Young Writers Society

“Good afternoon, this is the police commissioner's office. I apologise, ma'am, but your line isn't very clear; could you repeat that? Oh, I understand. No, the answer is short enough. If you want to become a part-time crossing guard, you may call your local precinct and ask to speak to the highway safety officer for information and to request an application. Yes, that is all. Thank you, ma'am, you too.”

Angela put the telephone down on the receiver and checked her watch. Another hour until lunch. Tucking one of her ginger curls back behind her ear, she resumed typing the commissioner's response to a request for a protest against cruelty to animals. She only managed to finish the paragraph before the phone rang again.

With a swiftness and precision achieved through years of working as a secretary, she retrieved the phone and put it to her ear.

“Good afternoon, this is the police commissioner's office. Enquiries are normally directed to your local precinct, sir. Yes, I can, but if you–”

And… he just interrupted her. She could just tell him to redirect his question to his local precinct and hang up, but he sounded like the kind of person who would keep calling until his question was answered. She sighed, but not into the phone. The last thing she wanted was another angry citizen crankcalling her every few minutes.

“Is that an aided or collision record? A collision record? Yes, sir, I heard you the first time, I was simply– Please stop interrupting me. Yes, it's discourteous, and I could hang up right now, since we have all the details on our website. It can be found under frequently asked questions. You may also appear in person at the precinct of occurrence and obtain a copy of your collision record there. Yes, sir, as long as it is within thirty days after the date of occurrence. Have a good day.”

Placing the phone back on the receiver, she pursed her lips. People could be so rude when they felt like it. More than half of all the calls she had to answer were because of unnecessary queries. It was as if the public couldn't be bothered to see whether the matters that concerned them had been answered already. It was really–

“Good afternoon, this is the police commissioner's office. Oh? The Internal Affairs Bureau investigates allegations of corruption and serious misconduct against members of the New York City Police Department. If you have a complaint you want to submit, you should call their number. Then have a good day, sir. Yes, thank you.”

Angela barely had time to roll her eyes before another call came through.

Her voice as cheerful as all the times before, she said, “Good afternoon, this is the police commissioner's office.” The one rule all secretaries had to keep in mind was always to be polite, no matter how impatient or irritated the callers made you. “This office does not handle that, ma'am. I advise that you contact your local precinct's community affairs office, since they are responsible for addressing any concerns the community may have in their neighbourhood. The same to you.”

Angela replaced the phone once more, but instead of continuing with the commissioner's response, she stared at the phone, daring it to ring. It did not, granting her forty-seven minutes of much needed silence. After the time period had elapsed, she had only a single call about the Citizens Police Academy program before her watch displayed 1:00 PM. The response was done, and she had quadruple-checked commissioner Virtue's bulleted list of items before saving the message.

The corners of her mouth turning up, she grabbed her handbag and bounced out of the office. However, there was still plenty of administration to be done, so she only stayed away long enough to stop by the deli and coffeeshop before returning. Once back at the office, she leaned back in her chair and sipped on her Americano. After a minute of reclining, she unwrapped her sandwich and took a rather unladylike bite out of it.

Once her lunch was all but devoured, she checked the time. 1:29 PM. There was still time for a bit of reading, so she produced a novel from her handbag and happily became engrossed. Two pages away from the chapter's thrilling end, the phone rang, shattering the immersion. Angela clucked her tongue in irritation and glared at the phone. Who called during lunch hour? When the distasteful sound ceased, she nodded in a gesture that said, “Good riddance!” and returned to the novel.

Of course, whoever called during lunch would probably call again, which they did.

“I'm telling you, sir, she's probably out having–”

“Good afternoon,” Angela said in a voice that clearly conveyed that it had been a good afternoon, “this is the police commissioner's office.”

“Well, I'll be darned! This is Officer Simmons down at the building's entrance. I'm sorry to bother you miss, it being lunch and all, but there is a man here who claims he urgently needs to see the police commissioner. He was quite adamant about it too, and while it's normally out of the question, he said you could corroborate his claim. Does he have an appointment or not?”

She frowned. “No, the police commissioner is currently out with the district attorney.” She held the phone in place with her shoulder and opened her diary. “There aren't any appointments scheduled for later today either.” She closed the diary and held the phone again. “Did this man provide a name?”

“No, miss, but he keeps referring to this letter he has. He says it's from the PC himself.”

“What does it say?”

“I don't know. He won't let me see it. Should I escort him away?”

“Yes, I think that would be– Wait! No, no, nonono!” Angela waved her hand, even though the police officer obviously couldn't see her. “Don't send him away yet! Does the letter have a stamp?”

How could she forget? Mister Virtue had been reminding her about the stupid thing for the past three years. She always indulged him and said she understood, but she never thought he was actually serious.

“Yeah, it does.” His voice became muffled. “Calm down, sir, I can see it perfectly well.” The officer spoke into the phone again. “I'm not too sure if this is the commissioner's seal. It's a capital “A” with some sort of spoked wheel around it that looks kind of like an hourglass.”

Angela paled. “It's a seal the commissioner had created for this very purpose.” She dug through her drawers. “Hold on, he left me instructions around here somewhe– Got it! Okay, err, tell him to go wait in the park at James Madison Plaza. The commissioner will find him there.”

“I thought he was speaking to the DA?”

“He is, but this is more important. Tell this man that the commissioner will be there soon.”

“Will do, miss. Anything else?”

“Yes! Mister Virtue never told me how many there would be, but more people ought to show up with the same letter. Will you just inform all the other officers in the street to be on the lookout for these people and give them directions to the park?”

“Sure thing. Should we call you each time?”

“Yes, just let me know whenever another person shows up.”

“Okay, then. Bye now.”

The line was dead for barely a second before Angela had dialed another number and was waiting for the commissioner's response. After three rings, his sonorous voice answered the call.

“Is something the matter?”

“Yes, sir! There's this man with your letter and the stamp and the wheel and the park and you said I should call and I didn't think you were and–”

The commissioner chuckled, but not unkindly. “You are rambling, my dear. Take a deep breath and try again. What is it that has you so upset?”

After doing as advised, she said shakily, “A man arrived at the building with the letter you sent three years ago. The letter has your stamp on it – your special stamp.”

The commissioner remained silent for a moment. When next he spoke, his tone was slightly more strained.

“Did you tell him to go to the park?”

“Absolutely, sir! I even told the officer down there to spread the word and be on the lookout for any similar cases.”

“Excellent work, Angela. Thank you for being at work despite being on lunch break.”

She blushed. “It's no problem, sir. But what do I do now?”

“You keep being the star you already are and man those phones.”

His voice was audible in the background, but unlike with the police officer, she couldn't hear what he was saying. Presumably, he was apologising to the district attorney for having to abandon him.

“Sir?”

A few more seconds of background dialogue occurred. “Don't worry, my dear. I only said goodbye and paid the bill. I shall be at the park in fifteen minutes.”

When he came to, he found himself lying atop a small pile of garbage strewn across the corner of a dark alleyway. Eerily empty, dark, cold, water dripping from a source high above his head onto puddles formed from indentations in the ground, the source of which he could not identify. However, given the murkiness of the water, he thought he probably would be better off not knowing. He was lying on top of cardboard boxes, rusty tins, glass bottles. The works.

Not the way he wanted his first remembered moment to go.

A nasty headache embroiled his senses as he tried to lift his head from off the ground, causing him to fall back down upon the pile. He could hear a glass bottle rolling away, and craned his head ever so slightly to catch sight of it as it bounced its way towards a light that was difficult to see. Mainly because it was so bright. His vision beginning to focus, he saw that it was the product of a massive amount of dizzying amount of objects reflecting the midday sun’s rays. Whether from billboards poised from across the street that the alley branched off of, cabs and cars whose lights flickering various colors as the rat race doggedly pursued its goal of moving from one destination to the next, or that reflected from the windows of the multitude of buildings around him, light was everywhere. Ears caught the voices of hundreds – no, thousands, if not more – people. Walking, talking, jogging, laughing. In cars whizzing past, taking pictures, vendors selling food. Noxious odors inflamed his nostrils, jolting him into a semi-conscious state as they demanded to be let free from whatever smelly trap they were captured in.

Needless to say, all those impressions and sense were overwhelming. His vision grew blurry and shaky as he tried once again to lift his head. The headache beginning to fade, he had some success, and he rubbed that area of his anatomy with one of his hands. “Oooggh,” he moaned quietly as he looked around. “Where in the world am – I?” When he saw the pile of trash he was sitting on, he jumped up in shock and fright.

“Is that the smell!?” he grumbled in rage and disgust as he brushed away the trash still stuck to his shirt. Black spots danced at the edge of his vision when he gazed at the other end of the alley, and so he diverted his gaze back towards the darkness, moving towards a corner where it wasn’t so loud and so confusing. Lifting up one of the glass bottles, he snarled at it, ranting “And why was I sleeping on a pile of…”

His mind, which was working at frantic and hasty pace, finally reached a surprising conclusion. He peered into the glass bottle with curiosity, recognizing with frustration that he knew the word for this object. He knew what it should look like. And yet he had never seen one like it before. As a matter of fact, the more he pondered, he remembered absolutely nothing before now. It seemed he was an amnesiac. This troubled him more than any revelation he had faced to this point, without a doubt.

Taking a step back in alarm, he tossed the glass bottle back towards the trash pile, where it collided with a sharp object and shattered into pieces. Covering his head with his hands and closing firmly shut his eyes, he wheeled around to avoid being struck in the face by any of the shards. The noise was a cannon in his already overstimulated mind, and his heart-rate doubled out of fear and the concern that he’d been injured. He felt a mouse shut in a cage – trapped, lonely, confused. He wasn’t sure where he was, wasn’t sure why he couldn’t remember anything, and wasn’t sure what had happened to him, nor was what was going to happen to him. However, upon the realization that he felt no pain, he gathered the energy to open his eyes and look down.

Nothing. He wasn’t dead. He could see a few scuffs on his jeans, but the shards didn’t seem to have struck any skin. Sighing in relief, he subsequently spent time investigating his outfit. Simple, neutral colors, bland. He was wearing blue jeans, a brown T-shirt, and a black cap on his head. He didn’t like it, but it was the least of his concerns.

It was then that he felt something in his back pocket. Reaching into it, he pulled out a small, unopened letter with a peculiar stamp. The stamp, which seemed to be a capital “A” with a spoked wheel design around it that resembled an hourglass, wasn’t like anything he’d seen before. Curious that not even his laser-guided amnesia could identify this, he cracked open the letter and unfolded it. And, subsequently, read it.

When he was finished, he had the distinct urge to crumple it up, throw it far away, and light it on fire. Except, of course, if this Archibald, or whoever he was, was correct, it would not be in his best interests do that. Which annoyed him mercilessly. The letter had served to answer many of his questions, but it left more than answers. What kind of experiment was he a part of? What did they do to him? Why did they bring him here, to New York City? What kind of world did he come from?

He gazed at the alleyway entrance. By now, his headache had mostly dissipated, and his senses had grown used to his environment. Nudging a cardboard box out of the way, he held the letter in his hands as he carefully and steadily stepped forward. The man’s warnings about the dangers of the world left him even more uneasy than he already was, even though his mind was beginning to get a handle of things. Besides, he was still trying to comprehend the contents of the letter. He was formerly what? What kind of powers was he going to gain? Why in the hell did he remove all of his memories, drop him into this mess, and invade his mind the way he did?

And, if that was the case, could he trust him at all?

He flinched when he stepped over a puddle of water, but peered into it when he noticed a reflection of his face. Surprisingly, he seemed well-shaven and clean, except for the ruffled mess that was his hair. He combed it over with his hands, but it was surprisingly rebellious, resisting his efforts as soon as he tried. After a few tries, he gave up. A few tiny gray-colored scars next to his left eye, which was a clear blue, caught his attention. Once again, he had no memories of what they were or where they had come from. Why was all of this happening to him? Not only did his mind have to deal with the disparity of his memories and his knowledge, he had to grapple with this complicated state of affairs, and it was hard for him to fully grasp the magnitude of the situation he was in. Why had he agreed to cooperate with this man to fight against the very person who had experimented on him?

Regardless, seeing that there was no point in staying in the alley any longer, as it might invite the danger Mr. Virtue was speaking of, he reached the end of the alleyway and stepped out onto the sidewalk…only to be immediately overwhelmed again.

New York City was massive. He hadn’t known what to expect previously, but he was shocked by the array of streets that stretched as far as he could see. Countless buildings were open and active with people, a flood of lights from their great expanses stretching above his head. Thousands of cars drove past in a frantic frenzy, blaring and honking as they narrowly missed each other. The sights of countless billboards and signs adorning buildings, on top of all of these others, made him feel dizzy once again. This was a city of not thousands, nor even hundreds of thousands, but millions of people. Breathing, living, eating, sleeping, and all at the same time. Looking for some sort of way to distract himself from this second wave of sounds and sights, he buried himself into the letter again, reading it from the beginning. It didn’t help him learn anything more than he already knew, but it kept his mind away from his surroundings. It kept his mind distracted and focused on something slightly easier to process, although not by much.

“Hey, you there!” called a voice after a minute. The amnesiac, after a few more seconds of reading the letter, recognized that someone was talking to him. Stuffing the letter into his back pocket again, he wheeled around to face a curious and smiling gentleman. “What’s your business? You seem lost.”

“I…ah…er…,” said the amnesiac, remembering the words in the letter as he tried to come up with a decent response. The words flowing in his head made it hard for him to even try to focus on something as simple as conversation. He had to, however, come up with a creative excuse, and fast, because the gentleman was starting to look confused and awkward. Finally, after a moment’s deliberation, he came up with one. “I just got a letter from a friend. She wants to see me at James Madison Plaza. It sounds serious.” The words of the letter imprinted in his mind, he hadn’t asked for directions to the police headquarters, mainly as he was worried that the stranger would ask for a reason. And he hadn’t any good enough reasons in his mind that would hide his true intentions. Besides, he resolved, Archibald had likely chosen a spot not very far away from the police headquarters. Which meant it couldn’t take that long of a search to find it, right?

The gentleman, who was momentarily taken aback by the seriousness of this remark, regained his composure and winked at the amnesiac. “Sure she does,” he said in a tone that suggested that he understood what this “serious” business was. The amnesiac didn’t catch on. The amnesiac was too distracted to even be offended. “But it really is a beautiful place, I must admit. A stone’s throw away from the City Hall and many of the city’s great skyscrapers. Of course, the Police Commissioner’s office is right in between it and the hall, which does damper the beauty a little, but it’s otherwise a fine place. Do you need directions? I could call a cab for you if you…”

“Nah, I’m fine,” said the amnesiac suddenly, after having poured through another section of the letter. “I just need the directions, that’s all. I don’t need any other help. I can just walk.” When he recognized what the other man had said, he found himself pleased for the first time today. Now he had an exact idea of where his destination was, which pleased him immensely. It made his life – or whatever he could call his recognition and memory of his existence – a little easier.

“Are you crazy?” replied the gentleman in alarm. “Don’t you know? The city hall is in Manhattan, and you’re in Brooklyn. Ah, you’re probably dazed or something. Maybe a long night’s drinking’s got you all confused. No, let me call a cab; they’ll get you there quicker, and you won’t be as likely to get run over.”

The amnesiac was about to express his disapproval at the time and refuse the gentleman’s help, but the man was already signaling for a taxi to pull over. Well, he thought as he saw one of the cars – a sleek-looking, polished yellow one – heed the man’s call and pull over where the two were standing, Arch didn’t want me to get any help, but if he’s the one who gave me amnesia, messed with my mind, and left me like this, I have just as much a right to do the same to his advice.

“Have any money with you?” asked the gentleman as the taxi driver unrolled his window. When the amnesiac shook his head, the gentleman reach into his own pockets and pulled out a few dollars. Handing them to the taxi driver, who nodded, the gentleman gestured towards the amnesiac and said, “take this man to the James Madison Plaza, won’t’cha? He’s meeting a friend there; very serious.” While the taxi driver chuckled in response, having come to the same conclusion as the gentleman did, the gentleman opened one of the back doors for the amnesiac.

The amnesiac squeezed into the back, surprised to find how tall he was. In his dazed and overwhelmed state, a simple “thanks” was all he could muster to the gentleman.

“Not a problem,” he replied. “I just like to help people, and you seemed like you needed a good turn yourself. Best of luck with you and your friend!”

And, with that, the gentleman closed the door, and the taxi drove off, joining the long and winding procession of cars that composed the streets of New York City.

******

The amnesiac sat by the door of the cab, observing what lay beyond the other side of the window. In the confined and less noisy space of the taxi, he felt more at ease. Through his vantage point, he could observe the enormity that had been so overwhelming before, though this time without feeling like all his senses were being assaulted by an unknown force. Cars whizzed by in all directions to the tune of traffic lights flashing red and green, and it was hard not to be awed when he saw how long the streets around him stretched, not to mention the multitudes of cares that packed so many of them. It was confusing and annoying, sure. Random, noisy, none of the things he particularly liked. But the sheer size was impressive. Though he was angry to have absolutely no memory whatsoever, a small part of him was almost glad that he had gained his first experiences and sensations here.

The cab driver, who had been previously silent, gazed into the small mirror that gave him a view of the back. Seeing the stranger silently contemplate his surroundings, the driver decided to start some small talk. Find out who this odd person was, what was distracting them so much, and why they were going to their destination. Turning around to stare at the stranger while continue to drive – he had enough confidence in his abilities – he asked, “What’s your name?”

It took a few seconds for the amnesiac to register this. Turning to face the cab driver with a surprised expression, he stammered, “well…my name…is…” Rattling his brain to come up with a response, the amnesiac finally said “Isaiah. My name is Isaiah.” He grumbled to himself for having asserted his own made-up name in front of the cab driver as he turned to stare out the window in embarrassment. He worried that the cab driver perhaps wouldn’t believe him, and thus prod on. Which, given how focused he was on his surroundings, and how jarring his time so far had been, was not something he wanted.

The cab driver, however, wasn’t bothered. Seeing the stranger was distracted by something else that was evidently important, he stared for a few more seconds and turned around. They remained silent as the cab slowly made its way through the congested Brooklyn streets. Neither spoke to the other, and both were fine with that. One had a job to complete; another had a world to comprehend. These jobs weren’t equal, but they did call for the same course of action. And so the only noise was the sound of other cars driving past them, the honking of horns, and the occasional sound of planes overhead.

Within a couple of minutes, the cab had reached the Brooklyn Bridge. The amnesiac was, once again, enthralled by the sight before him. The massive river beneath him loomed, moving slowly underneath the light of the midday sun, whose bright light beat fiercely over the entirety of the city, exposing it to his view. If he craned his head and stared ahead, he could see the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan Island, which touched the sky with their great steel-and-glass expanses, catching the sun’s earliest rays in flickers of light that danced in the amnesiac’s eyes. The disparity between his memory and knowledge proved slightly frustrating, but it didn’t detract much from the amazing sight in his vision.

