his black uniform and armor. Each of Beats footsteps thudded against the ground with more force than should come from her slight frame, sending her higher into the air than would be normal. The effect made it look like she was skipping, but she managed to keep up with the group just fine. Albright just jogged, which looked incongruous with the speed we were maintaining. Finally, Kristy didn’t jog so much as shoot forward with every step, like she was running on a Travelator alongside us.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

And then there was me, huffing and puffing to keep up.

If I hadn’t recently been shot at by a rocket and had my whole body roughed up, plus being injured yesterday (or was it the day before? Head wounds are a pain in the ass.), plus being healing, which uses up a lot of the bodies resources—I might have given a better showing. As it was, I was happy that they didn’t seem to be slowing down for me.

Walt, a voice in my head said, making me flinch.

SHIT. I left my amulet behind in my excitement. While I was in the middle of self-recrimination, Walt nodded and piled on the speed, shooting forward before vanishing from sight like a mirage.

I’m glad you left the amulet behind, Albright said in my head. It would have been a pain to repeat everything out loud.

That makes sense. They had a powerful telepath on their team; of course, they communicated telepathically. No need to make noise that wasn’t necessary.

Yes, Albright agreed as he fell back in formation and held out something for me. It was another amulet, this one much more professional looking than the one I had made from a paint scraper. It looked like what I’d think a high-fantasy wizard's dog tags would look like. Since you don’t have your preferred mental defense talisman, have a loaner. It should blunt any mental attacks while still allowing me to communicate with you mentally.

Thanks, I sent back, making an effort to partition my thoughts so he wouldn’t pick up on every little thing that passed through my head. Thank God Alice had been tutoring me in mental defense. I holstered the Webley so I could take the amulet and awkwardly put it over my head with one hand.

I felt the magic cover me the moment the necklace settled against my skin and was quietly impressed. It wasn’t a steel wall of mental defense like I probably would design, it instead was more like a wave breaker that you see off certain shorelines or bays. Instead of trying to stop mental energy from reaching me entirely, it seemed to break it up as it approached, making my natural mental defenses that much more effective. It was elegant and efficient, and it took far more of my willpower than I’d like to admit not to stop and tinker with it, or badger Albright about its composition.

But I couldn’t stop myself from saying the next bit. “You are so not getting this back,” I said with admiration.

Albright laughed quietly. It’s fine, he said, his mental voice now… fuzzier? It was kinda fuzzy, like the audio quality of AM compared to FM radio. We’ll call it an operational expense.

While we were chatting, we passed the remains of the guard station. Greg peeled from formation and poked the ruins, having unslung his massive, belt-fed machine gun from his back during the run. He poked a few smoking bits before running to catch up with us, moving as fast as a car on a surface street.

Clear, I heard him say in my head, with slightly more fuzziness than Albright’s voice. I assumed Albright was acting in a way similar to a wifi-booster, psychically.

Boss, it took me a moment to recognize Walt’s mental voice. No activity outside the building. All doors are locked and warded with alarms, but no overt defensive magic that I can detect. Moving to the roof now.

My threat assessment of Walt rose by several degrees. If he had managed to cover the entirety of what looked like a huge warehouse in the time it took us to cover half the distance to the warehouse, the dude was insanely fast. I’d have to rely heavily on my danger-sense in any confrontation with him. I made a mental note to be less antagonistic to the guy, knowing I would probably fail.

Uh, I began awkwardly. So, I know you are all big bad magical special forces types, but what do we do about guns? I can only block bullets if I know they are coming.

I got it, Kristy said happily.

You got it? I asked.

She’s got it, Roy answered. Bullets aren’t a problem for Kristy, and thus aren’t a problem for us.

That doesn’t really answer my question, I said with growing irritation.

Kristy shot me a grin as her voice sounded in my head. It was slightly off-putting. You’ll see! Unless they don’t shoot at us, then I guess you’ll just be out of luck.

I don’t consider not being shot at an unlucky event, I said, deadpan.

Beats snorted ahead of me.

Kristy nodded. Fair point.

No roof access, Walt reported. I see no duct work or air-conditioning up here. It seems construction stopped as soon as the building had a stable roof and four walls.

Come back, Albright ordered. We’ll breach one of the side doors and get an idea of the layout. I’m picking up many minds inside, but can’t get anything specific through all the psychic noise in the air.

At that announcement, everyone drew a rifle. Kristy’s was a small bull-pup I wasn’t familiar with, but fit her build nicely. Beats’ rifle was an M4A1, tricked out with so many attachments it looked like she was trying to set a record for the bulkiest gun. Roy drew a similar gun to Greg’s, another belt-fed machine gun, but it had a box magazine and he wielded it one-handed. Now that I was looking, I noticed Greg’s gun also had that same box magazine, but unlike Roy’s, it radiated magic. In Roy’s other hand materialized a black heater shield with a closed, silver eye on it. Albright produced an M1 Garand that I was sure wasn’t in his possession a moment ago.

I drew my Webley, feeling slightly inferior until I reminded myself that my gun could damage a tank. Probably. I’ve never actually had access to a tank to test it out. But I was reasonably confident.

I was also wearing jeans and a Hawaiian T-shirt with a weird magical mantle on my arms and shoulders while all of them looked like badass future-SWAT commandos. It was hard not to feel out of place.

I put aside my pride (or lack thereof) and tried the match the sudden all-business demeanor of the group. We stacked up against the door, two on one side and five on the other, with Kristy pulling me to the back to keep me out of the way, presumably. I was happy to allow the professionals do the breaching. Wait, when the fuck had Walt returned?

Beats placed a hand on the wall and squinted. Lots of breathing, she sent. But labored and slow. Many are ill. Phlegm in the lungs. Don’t hear anyone healthy nearby. Should I ping?

Do it, Albright said.

Suddenly there was a sharp, high-pitched crack that seemed to explode from Beats. I flinched from the extremely loud sound, despite the dampening from the earpieces I’d been given. Kristy frowned up at me. Do you have enhanced hearing?

Yes, I replied with a wince. I resisted the urge to rub my ears, not wanting to dislodge the invisible earpieces.

Why didn’t you say so? Walt asked, leaving the “you idiot” unsaid.

You know, I was listing my abilities when someone interrupted me, I replied with an overly chipper voice. Walt sneered at me.

Quiet, Albright commanded. Beats?

It’s a mess in there, boss, she replied. There’s metal everywhere, and bodies, but that’s as much as I can tell. No one is close to the door, though.

Alright. Roy, Greg, breach when ready, Albright said as he did a quick check of his rifle.

You go first, Greg said, jerking his head toward the door.

I went last time, Roy said easily. You’re up.

Is he full of shit, Kristy? Greg asked.

Sadly not, big guy. He was definitely first last time.

Damn, Greg said as he pushed off the wall. He set his stance in front of the door, pushed forward with his back leg while lifting the front and kicking the door...not next to the handle, like you’re supposed to, and not in the center like you see in bad TV—but on the side with the hinges.

And I’ll be damned, he kicked the metal security door clean off its hinges without even grunting, stepping into the room beyond in the same motion. Roy followed a second later, who was then followed by Walt.

Oh, Jesus, Greg said just before we heard two machine guns open up.