New York City was his entire world now. Wherever he had come from was a place he had forgotten all about. This was the only city he could’ve remembered being in, and he was rather fine with that. He was beginning to appreciate the fact that, in spite of the chaos he saw all around him, the city was also an orderly place. Millions of people in rhythm, moving from place to place, working, living their lives. Boats sailed underneath the bridge while cars moved in an orderly fashion either towards Manhattan or Brooklyn, but always heading somewhere with some intention in mind. It was organized randomness, from top to bottom, he concluded. And, oddly enough, he was struck by the feeling that this was the place he wanted to explore every single inch of. He hoped he would have the ability to do so. For not only did the world turn out to have so many good and so many terrible things, it happened to be big, which was an understatement. Still, it felt like something he could actually enjoy doing. A challenge, a puzzle for his mind to process and interpret. He still needed to develop his interpersonal skills, not to mention figure out what his powers were going to…

Reality struck him as he realized where exactly he was going to. Isaiah had been so caught up and swept around by the city and his own thoughts that he had put aside his growing anger at the police commissioner. Or was he the police commissioner? How could he trust such a person after having learned about that person had claimed to have done to him? The amnesiac debated if this was some kind of trap. What if Archibald wasn’t the police commissioner, and this was some kind of trick to have him arrested and imprisoned? What if this was a trick perpetrated by the people who had apparently experimented on him? However, the more the amnesiac thought, the more he came to the conclusion that he had nowhere else to go. He was a stranger to this world and all of its people, and this letter was the only thing he had that gave any sort of idea as to his identity. Mr. Virtue had promised him answers; the stranger had devoted much of his short life here so far attempting to reach him. If this was a trick, at least he would know some of those answers. Frankly, he had no other choice but to find the Police Commissioner’s office. It was the only chance he had of finding out who he was. And he needed to talk it while he could.

The cab drove over the Bridge and entered Manhattan, where it made a beeline towards the James Madison Plaza. In spite of the heavy traffic, time flew by as the strange contemplated his situation. Too, the plaza was not far away, and, save for a couple of turns, almost straight ahead of the road that detached from the bridge.

“Here you are!” called the cab driver when the taxi pulled up alongside the sidewalk surrounding the tree-fringed place that was James Madison Plaza. For the thousandth time that day, the distracted amnesiac was caught off guard. However, regaining his composure, he opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, the letter stuffed into one of his jean’s pockets.

“By the way,” the amnesiac said, right before the cab driver prepared to detach and join the throng of cars in the street, “is the City Hall not far from here?”

“The City Hall?” repeated the cab driver in curiosity, before pointing towards a large and imposing building somewhat in the distance, partially blocked by other huge structures in the city. Everything is massive here, thought Isaiah while the cab driver noted, “It’s right over there. I wouldn’t advise walking to it, but it’s not a far drive from where we are at the park here. If you want to get a better idea, you know our direction from here to intersection of Madison and Pearl Street? That’s where the Police Headquarters are, by the way. Just keep following that direction until you see a massive building surrounded by trees and shrubbery – that’s the City Hall. Best of luck to you wherever you go, and let’s hope you get that business taken care of!” With a last wink and a laugh, the cab driver sped off, blending into the sea of almost identical-looking taxis and multitudes of cars that formed the backbone of the city streets.

A pleased amnesiac waved him away, and subsequently proceeded down the sidewalk around the plaza. He looked at the ground and blended into the crowd, hoping to remain hidden until he reached the Police Commissioner’s Office. A few steps behind a small crowd of eagerly chatting tourists, he followed them across the plaza until he neared the crossing that separated him from One Police Plaza. Detaching from the crowd, he reached the intersection of Madison and Pearl Street and made to cross it. However, as he crossed the surprisingly empty intersection to search for the building’s entrance, a few steps found him directly in front of a police officer, who quickly halted him.

“Aren’t you aware that this building is closed to civilian access?” said the officer in a calm, but eerily wary tone.

Isaiah’s face paled when he saw the holstered gun on the officer’s belt – the word and the use of the object sprung from his mind when he saw it, though, like everything else, he had no memory of it – but he held his ground firmly, unwilling to be deterred from his goal, and stated: “I beg to differ. The police commissioner summoned me here, officer. I have a letter that specifically states –”

“Can I see this letter, sir?” the officer inquired, staring up at Isaiah with an expression that communicated distrust. Despite the officer obviously being shorter, he conveyed this impression of strength and control that intimidated Isaiah. Or, rather, it would’ve, if his anger didn’t counter and drive away such feelings.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” stated the amnesiac, though he did subsequently pull out the letter, “as it’s very personal, and the commissioner said –”

“Oh, so the commissioner wrote this?” questioned the policeman with a raised eyebrow. “Well, if he wrote it, he must’ve obviously expected that you would come and be blocked by security, so what does he suggest I do?”

“You don’t believe me?” shot back Isaiah in shock and frustration. He was growing tired of talking with this policeman to begin with, as he was serving as an obstacle to his goal, but now this same officer didn’t believe his claim? A brief flicker of doubt flashed through the amnesiac’s mind about the reputability of this letter, but he refuted it with the same logic as he had before. Besides, he realized, opening the letter and reading through it quickly, he did have an answer to the policeman’s question. “yes…yes…he suggests that you contact his…office. That’s it. Contact his office, sir, and as soon as possible.”

“Alright,” replied the policeman after a second. “I’ll call your bluff and contact him. However, if you’re wrong, I want you gone as soon as possible. Okay?”

The stranger nodded, and waited as the policeman pulled out a phone and dialed a number. However, after a few audible rings on the other end, the phone silenced without any response. The policeman sighed audibly, well-aware of what would happen when dropped the evidently bad news onto the amnesiac. “His secretary doesn’t seem to be available, I’m assuming she’s –"

“Maybe?” snarled Isaiah. “I’ve come to this building with expressed permission on the hand of the head of the organization you serve, contained in this letter here, and I can’t see him because his secretary was coincidentally unavailable? Do you think I’m that stupid and crazy? Call this secretary again; if this letter is true, she’ll have to respond eventually.”

“I’m telling you, sir,” replied the policeman as he dialed the number again and listened to the ringing, “she’s probably out having –”

And then a voice rose from the other end of the phone, catching the policeman’s attention. Isaiah grew quiet and wary as he sparked a conversation with the speaker. While he couldn’t hear this said speaker, the officer’s words gave him all the information he needed to know about the conversation that was taking place. Though he was infuriated when the man suggested escorting him away, this feeling was instantly evaporated when the officer placed his hand over the phone, turned to face the amnesiac and stated, “she wants to know what the stamp on your letter looks like.”

Overwhelmed by a sense of euphoria and excitement, he rushed up to the surprised officer, waving the letter erratically before presenting the object in question to the office. “See? ” he yelled ecstatically, “It does have a stamp, and she didn’t even look at it to know! Wasn’t I correct? The letter is true, every single word of it!”

“Yes, yes,” admitted the policeman, gently pushing the letter away after spending a few seconds inspecting it. “Yeah, it does have a stamp. Calm down, sir, I can see it perfectly well.” Isaiah took a few steps back as the officer returned to addressing the secretary. He beamed as he collected his thoughts, happy to see that his efforts had finally managed to succeed.

After a minute more of conversation, the policeman ended the call. “Well,” the officer concluded, “I’ve been instructed to tell you to wait at James Madison Plaza. The police commissioner will be there soon to talk to you.”

“Ah,” said the amnesiac happily. “I’ve just come that way, so it won’t be any problem. But now that I know I’ll be finally speaking with this man, I can’t wait.”

His smile adjusted into a frown. “I have a lot of questions for him, and he’d better be prepared to have some damn good answers for them.”

Alex found it hard to move. The sheer size of the buildings astounded him. If it were an other day, he'd probably just marvel in their gleaming beauty. He recalled a fuzzy picture of a gleaming spire shooting up into the sky, over the trees. It felt like an impossible distance between him and the spire, it broke the sky, and for some reason that angered him. It felt wrong. Now looking up at the buildings Alex could feel nothing but astonishment. They surrounded him like a grove of trees. Alex took his eyes off the buildings and looked around him. People of all different sizes and colors flowed around him. They felt to him like robots, eyes forward or down, always marching off to some far away destination, no one paused to even glance at him as they walked past him. Alex took out his note again. It'd been in his pocket when he'd woken up.

Before you proceed with reading this letter, take a deep breath. Take a few, actually. Once you have composed yourself as much as someone in your state can be, continue reading.

If there is any merit to stories revolving around amnesiacs, you will be asking four questions in particular. I shall answer those questions systematically, but any others will have to wait until later, after we have met in person.

The first question will likely be “Who am I?” I don’t know who you are. You could have hailed from any background, good or bad. All I know is that you were one of many subjects who willingly and unwillingly participated in a dreadful experiment.

“Where am I?” ought to be your next question. You are in one of the five boroughs of New York City. You originally come from another universe, but I suspect you will never be able to return. Though many dangers lurk in this world, there are also innumerable wonders waiting to be discovered. Stay beside the busy roads when travelling, and you won’t be harmed.

Next, you might ask “How did I get here?” You arrived here because the experiment of which you were part entailed interdimensional travel. New York City was the chosen destination because it would not surprise the local inhabitants if something “odd” were to happen here – according to popular culture, at least.

Your final question, and arguably the most important, should be “Why can’t I remember anything?” Whereas I didn’t choose you, decide where to send you, or transport you here, I am responsible for erasing your memory. I can’t give them back to you, and even if I could, I shouldn’t. I have valid reasons for that, but if you want to hear them – and I assume it is all that matters to you, at the moment – you must come see me first.

Before I list the relevant address, you must know something. You are a human now, but you weren’t before. You were what we called a “Pokémon”, which is a fantastic being capable of wielding magic, aura, and many other types of energy. However, you will never again have all those powers at your disposal; instead, you will gradually regain four. I am responsible for this restriction as well, for he who brought you here wanted to conquer and possibly destroy this world, named “earth”. I had to limit his potential for disaster, but I nevertheless had to ensure I could resist him. That is where you come in.

You are reading this letter because you agreed to help me oppose our enemy. If I estimated the duration of the delay correctly, you, along with the other, more hostile, subjects, will arrive approximately a decade after our foe and me. I did this so that I may establish myself and find sufficient support for the struggle that is to come. At this point in time, seven of those ten years have passed already. After I send this letter, I shall have spent the last of my power that is not already sealed away. Then, I shall only be a mortal servant of these hapless people.

Although you have no recollection of your previous life, you will find you can still speak, walk, read, write, and perform a variety of other actions. These are my own memories which I have inserted into your mind. As invasive as that may sound, it is the only way to ensure that you reach me without attracting undue attention. Ask for directions to One Police Plaza, located between Park Row, Madison Street, and Pearl Street. The building is closed to civilians, so once you are stopped by a police officer, tell them to call my office. My secretary will tell the officer to describe the stamp on your letter, and once he has, she will ask him to send you to wait in the park in James Madison Plaza. Wait there until I arrive to fetch you.

As a last note of caution, reveal nothing of this to anyone. If somebody offers any help other than providing directions, thankfully decline. If, for some reason, you end up at New York City Hall, leave. Immediately.

I shall see you in three years. I wish you an uneventful walk.

Yours sincerely,
Ney York City Police Commissioner
[signature]
Archibald Virtue

Pocketing the note, Alex looked around. The note said to go to the Police Plaza on Park Row, Madison, and Pearl Street. Alex wondered if the street signs had any meaning to them. Joining the crowd, he decided to wander around and see the sights before complying to the note and getting directions to the Police Plaza.

In the middle of the forest of gleaming metal buildings sat a park. This confused Alex, If whoever built the city wanted to replace all the wild life with buildings, as it clearly seemed like they had intended to, then why leave a park in the center of the city? Alex decided to check out the park, taking a step towards the gate.

''Looking for something kid?''

Alex turned, a police officer approached him.

''Uhm. I was wondering if i could enter the park.''

The officer shook his head.

''Nope, but i'll tell you what you can do. Do you happen to have a letter on you?''

Alex nodded. How did he know? Why would he ask for it anyway?

''I do, why?''

''May I see it?''

Alex pulled out the note and handed it to the officer. When he'd first woken up, he'd been in the panic. He'd ripped the envelope to shreds. Now he felt slightly embarrassed as the officer scanned the shredded envelope.

''Ah here it is. Hey kid. See that building over there. That's City Hall.''

Alex followed the officers finger to a gleaming white Victorian era building, then he immediately remembered what the letter said at the end.

If you find yourself at the City Hall, leave immediately.

Alex felt himself freezing up. He prayed that the officer didn't expect something.

''U-Um. I...''

The officer immediately went for his walkie talkie. Alex turned and ran, sprinting across the street and into an alley. The end of the alley was a brick wall. Alex only had time to groan before the cop tackled him into the wall.

''Stay still kid. Stay still and their won't be any more trouble.''

Alex gave up. Together, they walked to City Hall.

Whatever she was wearing, it was not nearly enough for the weather. On instinct, she curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms around her legs and snuggling into the grass underneath her cheek.

Back up. Something was wrong with that. You know, the whole grass thing. That meant she was on the ground, which, for some reason, while very comforting, also seemed like inappropriate behavior. Upon realizing this fact, she scrambled to her feet and rubbed her hands against the sleeves of her knit sweater as though it might somehow help her warm up.

A bully of a breeze chose that inopportune moment to swell through the park. With a yelp, the young woman shivered and sent an accusing glare in the direction of the wind. "Thanks a lot," she muttered.

Eager to get out of the cold, she looked around for a building. A wide expanse of greenery, most of it devoid of people, stretched in all directions, cut off several hundred yards away by a ring of bare trees. Beyond the trees rose the spikey, silver tops of skyscrapers. It was an odd juxtaposition to be sure.

"I think no matter which direction I go, there'll be somewhere warm." Shrugging, she picked a random direction and started walking.

Before long, she chanced upon a wide, paved road cutting through a smattering of trees. Benches lined the walkway, and their occupants snuggled together, people-watching and admiring the stark contrast of dark branches and bright blue sky. They wore bright coats, and the young woman couldn't help but feel a little stupid for not having warmer clothing.

An empty bench sat a ways down on the right, and when she noticed a well-dressed man flipping through a novel across the street, an epiphany struck. She had paper in her hands, didn't she? It was probably important, maybe moreso than warmth, and that black metal bench looked perfect for a short sit-down.

Feeling like she could fit in, she strolled to the bench, side-stepping a shiny puddle in the road and plopping down. The metal bars were actually less comfortable than ideal, but if everyone else could deal with discomfort, she could too. Licking her lips, she peeled the paper apart and unfolded it.

It was a letter, and one so objective in tone but grim in message that the young lady couldn't help but allow a suspicious frown to take her lips. It was all true, of course, though she hadn't given the whole amnesiac thing much thought yet--getting situated came first, and then the crazy brain stuff--but the letter's author just sounded too calm for the situation.

"Hoity toity government officials," she muttered. Standing, she folded the paper into a crisp triangle and stuffed it into the pockets in her skirt. Somehow, simply having pockets in a skirt lifted her mood a touch. "Welp, might as well go check things out. If I don't like what I find, I'll just make an excuse and get out of helping this Virtue guy." Amnesia sounded like a decent excuse; it wasn't like she could remember giving consent to anything.

Covertly asking for help in this neck of the woods didn't seem like an easy task. The people looked like locals, and if the letter was correct, asking how to get to a police station might be suspicious. Even asking for the street might be odd.

Dusting off her skirt, the young woman peered towards the right. Further down the walkway, it seemed there might be an exit to the streets, and maybe a bit of wandering would take her to one of the places mentioned in the letter.

The park exit opened to a set of white stone buildings and a wider street, though she had a suspicion New York City was full of far bigger things. They had a giant field in the middle of a set of buildings, after all. Taking a deep breath, she surveyed the crossing street, curious as to where it led. When careful examination showed them to be equally tree-covered and boring in building design, she opted for the direction that didn't have food stands to tempt her moneyless stomach.

Several blocks of the same old white-brick buildings later, she noticed a sudden abundance of people mulling about. They dressed differently from the people in the park, all wrapped in ski coats and sporting fanny packs around their waists. Some wore actual backpacks, often with rolled up maps jutting from a pocket, or sweater sleeves hanging from an open zipper.

These funny-looking people were mostly headed in the same direction she was, and the realization led to yet another epiphany. Stopping on the side of the walkway, she watched a family of four with two teenagers shuffle by and decided she must be headed for a tourism hot spot. Lucky lucky! If she posed as a tourist, she could ask any equally clueless person with a phone for directions, and they would be none the wiser about her intentions or situation.

That tourism hotspot was the Metropolitan Art Museum. Three giant banners adorned the front entrance, contributing their bright splashes of color to the white, neoclassical facade.

"New Look at a Van Eyck Masterpiece," the young lady read. "Korea: One-Hundred years of collecting. Those sound cool. Shame I don't have time to see them right now." After a deep breath, she glanced around in search of a particularly clueless-looking group of tourists.

Not two yards away stood four beach-tanned fellow young people. They all had the same crimped, hair and looked like fish out of water in their light sports jackets and shorts. And it might have been a personal bias, but the young woman thought they sounded a bit air-headed. She twiddled her fingers and gave herself a pep-talk.

"You can do this. No one will think it's weird if you ask for directions. Promise." Deep breath number two. "And go. Now." Feeling gawkish and stiff, she inched towards the group and schooled her mouth into a bright, peaches-and-cream smile. "Excuse me," she said.

All at once, the tourists faced her. They smiled back, which was reassuring, but when the young woman took too long to respond, her heartbeat sped up. What if they thought she was suspicious? She couldn't look too suspicious, right?

"Um, I lost my map, and I was... wondering if you could lend me yours, or help me get directions somehow?"

"You have a phone, right?" asked a tourist with bleached hair. He looked like a stereotypical lifeguard. Maybe he was one.

She shook her head. This was a terrible, awful, no good idea.

The lifeguard shrugged. "Well, you talk like you wouldn't, so whatever." His friends crowded in closer, still smiling, and he fished a phone from the deep pockets of his shorts. Or maybe those were swimming trunks. "Where are you trying to get?"

"Pearl Street."

"Gotcha. Let's see what Google can do."

They waited for a few moments while the phone searched the internet, and a black-haired woman in the group pushed to the front. "Are you from Charlottesville?" she asked. "My grandparents live there, and you talk like them. Oh! Maybe you're in the Chinese Gospel Church too!"

Thankfully, the man with the phone shoved away his friend before she could dig too far. Holding out a pen, he squinted at his phone's screen. "Okay, so you're gonna head down this street, Fifth Ave, and then take a... left on Eighth, and then it looks like a right on Lafayette."

Nodding, the young woman scratched out the directions on the back of her letter. She thought the purple ink was a bit tacky, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"I think Lafayette has some name changes, but you're gonna go left onto Worth St, and if you keep going, you'll reach this tight building complex where literally all the streets are called Pearl Street. I think they're walking only though, so you'll have to park your car somewhere."

The young woman blanched. These people assumed she was driving. Was the walk that long? To hide her worry, she kept her face angled toward her paper and clicked the pen. Once she managed to contain herself, she beamed up at the tourists and thanked them.

"No problem," they chorused. The lifeguard offered a thumbs-up and turned back in towards his group without asking for his pen.

Even in tennis shoes, the walk could be considered gruelling. Simply trekking past Central park left red marks on the young woman's feet, courtesy of her stiff flats. They were as bad as heels, probably, and she didn't even have the little hose-sock things to ward off the sweat. Once she made it into Expensive-as-the-devil Shopping Central, she had a blister on her left heel.

She stopped keeping stock of foot injuries after that. Partially because thinking about the blisters would only make them hurt more, but also because she had to stop and admire the plaza in front of some great art-deco skyscraper called the Rockefeller building.

It was not the prettiest of buildings, just another sensible brown tower in the sea of other, more brightly-colored towers, but Mr. Virtue's inserted memories told her the interior was something else entirely.

And it seemed everything of importance was stationed on Fifth Avenue. Soon enough, she chanced upon the sparkling white public library with its two dressed up lions on either side. Old buildings with shiny glass additions surrounded the library on all sides, separated by a serene boundary of trees and grass. That too went on the young woman's to-see list.

As did the Empire State Building, and Korea Town, which did not smell spicy. (Though that might have just been because she kept to the big street.) By the time she reached Eight Street, she was thoroughly beaten, and tired, and all the wonder and amazement had gotten a bit dull.

That worked out just fine, because East Eighth Street looked like everything else in New York: recently renovated and already a little moldy. Except for the occasional break in red brick by some cement upstart, the street was monotone. There weren't even many restaurants to tempt the young woman's very empty stomach.

Though a giant, black building sat proud and modern at the befuddling three-way intersection for Lafeyette Street, the buildings only aged further from there. Some were neat and tidy and restored, adorable in their red and white colonial decor, but others were smothered in grafitti. Chinatown smelled like dead fish and stir fry, which would have been a pleasing combination, had the two scents not been a block apart.

And then, finally, she reached Worth Street. The intersection there was a sudden explosion of federal style buildings and the new-age, curved glass of yet more skyscrapers. It screamed government. The complex of Pearl Streets was only a block further, and she thought she'd found salvation, or something like it, at least.

Turning down the first Pearl Street she found, the young woman sighed in relief. Enjoying the huddled buildings and cramped, pedestrian-only streets, she wandered this way and that, happy to have finally made headway. Her feet were probably bleeding, but surely a police commisioner could hook her up with some band-aids.

She located the park from the letter with little difficulty. Tucked between the street and the white-grey buildings, it was a sad and lonely spot of green, and without leaves on the trees, it wasn't exactly that green either. A few people sat on benches, snarfing down their lunches, which made the young lady terribly jealous. Her stomach even gurgled.

Embarrassed, and hoping no one was close enough to hear, she clutched her letter to her chest and tiptoed into the park. The winter grass was damp, and it squealched underfoot.

"Eww," she whimpered. "I'm cold, and hungry, and probably bleeding, and to add insult to injury, my feet are wet. Meeting Mr. Virtue had better be worth it." At least it was sunny now.

A few tentative steps further (which, admittedly, took longer than they should have), she noticed a very tall man in a brown t-shirt. He clearly didn't belong with the late lunchers, not dressed like that, and he seemed to be looking her way.

Was she that noticeable? A dressy, knit sweater and a skirt couldn't be as far a cry from business clothing as t-shirt dude's jeans and baseball cap. She probably fit in better than he did.

But then he started towards her, and the young woman flinched. She clutched her letter tighter for a moment before realizing it might have been the very thing that attracted the stranger's attention and slapping the papers behind her back.

"Oh! I didn't mean to scare you," the stranger called. "I actually have one of those letters as well." As he drew closer, he held up his own folded letter, complete with the red stamp, though probably no directions scrawled in purple ink. "Would you mind if I looked at yours? It might have more information than mine."

The young lady stepped backwards. "Um, I probably shouldn't show it to anyone."

"We could trade."

"I don't know, I really just sort of skimmed it, and I might want to read it again later and so maybe..." Nevermind. She sounded stupid right then. So, so stupid.

The tall man looked incredulous, and a little glint reflected off his eyes, like he was either amused, or annoyed, or both. "You wake up without any personal memories, only some inserted information from the man who erased your past and a strange letter, and you don't read that letter closely?"

"No." She was the most airheaded person alive. "All the stuff in here happened in the past. It's not like there was anything I could do about the situation except come here. No one says I have to do anything special after this."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at things," the tall man said. He ran a hand through his bird's nest of black hair and sighed.

"Um, if you tell me what I look like, you can have my letter."

Straight away, the man brightened. He even smiled, and the young lady took another step back, suddenly worried that she hadn't thought this deal through. There were tales about making deals, and they never worked out very well.

"In all of the city, you never managed to find a reflection of yourself? Well, I suppose I can work with that deal. What do you want to know?"

Fiddling with the dried-out ends of her hair, she bit her lip and pondered her question. "Someone asked if I went to a Chinese Gospel Church. Am I Chinese?"

"You certainly look Asian, but I'm not sure which ethnicity." The tall man frowned. "Now, before you continue, if I may ask, how far did you walk to get here? You have a veritable galaxy of popped blisters on your feet."

She dropped her head down quicker than turning off a light switch and found that--bless her stopped up honeysuckle heart--her nude flats had blossomed with red and brown. Still looking down, she held out her letter. "Take it. I'm using your letter to wipe off as much blood as I can."

There was a cold breeze to the air - had she fallen asleep outside, again? Wait... was that something she did a lot? Did she do it at all?

The girl opened her eyes slowly and found herself curled up in a ball, head pillowed on her woolly arms in a cramped enclosure. No, that wasn't right. Head pillowed on her red, woolly jumper. Aha! The girl tried to sit up and bumped her head on something so she flopped onto her back instead and looked up at the blue, blue - sky? No. Plastic.

She lay there for a moment, blinking and adjusting and then wriggled out from under the plastic and dragged herself into a sitting position in front of a red, blue and yellow miniature house.

The girl held her arms out in front of her, yes, red sleeves of red jumper covering arms, therefore woolly arms; good for sleeping on. Gotcha.

She felt a bit stiff so she wriggled her toes and her fingers and a letter dropped out of her hand. Oh. Who put that there? Maybe it was from a friend or the person who lived in the miniature house - how exciting! The girl tore open the envelope and started to read. She took the deep breath and then a few more, but she wasn't sure what state she was in exactly that she needed to be breathing deeply. Was she ill? Did you get ill from sleeping outside instead of- instead of wherever it was she was meant to be sleeping?

The first question will likely be “Who am I?” I don’t know who you are. You could have hailed from any background, good or bad. All I know is that you were one of many subjects who willingly and unwillingly participated in a dreadful experiment.

"Don't worry, letter, I don't think I know who I am either." The girl commented as she realised it was strange to not know who she was! She looked at her arms again, as if they might hold the answer and then continued reading.

“Where am I?” ought to be your next question.

"What a clever letter. You're right, I don't know where I am." The girl found this somewhat bemusing and she looked up from the letter to scan her surroundings. The floor was grey and there were things called benches and another thing called a slide and some stone animals. The names of these things seemed to be in her head, but she wasn't convinced that she'd seen them before.

There were people around too, some big and some small and they were giving her a wide berth and some strange looks.

The girl was starting to feel something in her chest, something which wasn't entirely pleasant and which made her get quickly to her feet and walk hurriedly around the playground - which seemed to upset the bigger people and they pulled the small ones out of her way. She didn't know where she was. She didn't know who she was. She didn't know where- where... where she wanted to be.

The girl opened the letter again and read the rest of it and took some reassurance from the direction it offered. She left the playground and found she was in a bigger enclosure, or at least, there was another fence and this time it was separating her from - the sea! That word came quickly to her and the girl darted to the barrier and leaned over it, staring out at the water. She closed her eyes and felt the breeze swish against the skirts of her dress and through her hair, the smell of the salt invading her nostrils and the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping against the stone below.

"It's peaceful this time of the morning, huh?" The girl spun around, startled, and came face to face with a grizzled man, his hair and beard both a stark white and his eyes a deep, dark brown. "Sorry m'dear, didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh, it's fine. I think- yes, it's fine!" The girl laughed lightly and managed a smile. "I'm not from here so I was just looking and it's beautiful and I don't think I've ever seen the sea before! Oh, but I'm supposed to be going somewhere and I don't know where it is." She felt a bit miserable and it must have shown on her face because the man stepped closer and offered a reassuring smile.

"Is that a map you've got there... or an address?"

"It's a letter. Oh but there's an address on the bottom part!"

The girl showed the grizzled man the signature and then pointed higher up in the letter where it said where she had to go. The man's eyes widened and he pushed the letter gently back at her.

"I don't think I'm meant to be reading that, miss, but if you cross Brooklyn bridge it's not so far, or if you've got to be there quick then you'd be best with a ferry. There's one at twenty-four past the hour, I'm catching it myself."

That seemed like the best to the girl so she said as much to the man and followed him to the pier and she talked a lot about how blue the sea was and how nice it was of him to help her find her way and how the letter might be the most important thing she was carrying and was in fact the only thing she was carrying-

"Don't you have any money?" The man asked.

"No, I don't think so. I- well I woke up in the playground and all I had was this letter. Isn't that odd?"

The man's concern deepened and he stopped her for a moment.

"You slept in the playground? Were you robbed?"

The girl felt her brow furrow in confusion. "I- I don't remember," she admitted.

"Come on, let's get you on that ferry and maybe it'll come back to you before we get to Pearl Street. If not, maybe it's just as well the Police Commissioner wants to see you, he's the sort of man who can help, I'm sure."

The girl spent most of the ferry ride looking out across the water and telling the man how beautiful it was and he told her about how he used to be a seaman himself but was retired now.

At the other side of the river, the man kindly escorted the girl to the James Madison Plaza where she assured him she'd be alright.

"Do you know what the police commissioner looks like?" the man asked. "Have you met him before?"

"Yes," the girl lied. "He's an old friend of mine - my head's much clearer now, thank you! I'll be just fine from here. In fact, I think I see some of my friends!" The girl strode away from the man toward a group - chosen at random - and turned halfway to give him a reassuring smile and a hearty wave. She strode straight to the group but veered off when she heard a man and a woman talking about letters.

"Oh, hey, I think I'm meant to be meeting you. I've got one of those as well, it's so nice to know I'm in the right place, even if I have no idea who I am." The girl gave them both a big smile and waved her letter about.

He did not immediately open his eyes, so his first few moments in the world were shrouded by a bright darkness. That, of course, didn’t mean they were dull.

No, instead, they were overwhelming in every possible way.

Everything bombarded him at once: the crisp, cool air flooded his lungs, the strong odor of gasoline and automobiles stung his nose, and the soft tufts of grass rubbed against his fingertips. Not to mention, there were the sounds of screeching children, passing conversations, and horns honking in the not-so-distant distance. It was a surreal experience to say the least.

Especially considering he had no idea what half the words he’d just described even were. Or, he thought he knew, but he couldn’t recall experiencing them. To him, they were just words, and in this momentary darkness of pure senses, it was mind boggling to think there was so much in this world.

… whatever world “this” was.

He waited another second in the dark, taking a second gasping breath and trying to remember every taste, every sensation, as the air snapped at his raw throat. There was the taste of what he’d named gasoline before, plus a numbness spreading on his tongue from cold wind whipping his mouth. He pulled his lips into a fine line.

Everything just felt so right. Strange? Confusing? Perhaps. But right all the same.

The palm of his hand pressed down on a patch of grass and his fingers plunged into the roots of the plants. The dirt around it was frigid and soft, and small clumps of it stuck to his skin as his fingers retreated. He loved the feeling of the damp and dusty flecks burying in the swirls of his fingerprint.

That was when he opened his eyes, holding one finger up for his eye to see the pattern that was mimicked with the dirt. It was a simple motion with a simple intention, but everything became so much more complicated.

He noticed the red-tinted peachy colors of his fingers with flecks of brown sprinkled throughout. Then he opened his hand and saw the brown line in the creases of his palm, which again felt new but normal. He couldn’t recall ever seeing his own hand before, but he’d had to have before, wouldn’t he?

He clenched his teeth and pulled his fingers into an angry fist, turning other to see the back of his hand. It was darker than the peach of his fingertips and much harder with his muscles tense.

Eventually, his eyes tore away from his hand. His mix of fascination and annoyance became trivial the instant he truly saw the sight before him.

The branches of the trees jutted out into the sky like bare claws, entering a tangled mess the higher up they went until a few champions almost touched the clouds at the top. Around him, a carpet of pure green stretched on and on and on until it hit a gray barrier of stacked stone and a black gate rose up in evenly spaced stakes.

Something told him there should have been much more “green” in the area, whether it was hanging off the trees or blooming in the space between the grass blades. For some reason, the word took hold of his thoughts, and he understood it as a color, a trick of the light. There was no other way to describe it than just that – green.

He said the word like a swear, listening to the way his tongue rammed the roof of his mouth. The syllables slipped between his teeth and whispered in his ears.

Then there was the word again. Normal, usual, right. All of this felt so new but so ordinary and his agitation only flared. Why couldn’t he remember any of this if it was “standard”? How could he have constantly been surrounded by these colors and sensations and never felt them before. That, he knew for a fact, was not normal.

His fingers clasped the blades of the grass and tore them from their roots as he shoved himself to his feet. For a moment, the thickness of the air around his head waned and dark spots danced around his vision. (Not normal.) His hand released the grass and steadied him on the tree trunk.

Dull ridges pressed against his fingertips, shielding a soft inside with a light pressure. Strangely, the feeling fascinated him and distracted him long enough for his vision to recover. He took a few deep breaths and counted the seconds between when his chest sat idle.

“Sir? Sir, you shouldn’t be in there!”

His snapped in the direction of the voice, looking past the black bars surrounding him. A woman in a dark blue uniform stood on the other side, hands on her hips as she glared at him.

“My apologies!” he said with a friendly smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a white square on the ground. As he continued, he snatched the sheet of paper. “I merely saw this paper here and thought it would be beneficial to snatch it.” He walked gingerly towards the black gate as the crease in the woman’s forehead deepened.

“Just be more careful,” she muttered as he easily pulled himself over the fence and jumped down beside her. “A Douglas fir collapsed and killed someone the other day.”

He didn’t think as he said, “Oh, my heart goes out to the family.” He then promptly ended the conversation by turned away from her and continuing down a path surrounded by the black fences. Something nagged at him to toss the paper in the first trash bin he saw, but another thought quickly followed.

Had it come from him?

He slowed his brisk walk and dared to open the neatly folded sheet. The first thing he noticed on the page was the massive about of writing that essentially filled it. He surprised himself as he mumbled the first line of the apparent letter to himself. Since when could he read? He would’ve thought he’d remember learning how to do something so complicated.

Before continuing, he noticed an official looking seal. Perhaps that was important? He assumed the letter would say more, and so he read on.

As his eyes approached the end of the letter, his grip tightened on the edges of the sheet. He hardly even bothered to read the last few paragraphs, only half registering that he was supposed to meet whoever wrote this at some place on Pearl Street. There was just a huge surge of emotion and before he could stop, the letter ended up on the ground in two pieces.

His lips twisted into a scowl as he said to no one in particular, “Who is this guy?” There wasn’t a question in his mind; he would go see this police commissioner and he would let him know just how much he appreciates the new experiences.

He snatched up the pieces and continued to pull it into smaller pieces. Eventually, he crumpled up what was left before shoving it all into his pockets. He wanted to show the police commissioner what he thought of his polite little letter.

A man on a bench beside his seemed to notice his silent fury and asked, “You okay?”

He looked over at the man. Said man was bundled up in a thick, gray coat with a silver scarf around his neck. In his hands was a newspaper, which he folded up as he stood. A pair of thick, black glasses was perched on his nose, which almost hid the slight wrinkles around his eyes.

Instead of answering the man’s questions, he asked a question of his own. “How can I get from Pearl Street from here? I’ve got a bone to pick with someone.”

The man looked a little bewildered by his forwardness, but the man said simply, “Oh, you can just go straight down this street.” His finger pointed out of the courtyard the two found themselves in. “It’ll go onto Park Row and then Pearl Street will be right there.”

He muttered a thank you to the older man before storming off past him. As he sped out of the park he’d woken up in, his mind finally pushed aside the confusion that’d plagued him. Now he bit his lip as he thought about his confrontation with this man.

Though, he did wonder what the rest of the letter said.

// ~ * ~

It was a quick walk, almost fifteen minutes since he had to push through so many people to get anywhere. Unlike before, he centered his focus on the one task, blocking out the noises of the streets, the people, and just about everything else. He’d kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets and made sure to glare at anyone that even touched him.

But he’d made it.

He was directed to a small park/plaza/courtyard thing where people carried on about their normal days. Apparently there were others as well, which didn’t surprise him. Instead, it would make whatever happened sweeter. There would be others to witness.

He awoke slowly, listening to the quiet lapping of water against the shore. Then his eyes opened, squinted, the closed again.

The man, younger in age and with an aura of calm around him, stood slowly with his eyes still closed. He seemed to have no trouble keeping his balance as he walked down the pier that held him just above the water. The surrounding buildings loomed over him as he entered their shadow. The structures managed to obstruct the sun's afternoon rays. The man suddenly stopped, his face maintaining it's blank state.

Then his eyes opened once more. He slowly sat, letting his legs fold into a kneeling position. Slowly but surely, he became aware of a square object in his pocket. He stared down at his loose fitting jeans and discovered the outline of said object. He bought his hand down to slip into his jeans and take out the object. The slightly crumpled envelope that met his gaze finally painted his face with the subtle expression of curiosity. His fingers moved patiently, flipping open the top of the envelope and taking out the letter within.

He raised it to eye level and began reading. The note started with a nice introduction. The author seemed pleasant, describing the situation in a clear and precise way. He read on-wards, realizing his situation as the words scrolled past him, each one with it's own significance. They were the first words he'd ever seen in this new world.

And they were telling him to go to a police station.

He finally looked up from the letter. He was in a place he had never seen, filled with memories that were technically not his, far from anyone he'd ever known.

He started forwards, walking out of the shade of the buildings, his feet slapping softly on the concrete. He took a left, hands in his pocket, and finally faced the sun.

It wasn't nearly as blinding as it had been.

He passed a number of other humans as he made his way out of the docks. They looked at him oddly. It was probably because of the scarf. He was observant enough to notice that the thing around his neck was brightly colored in a place where everyone seemed to don a uniform of drab work clothes.

He decided to quicken his pace if only by a little.

Soon, he had exited the docks. The streets were relatively empty, leaving him with no direction. He stood for a minute, then decided there was no other choice but to wander. He started off, a smile lighting his lips.

The sun slowly set, the time moving from afternoon to noon. The first stars to adorn the sky found him hailing a car. The amount of time passed without a ride was not on account of lack of effort. However, the people in the area were either in a hurry or did not care to help a stranger. Yet, with a little patience, he found a worn out sedan pulling up to let him in.

"Where ya headed?"

He let himself into the car, taking his time to fasten his seat belt.

"I thank you kindly sir. I'm headed to a place called One Police Plaza. If you could drive me there I would be in your debt."

The man laughed, a rough, short burst of mirth.

"Your funny kid. Yeah I know where that is. Why you gotta to the police for?"

He laughed back.

"I'm new to this place and I would like to get my bearings. Someone told me to meet them there as well, hopefully to help and if not then..."

"Don't worry kid. I'm sure you'll get where you headed. If you friend try's to start anything you just get da cops."

He nodded. With that, they departed from the docks.

"Kid whats ya name?"

"I cant remember."

The driver snorted.

"Maybe you looking for the hospital huh?"

"No. I'm OK. I think my friend is going to help me out."

They took a right. He watched as the buildings slowly got bigger and cleaner.

"You got any family here? You ain't to old right?"

Again, he shook his head.

"Jesus kid you in trouble or somethin'? What'd you do ta deserve dis?"

"I just don't remember."

They drove on in silence. Slowly, downtown loomed. The buildings grew ever higher. He found himself glued to the window, marveling at the all glass structures, new and modern mixed with structures that seemed from an entirely different age.

"Hey, this you stop right?"

He nodded.

"Is there anything I can do for you? You did drive me a very long way."

The driver shook his head.

"Thank you. I hope you have a nice evening."

The man drove off with a hand out the window.

He turned back to the police station and, consulting the letter, walked straight to the door and tried to open the door. It was of course locked.

"Sir! You're not allowed in there. Please step away from the door."

He waited for the officer to walk over. Instead, the man just stared at him. He looked down at the door handle, then back at the officer.

He shook the handle vigorously.

The officer strode over, annoyed.

"Really?"

He sighed.

"Sorry, I just needed to get your attention. I need you to call the office of the New York City Commissioner. He knows me."

The officer just glared at him.

"Look. I know you think I'm lying. I would to. But please, if there is any time to trust anyone it would be now."

The officer held his glare for a moment longer, then bought out his radio and mumbled something into it.

The two waited for a bit, then a message came through the radio and the officer replied to it. Then he turned.

"I was referred to his secretary. She says to wait in Madison Plaza."

"Thank you so much. Could you tell me where that is?"

"Are you serious?'

He nodded. The officer sighed, then pointed left.

"Walk a block or two then make a right and you'll see it. Anything else?"

"No. Sorry for bothering you."

The officer walked away.

He turned and followed the officer's directions, soon coming upon a nice green area. Here and there groups of people lay wallowing in the waning sun. He picked a nice spot under a tree across from a nice couple conversing quietly. The girl seemed shy, though he couldn't tell as she looked like she was wiping her feet with a tissue. The man was laughing, looking at her over the letter he was reading.

The man under the tree smiled along with them. Wherever he was, it wasn't a bad place.

It was a common misconception that wearing a suit indicated wealth, when in reality, it could simply indicate pride in one’s appearance. This was the case with Mister Archibald Virtue, the police commissioner of New York City. Keeping that somewhat prejudicial opinion in mind, it could be considered odd for such an immaculately dressed man to have lunch in what first appeared to be a simple restaurant painted a pale lime. The establishment in question was the Ladurée Restaurant in Little Italy, and while its exterior might not have been the most spectacular around, the interior was certainly tasteful.

Furthermore, the man opposite Mister Virtue, one Ethan Jordan, was the city’s district attorney. He, like the commissioner, had no interest in living lavishly, so the arranged lunch was more than satisfactory. Besides, he had an infamous sweet tooth, so even if he had minded, he would readily have forgiven the choice of restaurant on account of the quality of the pastries. Ladurée Restaurant was a macaroon specialist, after all. Perhaps the choice of venue had been predetermined by fate, for with the prospect of so many sugary delights for him to enjoy, he was less disappointed by his lunch companion’s sudden departure than he might otherwise have been.

However, Mister Virtue made sure to stop by the counter and make an order to-go, for a certain Miss Preston had an equally great love of anything sweet. Once outside, and careful not to drop the box in his left hand, he unlocked his silver Cadillac CTS Sedan and climbed inside. After depositing said box onto the passenger seat, he buckled his safety belt, started the car, and withdrew a burner phone from the dashboard. He locked it into the cell phone holder to his top left and selected the only number in its memory.

“Good afternoon, Hekate,” he said, joining the traffic on the busy street. He had about a second to decide whether to turn right and head to the office via Broadway, or turn left and drive there via Bowery. Broadway was shorter, but it was lunch, so there would definitely be traffic. After his second was over, Archibald turned left, seeing as the two routes would take equally long, except Bowery had fewer turns.

“Hi, Zeus!” the voice on the other side of the line replied. “Wait, you sound calm. Too calm, as if you actually need to compose yourself instead of just being– aaaaand I’m preventing you from explaining why exactly you’re calling.” The voice spluttered. “Sorry, I forgot to breathe. Proceed.”

“They’re here.”

“The quiver in your voice coupled with the deliberate vagueness seems to imply that you’re… that you’re… Hold on.” Hekate remained silent for a few seconds, evidently running through her thoughts. When next she spoke, it was tentatively. “When you say ‘they’ are here, is this the generic ‘they’ of which the audience has no prior knowledge and which is known only to the person speaking about ‘them’, or is this the ‘they’ for whom we’ve been preparing for the last decade?” Almost desperately, she added, “Please tell me it’s the latter.”

“It’s the latter.”

“BOOYAH! I finally get to participate in the greatest adventure the world has ever seen!”

“The greatest?” he asked sceptically. “Though the results will be catastrophic if we fail, popular media has set some rather high standards.”

“Pfft, our problems can cause earthquakes, tidal waves, meteor showers, volcanic eruptions and hurricanes. No number of zombies, Transformers or Godzillas could do that.”

“Point conceded.”

“Great! Well, if we can find our reinforcements before the walking natural disasters arrive, that is. What’s the name of the place where they’re supposed to wait for you? Umm, don’t tell me… It’s… err… James Madison Park! That’s it, right?”

“James Madison Plaza.”

“Close enough. Hacking the cameras of one-eight-five Park Row, three-seven-five Pearl Street, and the Merry Bergtraum High School for Business Careers… now.”

“Did it take you that long to start hacking their cameras?”

“Silly Zeus – it took me that long to finish hacking their cameras. A little appreciation now and then wouldn’t go amiss, you know. After all, I’m the reason you’re driving that fancy Cadillac.”

“You insisted on replacing my old Ford,” he said exasperatedly, “and if I hadn’t intervened, you’d have bought the Jaguar XF instead.”

“And I still don’t know why you stopped me. That is one good-looking car.”

“It’s too much.”

“And yet the way you remembered the exact model makes me think you might be regretting your intervention. Just because you’re, you know, the creator of a universe doesn’t mean you can’t have nice things.”

“Hekate–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You don’t believe in having what you didn’t earn. Maybe I should buy it for myself, then…”

“You have three cars already,” Archibald responded, chuckling, before turning right onto Houston Street.

“Yes, but none of them is a Jag.” She sighed, not unlike a child just told she couldn’t have something. “You’re the only person I know who can sound both amused and disapproving at the same time. There’s a reason the man from the fairy tale chose Death as the godfather of his son.”

“I don’t believe I’ve heard that one.”

“It’s a story for another day. Would you like to know what our first customer looks like?”

“There’s no need. I’ll have to drive past the plaza anyway, so I’ll see him or her when I do.”

“Fair enough, as long as ‘pass’ is all you do. Our customer looks like he wants to speak to the manager… and possibly punch him in the face. You may want to give him some time to cool off. Come to think of it, I’ll tell you when it’s safe to face the mob; he might not be the only one who feels that way.”

The police commissioner sighed heavily. “It is to be expected when an individual with neither identity nor purpose is suddenly thrust into an unfamiliar world.” He sighed again. “I need some time to think. I’ll call again once I’m at the office.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too much,” Hekate said sympathetically. “Remember, you’re Zeus, not Atlas.”

He pondered the words as the line disconnected. “Perhaps not, but that young man will soon be.”

Despite the excitement he should have felt at the arrival of his only hope for humanity’s survival, Archibald couldn’t help but feel nervous. He was in an entirely different universe where he held no sway over destiny (or any of the other celestial forces, for that matter) and was as much subject to the laws of said universe as all of its other inhabitants. For a formerly omniscient entity, a decade was not long enough to grow accustomed to the myriad new experiences – nervousness was simply one of them.

For the next ten minutes, he wondered what he would say to the world’s would-be saviours. While he still possessed the infinite wisdom all creator deities had, he was no longer in a position where he could express it however he liked; he would have to take Hekate’s warning to heart. He had always known what physical pain felt like, but having experienced it first-hand on earth, he had a better perspective of why mortals avoided it…

After turning left at Chatham Square and driving down the St. James Plaza, the police commissioner slowed down as much as he could without having the other cars hoot at him. As he cruised by James Madison Plaza, he scanned for the only out-of-place New Yorker, but he was perpendicular to Pearl Street before he could spot him. Admitting defeat, he drove around the high school and pulled into the police department’s underground parking lot.

The white cardboard box he had bought at Ladurée Restaurant had moved around on its seat during the ride, but it hadn’t fallen off or anything like that. Collecting it, he realised that the new arrivals could very well be hungry, thirsty, tired, or all three. He would have to send Angela off to buy some refreshments for… ten people? That was likely to many, but some caution would surely not be ami–

His thoughts were interrupted by the characteristic buzzing of an incoming call. His normal phone would have played the opening chords of Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in g minor, which meant Hekate was once again on the other side.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know how, though you can bet I’m going to find out, but Mayor Todd has nabbed one of our unhappy campers.”

Archibald furrowed his brow. “When did this happen?”

“Just now. Some skinny kid showed an officer the pieces of a ripped-up letter, exchanged a few words, and then ran away. The officer tackled him and is leading him to city hall. I saw you drive past them, so if you hurry, you can intercept them. Also, please get his badge number, if you can do it inconspicuously.”

Without hanging up, he quickened his pace and exited the darkness of the parking lot. A police officer was indeed escorting a young man due west.

“There you are!” he called, striding over to the two.

“Commissioner!” the officer exclaimed, immediately saluting his superior.

“As you were, son.” He looked down at the frightened fellow beside the policeman. “It’s a good thing your aunt sent me your picture, otherwise I’d never have recognised you.” Looking back towards the officer, he explained, “This young man is my cousin-twice-removed’s nephew. His parents died when he was very young, so he’s been living with his aunt ever since. He’s attending a boarding school here in the summer, so I agreed to see him there safely. Thank you for your kind assistance. I am sure he must have been terribly lost.”

The young man nodded furiously and moved behind him. The policeman, however, seemed to be at a loss for words and was visibly sweating. “It’s an honour to be of service, commissioner. I hope you and your cousin have a nice day.”

As he watched the man practically run away, Archibald lifted his phone to his ear and repeated the requested badge number.

“That’s so concise, I don’t even need to ask the question,” Hekate responded, impressed. Keystrokes could be heard in the background. “Ah, see, the blighter isn’t even on duty at the moment. I’ll keep an eye on him in future. Maybe he leads us to more of his mates. Oh, that’s three, by the way. A girl just arrived and is chatting with tall, dark and angry. Poor soul’s feet are bleeding. Pun not intended.”

“Angela knows first-aid,” Archibald replied casually. Turning to the still-frightened boy, he added, “I think I’ll take this one to the office so long. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

“It would be so hilarious if he actually was a ghost.” She laughed at her own joke. “Anyway, I’ll keep you up to date as more show up. It looks like we might be having a decent turn-out.”

“Even one is better than I had expected,” the commissioner confessed. “Although, when should I fetch the others?”

“Let’s go with lucky number seven. I’ll notify you earlier if it doesn’t look like we’ll get that many.”

“Very well. I hope to hear from you soon.” Putting his phone away, Archibald gestured for the young man to follow. “Come with me, if you will. You aren’t in danger anymore.”

The wide-eyed boy remained standing still for a moment before running across the road after him. “Who was that?”

“An agent of the mayor, no doubt. He won’t be bothering us again.” The boy’s eyes grew even wider. “Oh, you mean the person on the phone. She is an invaluable ally you will be meeting very soon. Her help is the sole reason we have been successful at all up to this point.”

“What’s her name?”

The police commissioner held the door open for the boy to enter. They received many curious glances on their way to the elevator, but nobody asked any questions. Why would they? The most likely person to have said anything was Angela, but she had been prepared years in advance. As if to prove him correct, she only gave him a worried look when they walked past her desk. Archibald donned what he hoped was a reassuring smile and handed her the box.

“What’s this?” she asked, surprised.

“Call it a token of appreciation for your hard work, my dear,” he replied, showing the young man into his office. “Although in this case, it could also be considered a bribe. More people will have to be accommodated before we are done here today, so I need you to fetch some chairs.”

“Oh, that reminds me! There are two people with letters with your stamp on it that are waiting for you at the plaza.”

“That is kind of you to inform me, but I already know. The chairs?”

“Right! What kind and how many?”

“Any chairs you can find will do. I have two, so five… make it six. Six will be enough. Thank you.”

The young man look around the room hesitantly, so Archibald waved his hand at a chair and nodded. He himself sat down behind his desk. “I know you have many questions, but the others must still join us. Once they are here, I shall answer whatever questions any of you may have. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

Uncertainly the boy said, “Yes. A little.”

Angela staggered inside with a tower of plastic chairs in her arms. He immediately rose and relieved her of the burden. He began retrieving chairs and placing them against the far wall.

“What does the average person like to eat or drink?” he asked as he worked.

“Err, I don’t know, sir. Hamburgers and soda?”

He looked down at the chairs as if they held the answer. “If you were hosting a party and didn’t know what your guests liked, what would you buy?”

“I suppose pizzas, since they can be delivered. For drinks, I could always just pop into the supermarket and buy a Coke. Maybe also a Fanta.”

“Then I need you to do so. Use your discretion and order the toppings you see fit.”

“Yes, sir!”

She was about to rush off when he stopped her. “Angela?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Thank you.”

She beamed and zipped through the door.


Within the span of twenty minutes, four more people had joined the duo in the park. Hekate had said she would inform him if any more people arrived, so he fetched the group and led them back to his office. It was a silent walk all the way.

The two women had seemed less tense than the men, with the one simply being alert, while the other actually seemed cheerful. The African-American man was equally amiable, but two of the three Caucasian men… well, they looked one degree short of murderous. Most surprising was the last one, for he was at ease, as if interdimensional travel was something he did everyday.

The trip to the elevator earned even more stares than before, and when they passed Angela, she looked ready to faint at the sight of so much hostility. The boy inside was no less startled.

Five pizza boxes, three two-litre bottles of fizzy drinks, a packet of serviettes, and a packet of Styrofoam cups stood on his desk. She truly was a life-saver. Oh, that reminded him.

“You can make yourselves comfortable on the chairs over there. You are also no doubt hungry and tired, so feel free to help yourselves to refreshments. Angela?” The secretary slowly appeared in the doorway in response. “The young lady’s feet are bleeding. If you would be so kind as to treat them, it would be marvellous.”

She nodded and reappeared a moment later with a first-aid kit. She quickly cleaned away the blood, disinfected the injuries, and bandaged the sores, barely waiting to hear the grateful words of thanks before heading back to her desk. The others had sat in tense silence, in the meanwhile. They had, naturally, neither eaten nor drank anything.

Hekate saved him from the cold stares. “I faxed some questionnaires over to you. They ought to be printing now. Once you’ve explained to our soon-to-be heroes and heroines how these circumstances unfolded, please hand a questionnaire out to each of them. I’ll need them before I send over the limousines, since we don’t know when disaster will strike.”

“Is that all?”

“Pretty much. Don’t stress too much, Zeus. Tell them everything you told me, and you’ll be fine. I had even less reason to believe you, remember? Good luck. I hope to see you soon.”

Archibald gathered the seven documents from Angela and handed one to each of the strangers in his office. “We’ll get to these in a moment. Now, normally, the introductions would be due, but we don’t know who you are, and you already know who I am. Nevertheless, as police commissioner of this city, I feel it is my responsibility to welcome you. Whether you choose to help me or be on your way is entirely up to you, but it must be an educated decision. I am Archibald Virtue, and I am at your service. Ask your questions, and I shall answer.”

“At least tell me what Kaiser Park is, 'cause I have no clue.”

Want the perks of a beach? Head to the pier, toss a line, and see what fishes are biting today!

“...'What fishes are biting'? With a… line? So like… I'm supposed to throw a rope in the water and expect a fish to bite it? ...Why?”

Don't forget the amazing other activities of the park!

“Guess this is the part where you expose even more totally random stuff...”

And if it's just the beauty you want, stare at the sun setting behind the Verrazano-Narrow Bridge!

“Yeah, no. I already tried staring at this sun thing, and I can barely see anything now, so no thanks.”

And remember: step by Gravesend Bay at the border of the Park to enjoy the rest of the view!

“I'm not sure I wanna visit a place that tells that it's gonna send me to the grave in its name. Kinda creepy.”



“...Thanks. I'm gonna try and do that.”

The teenager pointed an accusing finger at the wooden sign he had been talking to for the past five minutes.

“But you're a weird sign in a weird place, Mr.Sign!” he exclaimed. “You better give me better info next time!” proud of his flawless retort, the boy nodded to himself and turned back, realizing that the several people waiting behind him were slowly walking away, giving him disapproving stares.

“Uh, sorry for taking so long!” he shouted awkwardly. “You can… You can scan the sign too if… You… Uh…” Dorian's movements blatantly stopped
Wait. Waaaaait wait wait. It's read. I think it's read, not scan.

He blinked, getting out of his short-lived trance. But by the time he gazed back at the group of adults – who had witnessed him staring into oblivion, which to them was a clear confirmation of his insanity – they had already vanished between the trees that covered the sunlit green space he was standing in.

“Great...” the boy muttered to himself. “First I wake up in a aleatoric place, then that peculiar voice thing in my head tells me hazardous stuff, and now I took too long to sca… READ a sign. And I can't even tell people I'm finished. This is just wonderful...” he let out an exasperated sigh and sat on the place he had woken up a while ago – a patch of grass laying right next to Mr.Sign. He tried his best to focus on his situation and how to solve it. Then, he put a hand to his pocket and pulled out the letter he'd been re-reading several times already.

The voice (as he had nicknamed the writer of the letter) had told him to take a few deep breaths – which he had done, even though he was already calm, though… confused. Then, the voice told him about amnesia, which mad sense, considering he didn't remember anything. Then the voice had rambled about the questions he was supposed to ask himself.
Then the voice had told him that it was responsible for erasing his memories and had valid reasons to do that – to which the boy had replied that although it was probably the case, it was still quite uncalled for, to which a random person passing by replied by calling him crazy.
Then the voice had given him several instructions, recommendations and an objective, which was all he needed to feel slightly more comfortable.

“Okay.” the boy whispered to himself. “Find your way to One Police Plaza. Between Park Row, Madison Street, and Pearl Street. Then tell policemen to ask for Archibald Virute's office.” he nodded several more times. Now all he had to do was find himself a way to reach this One Police Plaza.

“So I need a way to move around!” he exclaimed, raising up. “And… A map. Unless I find someone who'd bring me there. Yeah. I'm in a park. So let's try that. Park. People. Transportation. C'mon. Mission: start.” the teenager froze in place as he came upon an alarming realization.

He had no name yet.



Bayzir, as this was the name the teenager had chosen for himself after eavesdropping around, was learning a lot of things already.
He could even tell that after a few more days of trials and error, maybe he'd be able to blend in with this mass of dressed human beings they called “people”.
For instance – and after an increasing amount of other failures – he had learned that asking for directions and a way of transportation to a seven years old child in a park was regarded as “rude,” asking him who was the child's master was “scary”, and asking said master – the child's mother – if she could give directions to Bayzir or drive a car for him was seen as crazy. Ah, and also that pursuing said mother and child around the park was regarded as “being a stalker,” a crime that was punishable of something called a “deck in the schnoz”, which Dorian discovered the meaning of after being delivered said deck in said schnoz by the mother's angry husband.
What a lovely day.
Rising up from the ground, Bayzir once again stopped moving and stared into oblivion, first because he still needed to process what has just happened to his nose and why it was slightly bleeding – after all his efforts to be polite! – and also because he needed to think about the rest of his options. Ignoring the group of girls mocking his situation as they walked past him, he gazed around him, slightly discouraged. The sun's position was less high than it was before, which meant that time was definitely not waiting for him.

“I believe there's… one or two places of the park I haven't checked yet...” Bayzir whispered to himself, walking on his pathway – a favorite of his, too, for the sound the gravels made after his shoes squashed them was strangely calming. “maybe people will be nicer there!” already reassured, Bayzir pressed on, trying to find his way in Kaiser Park. However, it didn't take long to find people he hadn't scared yet this time: their voices tickled his ears before he could do anything, which led him to follow said voices and see if he could join them. Finally, Bayzir found himself in a rather large glade, and it was then that he saw them, wiggling before his eyes like a group of grotesque angry chimeras.
The aliens.

Are those the… Skywalker family that child mentioned when I asked him about the whereabouts of his masters? Bayzir couldn't help himself, gazing at the group. Nonono, wait. My brain tells me Skywalker's the name of a character in a movie. So, they must be fictional characters too. Or… Or actors. Yes! Actors. They must be actors!

In fact, Bayzir had all the reasons to believe that the costumed teenagers in front of him were actors, as in a way, they were.
One of them was wearing a scale-like lightly armored samurai outfit with a crescent moon on top of his head. The entire thing looked like an alligator trying to fit in a combat armor, not to mention trying his best to stop his clawed hands from dropping the fancy golden trident he held in his left hand.
A second one, far behind the first teenager, shouted orders like a military strategist which actually seemed to be his role in whatever play they were practicing. After all, He was wearing a military cap and wore a marine soldier's attire, and he even had a slighly nervous-looking teenager dressed as a red sailor with a white and blue cap following whatever instructions he was giving.
Looking on the right side of the circular grass area, Dorian noticed two more members of the crew: a purple armor with golden shoulder pads, over which he was trying to swing around a big flail – and most certainly fake, though impressive-looking – flail. Finally, a last warrior appeared, standing slightly above everyone else. He was the smallest of them all, wore a silver mask with shiny yellow eyes painted on the visor, and a dark blue attire complimented by a dark purple cape with gold trimmings. On his side rested a spiked golden sword. He was gazing at a lifeless costume next to him, which looked like a golden robotic suit with lobster pinches for hands, wings in his back and dark green eyes.
Bayzir instantly fell in love with it.

“Stop it, guys!” the winged knight next to the empty costume exclaimed. “Really, it's useless to continue this part right now. The parade car isn't even ready yet!”

“Actually,” the marine soldier objected, “It's almost ready. I mean, I still have a few adjustments and tests here and there, but it's better than nothing.”

“Yeah!” the sailor, youngest of the group, added with conviction. “And like, it was a kart before, right? Isn't it awesome that we managed to turn it into a parade car in the first place? That's awesome!”

“But Sally, it malfunctioned again yesterday.” the winged knight countered bitterly, approaching his team. “Look, guys. I'm not trying to diss on Henry's work. Really, I don't! I mean his dad even helped us with the design and engine and all, and I really don't want this to be for nothing. But… Well, I guess I'm still kinda frustrated about the whole thing. We've been trying to make it work for way too long!”

“Yeah, but…! We can't just abandon it!” Henry the marine soldier argued. “I mean, we still have until the eighteenth of June to make it work. That's MORE than enough time for me to finish my adjustments! Sure, I'll need some money to repair the engine – or buy a new one, if the problem is that bad – but chill, man! This ain't over yet!”

“He's got a point, Allan.” the scaled samurai said, approaching the circle the group had formed. “We should focus on what we can do right now.”

“But what can we do right now, Tom?” the winged knight named Allan replied, still concerned. “We won't be able to practice much with the Parade Car, and we've got no one to wear the Heavy Lobster Costume. AKA, we're missing the two most important part of our project, the Halberd itself, and the Heavy Lobster! How the heck are we supposed to participate in the Mermaid Parade? We'll be missing our best elements!”

“We'll just find a way to recruit someone!” Tom, the samurai, replied, trying his best to calm his friend. “Mark said it: we still have plenty of time, and we don't even know the representation by heart yet. Why don't we start by finishing that?”

Allan let out a deep sigh. “Okay, you're right.” he conceded. “Sorry guys, I'm just… I guess I'm just a bit stressed out over this. But yeah, we'll be fine. I'll worry about stuff later. Let's go back to training.”

The group nodded and placed themselves around the grassy area once more, ready to practice their play once more. Still watching from afar, Bayzir decided that now was the perfect time to intervene, and so, he did just that.

“Uh… Excuse me!” Bayzir exclaimed. “Um… Acting people? Might I interject?” as he walked down the pathway to meet the actors, Bayzir managed to accidentally walk on a rather large branch he hadn't noticed before, focused as he was on the shiny costumes of the teenagers. And so, with a dramatic scream of despair, he fell down the tiny stairway he also hadn't seen before and landed head first on the ground, right in front of a confused bunch of teenagers.
What a lovely day.
Raising up from the ground, Bayzir stopped moving as he attempted to figure out why his nose was slightly bleeding again, and how had he even managed to ridicule himself once more. He didn't understand. He was trying so hard to prevent other people from being startled. And yet, it seems that every and all of his efforts wouldn't work.

“Um… Are you… Are you okay, man?”

Was it his destiny? His fate? To forever appear as a strange, alien creature to all the human beings he encountered? Maybe it was.

“D-Dude? Are you okay?”

Hmm. If so, he assumed he'd have to… “deal with it,” as they said.

“Uh… Hello? Dude? You're still there?”

“Eureka!” Bayzir exclaimed, surprising the teenagers as he suddenly came back to life. “I'll just deal with it!”

“Deal with… what?” Allan continued, speaking for his entire group. “Dude, what are you doing here?”

Bayzir finally looked at them all. “...Oh. Right!” he exclaimed joyfully, raising a finger. “Interject! Uh, I wanted to ask something of you guys!” he frowned. Nononono. Wait. Last time you did that, it didn't work. Try complimenting them first. Be polite. Don't scare them right away. “Uh, but before that, I… Uh… Wow! I don't think I had ever seen a session… I mean performance like the one you just did! Are you preparing something special?”

The five teenagers stared at him, an air of “this guy is SERIOUSLY creeping me out” oozing from their eyes, but needless to say, the smiling Bayzir had no awareness of their mutual thoughts of his peculiar appearance in front of them, nor did he realized that he had already scared them a long time before even thinking about anything.

“Um….. Y-Yeah, thanks.” Allan said, uneasy. “We uh… We've been trying to work on this for a few months now; Y'know, for the… Coney Island's Mermaid Parade.”

“Ooooh, I see!” Bayzir exclaimed, nodding several times. “Is that some kind of show?”

“Yeah. Basically people can disguise themselves with sea creatures as a main theme. But, since we all really like video games and wanted to try something original, we're cosplaying as a sea-themed version of the Metaknights from Kirby Super Star Ultra and participate with everyone else.”

“People keep tellin' us that games are stupid and bring nothing.” Sally, the sailor girl, added. “So we're just tryin' to prove that it can make people creative.”

Bayzir nodded once again. That was a mindset he could get behind.

“That's pretty cool!” Bayzir exclaimed, a much more engaging smile painted across his face. “Good luck with that! Hopefully you'll impress them!” Okay... NOW! “Oh, and before I forget!” Bayzir added, as if he had actually forgotten. “What I wanted to ask! Uh, I think I heard you guys talking about a malfunctioning automobile earlier. D'you happen to know where I could find a functioning one? I kinda wanted to go to One Place Plaza, since I'm… late for a meeting, but nobody's been able to give me an answer yet.”

Once again, the teenagers couldn't help but stare at the peculiar creature standing before them.
...They stopped. Bayzir thought to himself. Did… Oh no, I said something wrong again. Uh… Um…
“Uh, I mean, if you want, I can help you in return!” Bayzir quickly added. He glanced at the empty costume left on the side and pointed at it. “You're missing a member for your play… Uh… Parade, right? Well maybe I can help with that in return! I wouldn't mind!” Okay so I've asked my question and proposed my help, thus saving their day. And all of that POLITELY. They should be fine with that, right?

Three of the five teenagers gazed at Allan with clear signs of disapproval, but their chief actually seemed to consider the proposition.

“What's your name?” Allan began.

Bayzir smiled internally. Thanks to the few conversations he had overheard here and there, he had managed to find the perfect identity for himself until he'd be given his own name.

"My friends call me Bay!" Bayzir exclaimed joyfully. "Long story short, it's a short version of my apparently not-so-easy-to-remember middle name. Not a really common one, after all."

“Okay." the other one said, nodding slowly. "My name's Allan. Very important question: can you act?”

Bayzir stopped his movements, staring hard into oblivion as he thought about an appropriate answer. This might just be his only chance to get a what he needed and reach One Police Plaza safe and sound.

“The only character I'd have to play would be that Heavy Lobster, right?” Bayzir asked, taking a serious tone.

“Yeah.”

Okay. I think I got it. Bayzir once again pointed at the empty costume. “Yeah, I can act, and with him, it's going to be easier. I mean, that costume is a robot, right? Since it doesn't speak at all, I won't have to say anything! I'll just need to make sure I can act the way the robot does. And since you know the character and I don't, you can teach me that.”

Allan nodded. He gazed at his teammates. “That's a pretty darn good reasoning if you ask me.”

“Yeah, but he's a random… weird guy we just met.” Bart complained silently. “I really don't want him creeping everyone out.”

“We came here hoping to meet someone that would want to help us, y'know!” Sally intervened. “He's probably the only guy around who'll do it! He's also the only guy who didn't called us geeks for no reason!”

“Uh, also?” Bayzir intervened as well, raising a finger. “I can hear that. And uh, if I wear the entire costume, I won't creep anyone out, right? Since I'll be a robot.”

“Okay, we'll just see how well he can do it.” Allan concluded. “When's your meeting, Dorian?”

Bayzir frowned. “Uh, I think it's in a few hours. But like, since I'm a bit lost and… Well, kinda new here, I wanted to make sure I'd make it today.”

“So, no rush for you?”

“No, not at all!”

Allan nodded. “Then try the costume. Bart, get the Ipad. We're gonna show him some Heavy Lobster clips. C'mon, let's do this.”



Bayzir had to admit: he was doing much better than he had expected, and the team seemed pleased with his efforts, which in return pleased him.
With the Ipad, Bayzir watched several videos related to Heavy Lobster, which, according to the Internet's information, was a recurring powerful boss of the Kirby game series – it took quite some time for Dorian to understand everything, but fortunately, Allan and Sally knew how to make things simple. Additionally, Tom explained some key factors about the machine's behavior that Bayzir absolutely needed to keep in mind, most of which regarded the movement of Heavy Lobster's legs – quite difficult to emulate with the costume, considering how surprisingly heavy it was – and his mechanic pinches, which Bayzir could open and close relatively easily thanks to a small handle hidden in said pinches.
With these subtle information in mind, Bayzir began practicing his acting skills, learning to move slowly, then jerking surprisingly quickly, walking at a constant pace with these infernally heavy legs, etc. He found himself a fondness for the pinches however, and could almost imagine himself shooting projectiles from them, just like Heavy Lobster did against Kirby.
Acting was really fun.
Bayzir also impressed his new found comrades by the fact that he didn't mind taking orders at all, for he only meant to please them as well as he could: so if something he did was wrong, it was his fault, and he'd have to ask questions to understand what went wrong. In short, he quickly befriended the group, and they quickly grew used to the random moments in which he completely stopped moving, as if his mind had been transferred to a different space. It was merely, after all, his way of showing that he cared about his actions.

“Heavy Lobster: Launch!” Sally exclaimed, gazing at Bayzir.

The green eyes of the elaborate costume lit up, and Bayzir's mechanical head suddenly sprung up. Then, his entire body animated itself, as if coming back to life. To finish the action, he opened his pinches and pointed them in front of him, as if ready to tear apart anyone that approached him.

“Okay, that was good, we can stop now!” Allan shouted, clapping in his hands to draw attention to the group. “You can remove the suit, Bay, 'cause that was great!”

“Uh, I might need some help with that. Because, well… the pinches.”

“On it!” Sally intervened, freeing his hands. “Man, I didn't know you could play the robot so well!”

Bayzir removed his helmet, a satisfying grin on the face. “Thanks! I… didn't know what I could do, really, but I'm just glad this all worked out.”

“Me too, man.” Allan said on behalf of the entire team. “This is seriously random, but I'm glad you came around to help us. And speakin' of that, you wanted to go to One Police Plaza, right?”

BOOYAH! “Um, yes, I did.” Bayzir calmly confirmed, hiding his desire to shout for victory behind a polite smile. “Does that mean I can equip myself with a functional car and reach the place?”

Allan chuckled. “That's a… weird way to phrase it, but actually, since we're done repeating for today, I though I might as well drop you to One Police Plaza with my own car.” Allan pulled out keys from his back pocket. “I'm the one driving it though, so you're not… 'equipping yourself with it', or whatever. Any other of you guys need a ride?”





What a lovely day – and this time, Bayzir could definitely think it without irony as he gazed around him during the car ride. As he enjoyed the speeding wind rushing on his face, Sally, who had taken up on Allan's offer as well and was sitting on the backseat with him, explained to him the wonders of video games, and more specifically, Kirby's world. All Bayzir had needed to say was that the wasn't much of a video game player, and Sally proceeded to tell him everything she knew about these wonderful fictional worlds.

“...And then there's this awesome mini-game in Super Star Ultra when Kirby acts like a goofy samurai and stares at his rival, right? But then you have to wait until there's an exclamation mark symbol and immediately press the button! But if you're slower, you lose the battle! It looks really simple, but it's soooooooooo hard!”

“So this game is all about reflexes, right?” Bayzir inquired, trying to imagine the scene.

“Well, that mini-game is, but as I said, it's nothing like the main adventure!”

“Yes! Right. You did insist that Meta-Knight's Revenge was the best thing ever.”

“Nah, Marx is!” Allan exclaimed from the driver's seat.

“We've been over this, Allan!” Sally shouted back. “Marx is nothing compared to Metaknight's level of awesome! And I mean… Why d'you even root for Marx in this thing? You're the one wearing the Meta Knight costume!”

“That doesn't mean I can't have my own favorites!” Allan protested. “It's as if you were saying that Henry's favorite creature is the Wheelie 'cause Henry Ford made cars. 'Sides, he doen't like the Wheelie chase thingy as much as the Great Cave Offensive, so there.”

“Meta Knight's still the best.” Sally mumbled, crossing her arms stubbornly.

“And don't worry man,” Allan assured gazing at Bayzir, “you'll understand everything we're talking about when you get to play the game. Oh! We're here!”

Bayzir gazed through the window and noticed a giant white building filled with windows. At its base was a passage from with fellow human beings were coming in and out, a few of which being accompanied by people dressed in dark blue – most certainly the policemen Bayzir's brain was sending images about.

“So I'm… supposed to go through that opening?” Bayzir asked uneasily.

“Yup!” Sally confirmed. “Enter through the white building there, and then walk up until you see a giant brown building full of windows. Next to that, there should be a smaller one with the title 'Welcome to Police Department: Visitors Entrance'. If you have an appointment somewhere, you can ask 'em!”

Bayzir nodded. It was simple enough.

“One last thing.” Allan said. He handed a small, dark green shoulder bag to Bayzir. “Take this. And enjoy it.”

Bayzir peeped inside. There was a rectangular piece of technology inside, and the outside pockets of the bag seemed full as well.

“It's a Nintendo 3DS.” Allan explained. “XL, too. I was gonna sell it with the three games with it, but since you… kinda agreed to join our group and all, I figured you'd like to get it. Oh and uh, the battery charger is inside, too.”

“You're… You're giving away your precious belongings to someone like me?” couldn't help but ask, incredulous. “But… I… Are you sure that's okay?”

“Hey, just because they're all Kirby games doesn't mean I can't give them to people.” Allan countered gently. “And as I just said, I wanted to sell them anyway. So I'd rather give them to someone who might just like the games. I'll make some money later.”

“Plot twist.” Sally intervened. “Allan's a rich kid.”

Allan rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Sal, you just jealous 'cause you can't get your games right away.”

“And you're just embarrassed 'cause you don't like bein' called that!”

“Shut up, tomboy, I can give stuff to people if I want to. What's the point of money if you don't use it once in a while, huh?”

“Aren't you the generous guy! Now gimme my three hundred bucks! That way I'll get my blue hair faster!”

“...Doesn't me you get to abuse it, y'know...”

Sally chuckled, as her legs tranquilly dangled above her seat.

Bayzir gazed at the chatting duo. Allan, mask removed, with his short black wavy hair, brown eyes, slightly pointy nose and thin lips. Sally, with her curly blond hair - a slight portion of it already dyed blue - her tanned skin and bubbly eyes. These two, even among the members of the group, were the first people he had met today who hadn't treated him like a scary invader from a distant realm.
Bayzir had to make sure he'd never forget them.

“Th-Thanks for the gift, then.” Bayzir finally said, taking the small shoulder bag with him. “I'll take care of it. Uh, is Kirby Super Star Ultra part of the three games you mentioned earlier?”

Allan nodded. "There's also Kirby Mouse Attack and Megaman Zero Collection."

"It's Squeak Squad here in 'Murica, you European scum!" Sally exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at her friend.

Allan shrugged. "I may have an American accent, but Jolly Old England prevails."

Bayzir grinned. “Whatever the name, I can't wait to meet Heavy Lobster in battle.” he concluded.

“We'll see how you deal with him, Mr.I never played a game before!” Sally exclaimed. “Ba-bai, Bay! Good luck for your meeting!”

Bayzir waved his new friends goodbye and walked out of the car, unleashing a happy sigh. He stared at the white building. Inside of the One Police Plaza were the answers to most of his questions. And in his quest to reach for the place, Bayzir had managed to learn a thing or two about socializing, had joined a troupe of actors, had managed to make a few friends among them, and they had even given him the video games he needed to perfect his role.

What a lovely day! Bayzir cheerfully thought to himself before marching forward, accidentally knocking a quarter-full bottle of Red Bull he hadn't noticed at his feet, sending it flying towards a lady with a fancy white dress, thus ruining said dress as the liquid instantly stained it with its content.
Needless to say, the angry gaze and high-speed insult-filled monologue that followed shattered Bayzir's hopes and taught him yet another lesson he'd have to keep in mind.
Self-jinxing was an awful thing.

“Oh geez oh gosh I'm so sorry ma'am, please don't be upset, I didn't mean to do that, it was an accident, no I don't know who you are, please forgive me, No don't call the police, I'm going there anyway, no I didn't commit any crime, my name is... I mean my friends call me Bay, no it's not a girl's name, thank you, it's a diminutive, yes my family educated me well, I mean I think, but I–”

DUTY COMPLETE!

Somehow, he didn’t feel like screaming.

Surprisingly, he was calm. And he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the steady stream of interesting people that flowed into the Plaza after him. Some relaxed, some as angry as he, and some very strange; each was equally perplexing. Maybe it was the arrival of the well-dressed, kind-looking Archibald, or that he’d been able to spend a lot of time contemplating his situation as he arrived in the Police Commissioner’s Office. Or maybe it was just the food that enticed his nostrils and mouth. He hadn’t eaten anything since he’d come here, and it was then that he realized how hungry he was. Regardless, he felt safe. If the PC was somehow trying to trick him, at least there were a multitude of other people in the same situation. He’d believed he would have to do this alone. Now he knew that he wouldn’t have to.

The Police Commissioner finished speaking in his commanding, yet respectful, voice. He asked for questions. Isaiah knocked the cap off of one of the fizzy drinks with an audible…well…fizzing sound. He’ll get questions, alright, called a voice in the amnesiac’s head. Unlike most everyone else, who sat down on their chairs almost as soon as they arrived, Isaiah chose to stand and face the Police Commissioner in the face.

“So,” began the amnesiac, after a moment’s silence. “How exactly did you implant these memories within my brain, not to mention remove those of my past?”

There was a quick response, although it began a tad hesitantly. The PC’s eyes betrayed him; he seemed stressed, a little anxious. Whether he expected this audience or not – though he did seem to have seen the question coming, given what he said first – he gave the impression that he felt it wouldn’t be easy to sell his story and win the support he evidently considered vital. And, in all honesty, he was correct.

“In the many times I have envisioned this conversation, I always seem to ramble, so I shall endeavor to be concise, yet detailed. But first, I must mention that I created the universe we left behind. A creator deity doesn't need to think about doing something or require a process to have their will be done. They simply will it, and it is done. Before you left my universe and came here, I still had power over you, so I was still in a position to erase your memories. Thus, I willed them away, and that was it.

“Now, the methods by which amnesia is induced in this world are fallible, and the amnesiacs recover their memory with the help of triggers. Your memories most likely ceased to exist, so by returning them to you, I should have to fabricate new ones first. That is why I can say with surety that you will never get them back. This may sound harsh, but I advise you make peace with this fact, for people have been consumed by less.

“Erasing your memories was therefore the easy part. Implanting mine most certainly was not, for I was already in this world by then. Ordinarily, that would not be a problem, but this universe's creator deity is more powerful than even I can comprehend. The laws of existence are different here, and as such, I cannot function in my full capacity. I had to think long and hard about which memories I were to transfer. In fact, Hekate even helped me decide. Once that was done, I used the last of my power, which was contained in those seventeen plates behind me, to ensure you would receive them upon arriving here.”

Isaiah raised an eyebrow. He didn’t quite know who Hekate was, but suspected she was most likely the person who had frequently contacted the Commissioner as they’d walked to his office, and even before he began speaking. After all, the only other person here who wasn’t an amnesiac or the PC had been called Angela by the said PC. The amnesiac took a swig of the drink, much to the satisfaction of a throat he didn’t even know was dry until that moment, and licked his lips in a brief movement, eyes watering slightly. He didn’t appear to take that quite well to soda, as his brain identified it, but it was at least tolerable. Everyone else assembled happily began picking up and eating pizza slices, watching the conversation with mild enthusiasm. As if they had anything better to do at the moment.

“If it took you that much effort, wouldn't it have been more efficient to simply remove my memories and add your own in the universe you created, before sending me into the other one?” The amnesiac was disappointed by the PC’s response, which seemingly confirmed the worst fears he’d been holding since he first began to ponder his possible questions. On the other hand, in his brief life, he’d never known he had anything resembling a past, so what different did it make? Beyond the fact it was his? And how could he trust Archibald, a man who claimed to have removed his memories and brought him into this mess, to be honest? But, of course, since he had been given the opportunity to have as many of his questions answered and problems resolved, he decided it most convenient to carry on and counter Archibald’s fairly long, but explanatory, answer.

“It would, yes, but I had only made the concerned memories in the seven years after I arrived here. It would have been impossible to give you what I did not already possess,” replied the PC after a moment’s thought. He seemed to be getting more confident now, thanks to these questions that seemed fairly easy to resolve. This was annoying Isaiah, who had been eagerly hoping to frustrate the officer as he himself had been through his brief - at least, based on what he was presently aware of -existence.

Regardless, the amnesiac cursed himself for not having come up with the same conclusion himself. Of course, it was still incredibly hard to absorb and agree with all the information he’d run into today about his situation. So he abandoned his first question and shifted to the next one.

“But why take away my past memories? If we chose to join you, how could knowing about our past lives and our participation in this experiment make us change our minds?” began Isaiah in a mildly accusatory and suspicious tone.

“Whether you agree or not, the memory of a past life would have been a distraction. I can say with certainty that while some of you would have longed to return, some of you would have been haunted by your pasts. Either way, it is a burden that would have lowered your efficiency. Hate me if you must, but if I were given the opportunity to do anything differently, I should not.” Archibald’s voice betrayed no hesitance or weakness. It was firm, and so, clearly, was his stance.

“Would it have been any less efficient than the time it would take for us to adapt to a world we've never seen before, even with your knowledge?” posited the amnesiac, eyebrow raised yet again. A smile crept at the edge of his lips; he thought he’d created a question so effective that it would pierce the officer’s strong armor. That sneer shifted into a frown as the PC’s response destroyed such hopes.

“At the moment, your only challenge is to learn about the new world in which you find yourself. If you had retained your memories, you would have to do that in addition to dealing with the sudden change in appearance and the loss of your abilities. It is much simpler this way.”

“Okay, you make a good point,” breathed Isaiah, conceding defeat. He was appalled at the officer’s resoluteness, though he betrayed no indication he’d seen the amnesiac’s smile. Worst of all, from what he could tell, the PC was making perfect sense. His voice seemed to indicate he was telling the truth, or the truth as he perceived it. And did the amnesiac have a better option but to believe in him? “How much of the knowledge in our minds did you replace with yours? Are our personalities even ours, or did you swap those out as well?” questioned Isaiah, now becoming more frustrated that his scheduled revenge was slowly falling apart.

“Everything you know, which is to say, knowing how to walk, speak, read, write, and so on, that is my doing. Everything you feel, which is to say, reacting upon seeing a dead bird, smelling an orchid, receiving a hug, et cetera, that depends solely on you. Our fellow humans have a saying that goes, "We are the sum total of our past experiences", which means your past influences who you are. Yes, that means you are not the same person who left our universe, but at a base level, your personality hasn't changed.

“I was very careful not to implant any of my personal experiences into your minds, so any you make are your own. Your journey here and even this very moment will shape your personality. How you view authority will likely be influenced by this encounter. Your experiences during the next few weeks will determine how you live the rest of your life. Daunting as that is, you are not held back by a troubled childhood, a failed education, or the like, for you had none. You are a blank page, and everything written on you from this point forward will define who you are. You have a choice in that matter, so you can choose what kind of person you want to be. This is a precious gift. Cherish it.”

Once again, the response made perfect sense, and even the amnesiac had to admit that. His frustration was starting to ebb away. Already, the officer had conclusively answered several of his questions, and he seemed to be more and more sensible and informative with every response. Isaiah still wasn’t sure if he could trust Archibald, but it was getting harder to not admit the man had a point. Now he had an explanation for his memories and personalities, where none had existed previously. What else to call it but correct? Did he have another choice? Shifting to his next question, the amnesiac carried on with their discussion: “That's...actually relieving to know. However, what are we expected to do when we come across something even you can't recognize, as it was hard enough trying to correlate your memories to our experiences without feeling like we hadn't a clue what we were doing?”

To the amnesiac’s surprise, and rage, the PC laughed. Or, simply a chuckle. But the eyes of somebody who really wasn’t in a laughing mood, it was hard not to exaggerate it. Taking care not to crush his drink and spill soda everywhere, Isaiah clenched his free hand and gritted his teeth as the officer explained, “Pardon me, but I find that question amusing. If you encounter something and don't know what it is, it means I shouldn't know either. In that case, you would have to do what all humans must do in such circumstances: figure it out yourself.” Archibald finished with another chuckle.

“Yes, I'm laughing too. On the inside,” grumbled the amnesiac in a voice that wasn’t very audible, but strong. He honestly hadn’t been sure what to expect as a response to that question, but being told the obvious in an almost patronizing manner sure hadn’t been what he’d hoped. Preferring not to break out in rage, Isaiah proposed the next question to keep his mind away from his emotions. “Why couldn't you control where we wound up? Sure, you might've been lacking in power, but couldn't you have devoted some of what you gave up to help us make our journey the slightest bit easier?”

‘Regrettably, no. I used the very last of my power to ensure that this letter,” noted the PC, interrupting his own words to pull from his pocket one of the letters that he’d sent out, before continuing. “would be in your pockets when you arrived here. I even had to ensure you had pockets in the first place. You must understand, I had no idea how many of you would agree to hear me out, so putting enough energy into the act to ensure even as many as ten people would receive a letter was draining. If there were eleven of you, one would still be lost out there. I am most relieved that is not the case.”

Isaiah sighed. He hadn’t expected that question to be very effective against the officer either, particularly after the man had made clear the limits of his power earlier. “…I expected as much. So I suppose that leads me to my next question. If you were responsible for taking away most of our powers, are you also responsible for making us human in this world?”

Archibald nodded. “Indeed, I am. This city could easily be destroyed by a single rampaging Gyarados, which is essentially an extremely aggressive, flying sea serpent. If all of the other participants of the experiment were in their natural forms... this world would be lost. If I were to give humanity a fighting chance, I had no choice but to confine everyone to frail human bodies.”

It took a moment for the image of a sea serpent, much less a flying one, to materialize in the amnesiac’s mind. However, when it did, it was his turn to chuckle, and he did. The Commissioner was rendered curious by this response, but, when Isaiah quickly explained it to him, that expression faded as quickly as it’d come. “Somehow, I almost find that funny. That we could've destroyed the world unless you made us into humans.” The amnesiac’s expression hardened. “But my temper hasn't died away, and I still have a few questions. Are you aware of how massive this city is? How did you expect half of us to travel through these huge crowds, large amounts of traffic, and the extensive network of streets without help? Unless you'd assumed that we would've come not too far away from your headquarters, which leads back to my question on your controlling the locations we woke up in – and, from your answer to that, you must’ve certainly had some high hopes. I’m not a man who likes to rely on luck, so that makes me uncomfortable. Frankly, the one girl who walked the entire distance got blisters and her feet started bleeding. Now that's a way to give a person a decent first impression.”

The Police Commissioner shrugged. “It is most unfortunate that events unfolded in such a way, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had to, as the saying goes, "hope for the best." For an entity who has always known the fate of those who reside in his universe, that was not an easy thing to accept. It took me seven years, which is partly why I waited so long to send the letter. Even afterwards, it would keep me awake at night. At the risk of sounding insolent, everything turned out well enough. I daresay this universe's creator deity is to thank for our good luck.”

A witty, accusatory retort was on its way from exiting the amnesiac’s mouth, but he hesitated. While being dumped in an alley halfway across the city didn’t exactly seem like “good luck,” Archibald sounded genuinely relieved. Perhaps the manner in which he said it nonchalantly still invoked a little frustration in Isaiah, but it could not be argued that the PC seemed to be honestly elated by the attendance he’d achieved, and even a tad bit regretful about his having left it up to chance, having no other option. Too, the man had said that he hadn’t had much energy to manipulate to gather everyone to a specific time and place in a world where he didn’t hold absolute power, which could be reasonably explained, given what Archibald claimed to have done to accomplish his goals. And this, once again, seemed entirely truthful. Isaiah looked down on the nicely-detailed floors, stifling his own commentary in the process.

“Since you're the only person here who seems to have even a piece of an explanation as to what is going on, though I still can't entirely trust you or everything you say, I'll have to do with what you're telling me now,” started the amnesiac quietly, as though almost talking to himself. He, however, returned his hard stare to the officer before him, and continued. “So I'm moving on to the next question. If my new memory, or whatever you call your adding your memories into my brain, is correct, popular culture is not the same thing as reality. And, even if that's not the case, I'm fairly sure they've never seen anything like this before. So, how are you so confident that the local residents won't be surprised if something “odd” happens, especially if it involves powerful forces in conflict with what seems to be a plainly present evil?”

“Oh, I am certain they will be much more than merely “surprised.” The explanation I gave in the letter is true, but I am not the one responsible for it. That would be our adversary. He chose New York City, not me. I simply followed,” the PC explained calmly, as usual.

Isaiah was curious. Archibald had swayed him perfectly by now, and the former’s skepticism was now a mere shadow of what it had been formerly, if that. He seemed to be facing a legitimate crisis, under circumstances explained in an honest and concise fashion, and so he was no longer frustrated. All he wanted to know was whatever he could find about his present situation, and what was expected of him. With only a couple questions drifting across his mind, the amnesiac picked the one that jumped at him first, and inquired, “Why would he choose such a massive city? If he has forces of his own, wouldn't it be all the more obvious to a lot more people than elsewhere?”

The officer momentarily behaved like he was struggling to find the right words. However, the sentences of his generally lengthy answers poured out in their usual sensible and truthful form: “Of course. Our foe can be subtle if he so wishes, but usually, he has a flair for the dramatic. Though I had not expected him to be arrogant enough not to care if the whole world knew he was coming, I suppose he targeted New York due to its strategic location. From here, he can access the rest of America and Europe, not to mention how devastating it would be to the Americans' morale if New York, the second largest city in the world, was so easily overrun and conquered. Shock and awe is not uncharacteristic of him, but then again, his ambition never struck me as far reaching enough to include global dominion. He must be the most cunning actor ever to have existed. Then again, he has two very literal sides, and the more twisted one has always preferred the extremes, so I guess it's not as surprising.”

In spite of the rambling nature of the description, Isaiah found he could latch onto the words fairly easily. Of course, Archibald’s memories helped him discern exactly what it was he was talking about, beyond exactly who that enemy, as the PC called him, was. Quite clearly, the foe seemed to have a knack for strategy, was a huge fan of the dramatic, megalomaniacal, and manipulative. In particular, the amnesiac couldn’t help but get the impression that this perceived threat was looking to maximize upon the value of shock by surprising, antagonizing, and arrogantly standing up to the rest of the world, so that all eyes would turn upon them. And what better way to be able to manipulate an entire planet by catching its attention? This was all deeply unnerving, although he couldn’t help but admire their brilliance. Isaiah’s insatiable desire for knowledge was furthered by the prospects of this figure, especially with respect to their identity and the threat they posed. Notably, he was beginning to come to the conclusion that himself, of all people, had some kind of a knack for strategy, when considering his grasp of the explained situation, which satisfied him; at least he understood another part of his personality. Furthermore, the more he considered it, the more he realized that it was his great unanswered question, as well as the only major one remaining. He’d been sent here for a reason, and this appeared to be exactly it. The amnesiac had become an amnesiac, had been thrust into an unfamiliar world, and had had to struggle his way through a long list of troublesome situations to get here. All because he’d chosen to cooperate with Archibald, as the man claimed, to conspire against a common enemy. Everything suggested this perceived enemy was the one who’d experimented on him, which had led to his willingness to join the PC, and was the person of interest. Which was all stated in the letter that had led him here. So, of course, given the essential nature of this enemy with respect to everything he was presently aware of, he chose to ask.

“So, you're fighting a persuasive megalomaniac? I guess that explains some of what's happened so far, but not all of it. I still have my last, and most important, question. What specifically do we have to fear? Who is our enemy? Why should we be afraid of city streets, or the mayor's office? What is our situation right now, and what do we have to be concerned about?

To the amnesiac’s surprise, the Police Commissioner clapped, even if for only a couple of seconds. “I must admit, I had not expected you to think past your own circumstances so quickly. I am impressed by your insight,” he specified, before resuming his answer to the final question. Isaiah came the closest to a smile since the beginning of his conscious existence.

The person we shall be opposing in the coming conflict is a man named Thomas Siskin, also known as the Mayor of New York City. He is the reason why I warned you to stay away from city hall. Although I found his supreme confidence boggling, his current behavior more accurately portrays his dominant side, which is that of a jester. He enjoys playing games, as shown by the fact that he hasn't fired me yet. You wouldn't know this, but the police commissioner serves at the mayor's pleasure.

“He is charming, handsome, polite, and extraordinarily persuasive, which is why I wanted you to stay away from him at all costs. In time, he will gain more support, and then he will reveal his true colors, namely those of a greedy devil, but for now, he holds the favor of the people. He even does a good job of managing the city, much to my initial shock, so he will not be going away anytime soon. Fortunately, he is just as powerless as I am, and his Prison Bottle is now as decorative as those plates behind me. It will not be him or I who will determine the winning side, but all of you.”

And that was that. All of his questions, his greatest concerns and fears, were now answered. Not sure what else to say or do, the amnesiac mumbled “thank you.” He then nodded respectfully and in understanding – bowing would’ve been a bit extreme – and sat down. Isaiah was pleased to know a little more about his enemy, in spite of that man’s apparent power and capacity to hide himself. Not to mention the current struggle between Thomas and Archibald, and how deviously clever this man seemed to be, as he could capably run a city while manifesting his dominant side, in spite of being powerless and hiding his true emotions. The amnesiac could finally be at ease; while a few other prospects piqued his curiosity, none of them were significant questions. His tiredness had faded, and his world felt a little more orderly and resolute. As he liked it.

Somehow, he’d managed to drink the entire bottle of soda in the midst of his conversation without knowing it, so he casually placed the empty plastic on the table besides the clearly empty pizza boxes. Everyone must’ve been hungry, he quickly assumed.

He then remembered that there were, in fact, other people in the room beyond him and the Commissioner, who had also realized that the conversation between the two had ended. Isaiah concluded that he must’ve been so distracted by their debate that he’d disregarded the existence of everyone else. Was that another piece of his personality? In the meantime, as Isaiah pondered this new piece of information about himself, the Commissioner gazed upon each member of the audience in turn with an inquiring and questioning vision. The man was most likely wondering if there were any other questions. From what Isaiah could tell, the rest of the gathering seemed to be as enthralled and in agreement as he was.

Or, perhaps not. “Do we have to help?” inquired a girl, raising her hand. Isaiah recognized her as the girl he’d first met at the park, when they swapped letters in the former’s hopes of finding out more about his situation. Which, of course, had been met with disappointment – all the letters had been formatted and contained the exact same script. But that was in the past, though he did realize that he ought to give her the letter back. He decided to wait until she was finished talking with the PC. “What happens if one of us refuses to help with whatever it is you need us for?” The amnesiac couldn’t help but, in his mind, commend her for asking such questions, which were both informative, and also something he hadn’t himself thought of.

“Not at all. Any assistance you choose to provide must be done entirely of your own accord. Hekate - that is, our greatest ally - will be sending two limousines to transport you to her estate outside the city, regardless of whether you join. Once there, she will create an identity for each of you. If you wish to go off on your own, she will provide you with the necessary resources to do so - things like money, an apartment, a job, and so on. If, however, you agree to help us, she will initiate the process to determine which powers you have, and you will reside at her estate indefinitely,” replied the PC, with a heavy emphasis on the latter option. It was evident to see which he preferred everyone to choose.

“That sounds reasonable,” replied the girl, who fell silent. She clearly didn’t have any further questions either.

That…that complicated things, concluded the amnesiac in his thoughts upon hearing this. Had he learned about those options only 10 minutes previously, he would’ve, no doubt, chosen the former. Everything he would need to foster his own life in a world he didn’t understand, all provided to him for no cost? What couldn’t be good about that? However, now he was conflicted. While such an option continued to look favorable and welcoming, there came with it the fact that his powers, as the PC had called it, were among the last traces of his former identity. If all of what he’d heard was true, this was the only indication that he had had a previous life, old memories, old experiences, all of which had been crushed in what was likely only a few seconds. Only those few pieces of his strength, which he could only activate and make the most of with effort, focus, and time, still stood, a haunting reminder of a now-dead era of his existence. If he said yes to the first option, he might never have that connection with his past again. And, of course, he wouldn’t be able to participate in this conflict, or see the depth of the struggle he’d chose willingly to take part in.

He would never be able to figure himself out if he didn’t try to. That made the decision for him.

While Archibald continued to inquire for questions among the gathered guests, Isaiah stood up. Catching the PC’s attention, Isaiah spoke. “I’m not sure if I’m going to regret this or not. However, if my powers are the only piece of my old life still alive. Even if I don’t know anything about that old life, having at least some sign that it existed would be wonderful. You can help me figure out what they are and how they work? If that’s the case, why wouldn’t I join you? You said I had joined this fight willingly. From what I can tell, I believe you. So I’d like to keep that promise. And,” concluded Isaiah with a smile, “who wouldn’t want to live in a mansion?”

“I do believe,” said an evidently relieved, and even elated, PC, “That you will not regret this at all. You’ve made the right decision, and I thank you for taking the time to listen to me. Welcome to our cause!”

******

After the formerly highly skeptical Isaiah eagerly accepted Archibald’s request, everyone else jumped onto the bandwagon swiftly. It was then that the PC, who had finally won over the hearts of his audience, discussed the documents he had given each of them before the questioning. As the amnesiac had guessed, from a few quick glances of the text, which contained a large number of questions, it was a questionnaire. Mainly, as Archibald explained, to allow everyone to know a little bit more about themselves, and to allow Hekate to assign them codenames, new names, and help to discern what powers they might possibly have. All in the interest of allowing them to blend into their new environment while discovering what talents they possess, and how they might interact with each other to produce an effective fighting force against the villain they were facing. Basic exciting, heroic stuff. The amnesiac was pleased, naturally, to finally be able to organize his own thoughts about his greatest mystery – himself.

Until, of course, Isaiah realized he didn’t have a clue what to write. So he asked what to do in that scenario.

“If you don’t know enough about yourself to answer a question,” noted the PC, presenting a small box of colored pencils in front of the assembled crowd, which was now standing in front of the officer with varying degrees of patience, “You can always leave it blank. I would be amazed if you could fill out the questionnaire after only a few hours awake in this world. Just answer as many as you can, and as accurately as you can. If you realize something in the future, you can always return to this questionnaire and write it down.”

“I can agree with that,” replied Isaiah, reaching a hand into the box and shuffling it around until he could find an orange pencil. He liked the color. The rest of the crowd murmured states of agreement at the relatively reasonable situation they faced.

“With that done…,” began Archibald, setting the empty container aside before heading towards the room’s entrance. “I must leave and attend to some business, so I shall leave you here. As our friend, Hekate, will be reading over these questionnaires, and providing her own notes, I advise that you write concisely and clearly. When you are all done, I will return to collect them. Once more, welcome to this city, and I bid you adieu, for now.”

The PC exited. A few awkward glances were exchanged between everyone still assembled, but they soon began to scribble down answers onto the documents in their hand. Some mingled and fostered conversations, which others sat down on their seats and ignored the world. A focused Isaiah, thanks to his newfound goal, was, naturally, among the latter group.

His mind felt empty, and yet full, at the same time. A million details from his tour through the city – his emotions, sensations, even the reflection of his face in the water – danced in front of his face. However, whenever he thought to put anything down on paper, they vanished just as quickly, leaving him stumped as what to say. It was impossible to describe what he’d seen or done easily, and it took him several minutes to answer the first question.

Isaiah looked to his right. Sitting beside him, a man, one of almost the same height and weight, was scribbling down answers and notes with a determined expression. Or was it angry? He certainly didn’t seem very happy with his present situation. The amnesiac remembered him as the one who’d looked inflamed when he arrived at the Plaza, and perhaps the only one who’d been more enraged at the Commissioner than he. Perhaps that explained his scowling, but determined, expression. Thus, while the heavily tanned, blonde-haired, robust man with the scraggly beard seemed to be almost opposite to Isaiah appearance-wise, he was similar with respect to their emotions. Too, strangely enough, he was of the same height, and seemed almost the same weight, despite their completely different body structures.

With that analysis complete, trying to make the movement as superstitious as possible, so as to not catch his attention, Isaiah peered over at the other man’s document.

He failed. “Hey! I’m answering these questions here, not you!” quietly shouted the second man, who yanked his own questionnaire away from Isaiah’s vision.

“I…I…” stammered a very surprised amnesiac. Too, that person, with his imposing muscles and tanned skin, seemed like a fighter. And a good one. The lean, though strong, Isaiah was slightly intimidated by this, and it showed.

“What makes you think that I know any more than you do?” grumbled the other man to himself in an almost contemptuous voice, quite clearly not impressed by Isaiah’s shock, before making an even quieter comment. “Of all the nosy people…”

The amnesiac’s face shifted from frustrated and intimidated into annoyed. “I’m not nosy,” he retorted, grabbing the other man’s arm firmly. Two rage-filled gazes fell upon each other, wreathed in a palpable tension. Almost as though they were going to start fighting. Which Isaiah honestly wasn’t far from. “I’m Isaiah, and I don’t like being written off. I just want some answers.”

“I’m…” began the other man, thinking for a few seconds before replying, “…Travis.” He knocked aside Isaiah’s hand and stood up. “And you’re not going to find any here.” Travis walked away, continuing to grumble as he did so.

Contemplating what had happened, Isaiah found himself surprised that the other man guessed his intentions so accurately, and developed a retort for them that quickly, but a brief investigation in his mind of what had happened made it clear that the second man had had all the time to do so. The amnesiac sighed, resolved to not peer into other’s documents, for fear of getting the same reaction, or perhaps worse, and continued with answering the questions still taunting him. Perhaps he was nosy? His curiosity seemed to be getting the better of his common sense, after all, as well as his sense of danger. Which only contributed to his growing sense of embarrassment.

“Um…hello?”

A girl’s voice. After the past few minutes of complete silence, the amnesiac was more than happy to look up and find the brown-haired Asian girl he’d given his letter to. The surprisingly short, clearly tanned girl waved at him a little awkwardly. “Remember me?” she asked hesitantly. “I thought I’d say hello, because you’re the only person I know here, other than Alex.”

The girl gestured to a slender, taller (though still short compared to Isaiah, who was just beginning to realize how tall he was) individual with dark hair and deep blue eyes. He nodded, waved, and said “Mornin’, gent,” in what was a distinctly British accent. His voice was a quiet one, and Isaiah could guess, from the way he’d been standing there the entire time, he wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

“Pleasure to meet the both of you,” replied an unemotional amnesiac, who was presently wrapped up in the midst of answering a question about his boundlessly bound personality. The previous conversation had left him wary of this one, and he noticed a tendency to drift away from a focus on his surroundings when he was thinking of something. Which could just as easily be defined as single-mindedness. Regardless, he paid little attention to the people in front of him.

“Actually,” continued the girl, who was now beginning to ramble, “I guess I can say that about a lot of people. I’ve met all kinds of friendly people since I woke up, and some of them were even kind enough to help lead me here. That’s probably better than ending up in a place where everyone is rude to each other, right?”

Upon seeing Isaiah’s focusing on his document, she stopped. As if suddenly realizing something to catch his attention, she pulled out a piece of paper from a pants pocket. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she began in an awkward and embarrassed tone, catching the amnesiac’s attention. Isaiah raised his eyebrow as she gingerly held out a slightly bloody letter, her smile half-hearted. “I remembered that I hadn’t thrown away the letter at the park because I thought you might want it back. So…um…here. I don’t know if you can clean it up, so it might be ruined, and you might not be able to read some of it, and…”

“It’s fine,” awkwardly grinned Isaiah as he grabbed the paper and unceremoniously stuffed it into one of his pockets. “Though I do have a better source of information for my questions now, I appreciate the gesture. I would’ve done the same.” The amnesiac slipped his hand into his shirt pocket. “In fact, I already have.”

Isaiah pulled out the bloody letter.

“Um…I think that’s yours, actually…” said the girl, confused, before Isaiah looked down, gritted his teeth, and shoved it back where it had come from. Cursing in his mind for his own lack of attention – so much for being unnecessarily dramatic and showy - he quickly brought out the correct letter from a neighboring pocket and handed it to the girl. “There,” he mumbled quietly, almost beyond her range of hearing, “now it’s mutual.”

“Alright, then.” The girl began to slowly move, and look, away, shuffling across the floor, letter in tow. “I just remembered that I haven’t filled out my questionnaire yet. I think I was stuck at some of the first questions? So I’d better answer them all before the PC returns and we head to that mansion place, which sounds exciting. Thanks for giving me back the letter, although I probably don’t need it either? But, it was a nice of you to do that. So…umm…bye?” She slipped out of sight.

Alex watched her leave as Isaiah buried himself in paper. Turning around, hands in his pockets, he commented, “At least you have a keepsake, yeah? More than any of us can say.”

“I’m not a love-addled idiot,” growled sincerely the amnesiac in response, snatching the comment from the edge of his hearing and expanding it to consume his mind in a form of anger, drowning out his previous thoughts. “I have far more to worry about than some sort of silly relationship at the present moment. Just…a letter with blood on it? Gross. And yet I had the worst luck in trying to make sure it was as visible for as few seconds as possible. I swear, it’s like somebody’s here to assure that I look stupid.”

“Well, the copper did say something about a higher –”

“Yes, I remember that.”

Alex shrugged. He didn’t seem particularly offended about being cut off; he seemed nonchalant, actually. However, he seemed to be in recognition that there wasn’t much more conversation to be had with an angry, frustrated idiot. “If you’re busy, I won’t bother you.” And so he walked away.

Leaving Isaiah all alone.

******

“Wonderful!” commented the PC as each person, in turn, handed him their answers. “Your cooperation is more than I could’ve hoped, if I’m being honest. I thank each of you for answering your questionnaires, although we’ll have to wait for a short while longer before we can head to Hekate’s estate. I’ve been told that I must give her these myself before we’ll be able to pay a visit, so I must, once again, temporarily leave. However, not before I show to you the means of transportation by which we will be arriving. Come, everyone.”

“You mean…,” called out someone in the small crowd now massing by the door, “…the limousines?”

“Precisely,” replied the officer, to what soon became a moderate amount of applause. “Given how many of you have come, there isn’t enough room for everyone to fit into one. So, naturally, we’ve brought two. The windows, unfortunately, are tinted glass, so you won’t be able to look outside during the duration of the trip. However, they are for your protection, and I think you will find the limos satisfactory.”

The now satisfied – perhaps eager – gathering flowed from the room they’d found their answers in, as the man that provided them walked towards the lobby. Isaiah, bitter and depressed, hovered towards the back, slouching and deterring anyone from trying to talk to him with threatening glances. Not that many people tried, as most were more interested in seeing the limos than conversation. Which he was perfectly fine with; the less conversations he had, the less that would act as a fool.

A few people gave the group of amnesiacs odd glances once more, but many had already seen them, and so were fairly used to them by this time. The Commissioner’s step was cheerful, and it displayed in the thumbs up he gave to his assistant at the lobby’s sole desk, Angela, who seemed to be pleased by this. Of course, as the only bleak person in an otherwise optimistic setting, Isaiah was, by no means, made any better by the fact itself. And so the most he could do was stare blankly when the officer opened the doors to One Police Plaza, allowing his audience to view the polished, dark pair of large limousines, complete with chrome horse decals and white tires.

“You may feel free to enter the vehicles and remain seated until I return,” spoke Archibald, who had now turned around and was preceding to reenter the building. “If you have any questions, each limousine has a driver that can help.” Of course, by then, everyone else was quite eager to see what the interior of these beautiful cars looked like, though they did listen to the PC’s comments about the limited amount of passengers that could be able to fit in each limo. Thus, the gathering divided into two groups of about equal number.

Isaiah waited in the back of his group as they opened the door to one of the limousines and squeezed their way in, to collective oohs and aahs. He’d personally tried to avoid everyone he’d met earlier. However, given how few people there were, that was impossible, and so he was stuck with the strong man he was intimidated by. Which made him slightly more frustrated, though he honestly didn’t have another choice.

Besides, the interior was impressive; nobody had been kidding. It was expansive and nicely styled, although everything was in a dark color scheme, and the few lights lining the top didn’t make it all that much easier to see much, though that was more due to the collection of tinted windows and the lack of any natural light. Regardless, the dark leather seating felt soft and comfortable, which helped make up for the fact it felt slightly claustrophobic. As Isaiah was fairly tall and large, it was particularly bad for him, in spite of his lack of a fear of small spaces. No, what was worrisome was that he was a lot closer to everyone else, and it would be incredibly hard for him to blend in with his surroundings. So he had to grapple with his social anxiety, particularly given the conversations that were beginning to take place.

After a minute or two of gradually diminishing silence, all conversation was stopped abruptly/. Dunno if anyone’s noticed, said a muffled voice nobody recognized, although it quite clearly seemed to be coming from behind a small, tinted glass window separating the back of the car from what was clearly the driver’s seat, but there’s a little radio by one of the seats towards the very back. It’s attached to the limo, and it’s a little old, but just turn the knobs on it and you’re hear all kinds of radio stations and their music. Just saying.

Naturally, the newfound object of everyone’s attention, as a simple glance made evident, was right beside Isaiah.

With all eyes on him now, the amnesiac grumbled, bent down from his seat to be at eye level with the device, and turned one of the knobs.

A loud, raucous country song about a lost lover wavered audibly in the air. The amnesiac grimaced in annoyance and changed the station. The music shifted to a bubbly pop song, which proved to be equally infuriating. The amnesiac, gritting his teeth and grumbling, remembered that one of the questions he hadn’t known enough to answer was the one about his favorite music genre. “It would’ve been a lot more convenient if I’d known my preferences from the start,” he mumbled.

Yet, he didn’t. So he had to spend a few minutes dashing between radio stations under the stares of a few confused, and some irked, faces. Thankfully, however, he was able to find a song that he could actually stand – an instrumental one. Perhaps beyond that. It felt comforting, even if it was only a single piano. The notes rolled into his mind in a steady, orderly, unbroken stream. He could recognize, right away, that this was his kind of music. It wasn’t confusing, or loud, or excessive. It matched his own personality smoothly, especially in its gradual changes and serious tone, and so he could finally push away his own worries, as here was something that he could connect to, for a change. Drowning out the sounds of everyone else around him, Isaiah could finally feel the tension in his muscles and mind loosening. Now the amnesiac was free to think, ponder, absorb the music in his surroundings and treasure it. This was something to relate to, and he wanted to make the most of it.

For the first time today, he was utterly content.

Unknown Subject
Police Commissioner’s Office | March 18th, 2016 | 2:50 PM

The questionnaire was harder than she'd expected but also kind of fun and the fizzy stuff in the bottle was amazing! It was like someone had blown bubbles into a bottle, except they stayed all bubbly instead of going pop like bubbles did, or at least like the bubbles in Achibald's memory did, but maybe he'd only ever been given the bad kind of bubbles before.

Anyway, these kind of bubbles were good and the pizza stuff was okay too. The girl who had decided to call herself Ducky for the purpose of the questionnaire was beginning to think she very much liked this world. Which was probably a good thing since she'd agreed to save it (twice apparently).

"Do you think we knew each other before we met today or that we met before but didn't know any more about each other than we do now?" Ducky was asking this question of anyone, though she was walking next to the short Asian girl who had adopted 'Burrow' as her name and that was who answered:

"I'm not sure. I guess that's something Archibald might actually know about us."

"Don't count on him telling us anything about it though." This came from one of the men but there were so many of them that Ducky really wasn't sure what to call even half of them yet so she didn't know who said it. But was it possible that if she didn't know then it might not have been said and it wouldn't be a bad thing for that not to have been said since the words weren't very nice anyway. But Ducky supposed it had been said and someone should say something about that!

"Oh I'm sure if we ask him nicely, he'll tell us all about it when he has the time. He answered all those questions earlier so I'm sure he likes answering things a lot. I wonder if I like answering things. Oh, I know - ask me a question!" Ducky clapped her hands together in glee and turned to Burrow who was totally, definitely the best question giver of all time! Maybe...

"Uh- do you think my hair's too long? No wait, that's a stupid question, of course it is, I'm going to get it cut. Let me try again, what about..." Burrow trailed off but that was okay because her first question had been a good one and Ducky knew just how to answer it!

"I think there are people with longer hair, though I can't remember seeing any, but my brain isn't telling me that it is too long, but then how would I know if it was? Are you scared that it might hurt if you get it cut? My mind's telling me that cuts hurt and you have to put a plaster on them; maybe we should ask Archibald if he has plasters first?"

Ducky thought she rather had enjoyed answering that question though she wasn't entirely sure if she'd answered it right but that didn't seem to matter much to her. It seemed you could say whatever you wanted most of the time and people were just happy to say things back and then you said stuff again and it was called a conversation.

They were outside now and there were two limousines which were cool looking car things and there were two of them, oh no! Ducky hadn't even started to get to know everyone and already she was going to have to choose who to share a limousine with and for some reason that seemed to be terribly hard because she just liked everyone so much. Did she? Why wouldn't she? Right, yep, these guys were going to be her best-est friends.

"I wish we didn't have to split into two groups, isn't that terribly sad? I think I'm going to get in the limousine really quickly and then let other people decide who wants to come with me because I don't think I can decide!"

With that said, Ducky dashed into the nearest limousine and sat for a heart-wrenching moment and waited to see who wanted to be her friend. Of course, there wasn't enough space in the other limousine for everyone so it might just be people who didn't get away from her quick enough but she'd be happy to have them anyway!

Okay, so the Commissioner's knowledge told her that "Burrow" wasn't a real name, but at least the other girl was calling herself "Ducky," which also wasn't a name. If she was brave enough for that, Burrow could at least try to be so courageous.

Besides, if anyone teased her, she could just wait for the name on the official documents and use that. Surely the official name would be dignified enough to hide behind.

Once outside, Burrow followed Ducky onto one of the two shiny black limousines, hoping the tall guy she met first would join her too. He was nice enough, and kind of awkward, which made Burrow feel infinitely better about her own awkwardness. But Ducky was a girl, and something told Burrow it was probably easier to hang around her than the guys.

Okay, and maybe Burrow was hoping some of Ducky's confidence would rub off.

The limo's interior felt as plush as a fuzzy stuffed animal, but not nearly as comforting. It was so clean it was practically overlapping with godliness--though that thought was not too far off. The dark red velvet was perfectly smooth, and the dark wooden accents shone with excess polish.

"Do you think the inside of the other limo looks exactly like this one?" Ducky asked, smoothing the velvet over the wrong way so it glimmered in the low light.

"I don't see why not," Burrow replied. "They look the same on the outside."

As Ducky began fiddling with a collection of silver knobs near the door, one of the guys--the very dark one--poked his head in, an appraising grin on his face. "Actually, y'know, if you two were really wondering about it, they are different on the inside. The other one has leather seats."

Immediately, Burrow looks down and pets the velvet seat cushion. "I think I'll stay here."

"Me too. I get the feeling this is much softer than leather." Ducky looks up, hands at her sides, still touching the upholstery, and beams. "Oh, and hello!"

The dark man pointed to himself, eyebrows raised in confusion, before realizing Ducky was talking to someone else. He whipped his head to the left and found a slightly shorter, much paler man. Burrow didn't really remember talking to either of them.

"Oh, she was talking to you. You're getting on this one?" asked the dark man. "Sorry for blocking the door. I was having some troubles deciding between leather and velvet. Tough choice, y'know?"

The pale guy shrugged and averted his eyes, stepping into the limo and collapsing to a seat on the side of the door without sparkly mystery knobs.

Then Ducky pressed something, and a bass thrum crashed through the limo. Burrow felt a yelp escape her mouth and jumped to cover her ears. The pale man straightened a little in his seat and adjusted the hem of his shirt. Evidently he liked the music, if it could even be called that.

The black man's smile widened, showing off a perfect set of teeth, and he climbed in as well. "I think I like this. It's exciting."

There went all chances of Burrow riding in the same limo as her tall friend, or even with Alex. At least she had Ducky though, and Ducky was openly nicer than both of them.

"It is exciting," Ducky agreed, "but I think I like having my ears in one piece. No one will mind if I try to make it quieter, right?"

Fervently, Burrow shook her head. Quieter would be absolutely better. All the vibrations were splitting her head in two.

By the time Ducky succeeded in lowering the volume, the group had sampled seven different genres of music, four bouts of talking, an increase in volume, fuzz, and an odd moment when there was no bass, just loud brassy shout-ey noises. The limo had started moving, its humming engine drowned by the other miscellaneous noises.

The song had changed too, though Ducky was fairly sure it was from the same people who played the prior song, because the numbers on her dials were the same as earlier. Plus it was the same genre. "I think people tend to make songs in the same genre for a really long time," she mused, "though I certainly wouldn't. It seems rather narrow-minded."

Burrow decided she didn't like all the bass and the fizzy bad violin-like swoops and wished the other people weren't enjoying the music. Then she could ask to change back to whatever that quiet orchestra thing they'd skipped over was and no one would think she was silly.

Oh, toss that. If Ducky could say whatever she wanted, Burrow could at least try.

"U-um," she started.

The black man looked at her, attentive, and Ducky turned down the volume once more.

"I was wondering if maybe, um..." Oh no no no. This was a horrible idea. Burrow could be so stupid sometimes. Everyone was enjoying the music! It was selfish to ask them to switch just for her. She stopped and twiddled her fingers, a blush spreading across her cheeks like the plague.

"You were wondering?" Ducky asked. "What were you wondering about? I personally wonder about a lot of things, like what kind of instrument makes all those swooshing noises."

"Or we could let her finish asking, y'know?" the black man suggested. He smiled, encouraging, clearly not holding anything against Ducky or Burrow.

Ducky nodded. "That does sound like a wise idea. What were you going to say, Burrow?"

Okay, now Burrow felt very uncomfortable. Everyone was looking at her, like when she asked that awkward and whiny question about being required to help the commissioner. They must have all thought she was such a scaredy cat, or maybe even ungrateful.

"Er, well..." It was now or never. "I maybe sort of realized that I um... Idon'tknowyouandthepaleguy'snames."

Not what she'd intended, but at least she didn't sound like she was complaining.

The black man laughed, and he was loud, and Burrow though maybe she'd said something stupid again, but then he leaned over in his seat and offered her a hand to shake, clearly not judging her at all. "I'm calling myself Torshade for now. I assume you're Burrow?"

She nodded.

"And I am Ducky. It's a very fitting name, or at least that's what I think." Ducky tilted her head, serene and sage in her rambling. "Burrow thought it wasn't a name, but who decides that sort of thing, really?"

Thankfully, Torshade failed to mention that "Burrow" was also not a name. Whether he did so on purpose or not, Burrow couldn't tell.

When no one continued the conversation, Ducky turned to the pale man on the other side of the door and smiled. "And you are?"

The pale man paused for a long breath and a moment to consider his answer. Then he said very quietly, "Fodder."

Burrow thought that was a sad name, even if it was also not a real name. She didn't say anything though, since Fodder would probably make some very depressing remark back, or someone else would say it was silly that she thought a name sounded sad.

"That doesn't sound like a very happy name," Ducky remarked. She even frowned for a moment, puzzling over the sadness of the word. But then a moment later she brightened and posed another of her rambling questions. "I wonder why it doesn't sound happy. Is it because 'fodder' is not a happy word? It's so interesting how words do that."

"That is pretty fascinating," Torshade agreed. He rested his elbows on his knees and turned his attention towards talking with Ducky.

Burrow wished her arms were long enough to turn one of the silver knobs and find the orchestra music again. All the talking and walking was exhausting, and this upbeat fizzing music would not help her sleep away the rest of the ride.

Hekate spun around in circles, twirling her ball gown around her while eagerly awaiting the arrival of her lovely new lodgers. The balcony above the entrance hall was made for exactly such occasions, after all, so it would only make sense that she wait there – and besides, the view was absolutely spectacular! However, she had been waiting for half an hour already, which meant she had long since ceased her admiration. Instead, she preoccupied herself with swishing her dress. True, it was something a child would do, not an adult, but since when did she not get to do what she liked? The alternative was restlessly pacing to and fro, which was even more unladylike.

After six more joyful revolutions (joyful, but careful, for breaking a heel would be disasterous), something in her peripheral vision moved. She halted suddenly, almost tripping on her dress, and stumbled towards the balcony. Immediately realising the foolishness of such an action, she stopped, spun twice widdershins, and righted herself. With the dizziness gone, she quickly stepped forward. Two black limousines crept over the serene landscape, making for the castle.

Hopping up and down, she cried, “Yes! Finally!”

She might have been concerned had the limousines lacked tinted windows, since she did not wish for the heroes’ and heroines’ first impression of her to be that of a jumping lunatic, but that was not the case. In fact, she had spent most of the afternoon preparing for their arrival. The staff was dressed in formal attire, the music was ready to play, and the lady of the castle was ready to receive her guests.

She turned on her heel, picked up the rim of her dress, and dashed down the left corridor and stairwell. As she descended the stairs, she slowed down, stroking away any wrinkles in the front of the dress and proceeding with a graceful walk. She encountered the steward (who also served as her butler) at the gallery adjacent to the library. Her approach drew the man’s gaze, and upon seeing her, he smiled warmly.

“You look charming, my lady. Black has always suited you magnificently.”

Hekate stopped and curtsied. “You are too kind, Samuel. I admire your patience for putting up with my whims of fancy.”

“Though you lack a title, you are no less noble than any woman with one.” He cleared his throat. “Dear Susan has already called everyone to the grand room. They are ready to receive the guests.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent! I shall head downstairs and play the music, then.”

“What do you have in mind?” Samuel asked.

“For the music? Boccherini’s minuet will be the first to play, followed by–”

“Pardon the interruption,” he said, looking sincerely sorry, “but is that not a tad generic? As I understand, it is overused to point of indicating snobbishness rather than class.”

Hekate bit her lip. “Yes, you’re right. It’s a musical cliché – almost as bad as Air on a G string. No, it won’t work at all. What do you suggest?”

Samuel adjusted his sleeves. “Pathetique, movement two.”

She shook her head. “That’s cued for later. I need a piece that can be used for an entrance.”

“Scenes from Childhood?”

She recoiled. “Eww, no. Like you said, we can’t use any of the typical ambient pieces.”

“Is that typically used for setting the atmosphere?”

“Not as typically as Clair de Lune, for example, but I just don’t like it.”

“My apologies. Would you prefer something more dramatic?”

She titled her head in an oscillating motion, considering it. “I was hoping for something that would make a greater impact, but nothing too flamboyant.”

“I see. What about Schubert’s serenade?”

Hekate frowned. “Err, which one?”

“There is only one popularly known, my lady. It has a German title, but I cannot I remember it.”

“If it’s the one I think I remember, then no. It starts out well and is a beautiful piece, but it gets a little too vibrant later on.”

Despite the constant rejected suggestions, the steward showed no signs of impatience. “Then perhaps an entirely faster piece is required. How about the prelude of Bach’s sixth solo cello suite?”

“Everything I already have is either Classical or Romantic. Baroque won’t make for a smooth transition.”

“That is also true. May I assume your cue consists predominantly of piano pieces?”

“Your assumption would be correct, yes.”

“Then I recommend selecting a piece for violin and piano. I know a beautiful romance by Dvořák that should suit the occasion perfectly. It reminds me of a cold winter morning – solemn, yet pristine. A description I once heard called it, ‘filled with restraint and tender grace’.”

“Do I have it?”

“Opus eleven. It was part of a string quartet before Dvořák revisited it. You ought to have it.”

Outside the window, Hekate saw the limousines pull up into the courtyard. Gasping, she kicked off her shoes, took them in hand, picked up the rim of her dress once more, and ran to the left wing, endeavouring to go around the far side to the office and then down to her control room. She heard Samuel call something, however, so she stopped just before entering the billiards room and looked at him from down the hall.

“Were you saying something?”

“Indeed! In the version of the romance I have in mind, the piano plays on its own for about a minute and ten seconds before the violin starts.”

“Do you mean I should wait to enter until then?”

“Precisely!”

Hekate beamed. “Thank you so much, Samuel! I’ll start playing it immediately, so meet them outside and wait until everyone has disembarked before you lead them inside. You know the piece better than I do, so please announce me just before the violin starts playing!” Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared through the door.

The main feature of the billiards room was naturally the billiards table. The table itself was crafted from American black walnut, and with its crimson velvet cover, it fitted the colour scheme of the other furniture admirably. The walls were wenge panes while the floor was western red cedar. Across the room, a bar, currently closed, was available to any guests who occupied the room. But Hekate had never had guests before, so it was lightly stocked. Six doors – three on the left, two on the right, and one next to the bar – led out of the room.

To the left of the billiards room was a hallway that ran directly beside the outer wall, which she was avoiding because it had windows, so she chose the closest door to her right. She followed that hallway almost to the end and chose the third-to-last door. It led her inside a small, private office; however, it was of no current significance to her, as she merely walked through the door to reach the spiral staircase on the other side of the corridor. Carefully descending onto the basement floor, she positioned herself in front of the access port, for it could not possibly be called a door, and commenced the scanning.

As a former black hat hacker, she had encountered horrific things on the dark web. Often, if the other hackers discovered your identity because you weren’t skilled enough to prevent it, you would return to your house a day or two after the incident and find your house raided. If a friend, relative, spouse, or pet had been in the house when they had arrived… It was enough to make anyone with even a semblance of decency shudder. She had therefore developed an extreme sense of precaution, and seeing as how they were to tackle superhuman threats, she had spared no expense.

Before she could enter, she had to undergo four scans – one of her retina, one of her fingerprints, one of the veins on the back of her hands, and one of her heartbeat – and enter a fifty character password containing upper and lower case letters, numbers, and symbols. Again: an extreme sense of precaution.

Nearly innumerable computer screens and terminals made the spacious control room seem much smaller than it actually was. Blue and green lights flickered like a laser show, illuminating the darkness. After the door behind her sealed itself, Hekate audibly stated her name, thereby overriding the lockdown mechanism. She slid in front of her main computer screen and brought up the castle’s playlist with a few keystrokes. To her relief, she did have Dvorak’s romance – Samuel’s oddly specific instructions made her think he had acquired it in the first place – so she inserted it, allowing it to play, and proceeded down the corridor to the main access port.



After following the same thorough scanning procedure as when she had used the port on the other side of the control room (for it had to be done again in order to leave), she put on her shoes again and headed up the stairs. Unlike the ascent from the first floor to the second, there was a door that separated the basement floor from the first one. She peeked through to ensure the group had passed. They had, for she heard Samuel’s voice farther down the foyer and saw no-one. Silently, she slipped past the first floor and onto the second.

Still walking as quietly as possible, she made her way down the corridor. The piece was not at the bridge yet, so she snuck forward – gracefully, of course, as a panther moved across the forest floor – until she reached the balustrade. Samuel had already begun the introductions, but hopefully, he could stall long enough to ensure she wasn’t late.

“…my dearly beloved wife, Susan Jones. She is not only the head cook, but also the head of the maids and all other staff members – me included.” The staff chuckled, as did most of the guests.

He continued to introduce the thirteen maids, five gardeners, and three cooks, all of whom were aware of her presence, but knew well enough not to show it; evidently, she was early, not late. He mentioned something more about each of them, sometimes telling a joking anecdote, other times paying them a compliment.

She admired how easily he put not only the guests at ease, but also the staff. She was indeed blessed to have the Jones’ in service, as both of them did so much while expecting so little in return. Even when she offered them stupidly high pay raises, they remained modest and declined unless she significantly reduced it.

The steward finished the introductions just as the piano played a decrescendo followed by slow acciaccaturas. Judging from the way he took a deliberately deep breath, she took that as her cue.

“Last of all, I have the honour of introducing your hostess, the Mistress of Erebus, my lady, Hekate.”

The violin made for a magnificent herald. She descended one elegant step at a time, her hand on the banister and her dress trailing behind. Admiration practically radiated from the two women, making Hekate blush. Most of the men were dumbstruck, much to her amusement; even the one who had wanted to call himself “Travis” couldn’t hide that he was impressed. True, his arms were folded across his chest, indicating he didn’t approve, but his eyes failed to express his hostility, if only for a moment.

Once in front of the group, she made her most graceful curtsey. It took an amazing amount of self-control to prevent her composed smile from breaking into a grin.

“Good evening. You must pardon the extravagant reception, as you are the first official guests we’ve ever had. I don’t usually wear ball gowns and jewellery, but I certainly could not welcome you in casual clothing.”

“Oh, are we underdressed?” the Indian woman asked, looking distraught.

Ah, Ducky! Her sensitivity and friendliness was quite adorable. Hekate predicted that one would not be able to stand by without wanting to help or reassure her if she was upset.

“Of course not, love! There is nothing you could have done about your attire. Tomorrow, Mrs Jones will visit you and Burrow here and help you figure out what style you like. After that, you can wear whatever your heart desires. If you – any of you,” she passed her gaze over the six others too before coming back to Ducky, “ever have any requests, she and her husband would like nothing better than to be of assistance.”

“What if we get lost?” Burrow piped. She immediately seemed to regret it, for she avoided eye contact.

“If you are ever lost, do ask the maids to show you the way. They will wear their nametags until such a time as you have memorised all their names, so you need never hesitate to approach them. But they have worked hard to prepare the castle for you, so now I must insist they take a break.”

She bowed slightly in the staff’s direction. They bowed and curtsied in return, afterwards quickly filing out of the room and disappearing in many different directions.

“Now, the castle is fittingly large, so saying it will overwhelm you is stating the obvious. Though you will become familiar with the layout in time, I shall need to guide you on a tour first. But before I get to that–” she smiled as mischievously as she could while still maintaining a neutrally happy expression, “–there are some things I said I’d do. Of course, you haven’t seen my comments on your questionnaires yet, but they are nevertheless there.”

At the mention of their deepest thoughts and emotions having received comments, all the guests looked somewhat nervous (and angry, in some cases). She immediately reassured them that they needn’t be worried.

“The comments were mostly made for the fun of it – silly observations, as it were. For example, when I read the profile of my fellow Brit with the windblown black hair and deep blue eyes…” She paused, approached said individual, and, much to his dismay, stopped in front of him. In the second before she continued, she noticed how he was exactly her length and build. “…I said that the moment I saw him, I would say, ‘Top o’ the mornin’ to you.’ So… top o’ the mornin’ to you. I’d explain the joke, but that’s something society frowns upon. Don’t do that.

“Anyway, I haven’t just been preparing your accommodations, but also your identities. We’ll take the photos for your identity documents (because yes, we have those) tomorrow, once you are all dressed according to your tastes. However, your names you must memorise as quickly as possible. They were chosen based off your accent and appearance, as those determine whence you hail and therefore the naming customs to which you were exposed.” Focussing her attention on the man in front of her, she announced, “You are Mister Alexander McAllister.”

“What does that mean?” the newly named Alexander asked softly. Other than to those beside him (i.e. Ducky and Hekate), it was inaudible.

“I shall let you discover that yourself,” she responded, winking. She turned to the ever-excitable girl to his left. “Everyone, this is Ducky. Though the bad guys will cower when she arrives to serve out some even-handed justice, she would love nothing more than to eat candyfloss and learn how to bake. But now, she will be Ducky no more; henceforth, she will be known as Marala Sindhu.”

Marala practically bounced up and down with excitement. “Oh, that is such a lovely name and I can’t wait to introduce myself to more people! Does this mean baking can be one of my superpowers after all and that I could possibly have candyfloss – or is it cotton candy, since for some reason that name also just popped up? – sometime in the future? And when will we have to start fighting the mayor and his henchmen? And–”

“Slow down, love!” Hekate made downward patting motions with her hands for emphasis, smiling while doing so. “All in due time.”

The redhead frowned. “Is ‘love’ a word people use a lot? None of the commissioner’s memories seem to show it being used as a word to address people.”

The randomness of the question caught her off-guard. “Err, no, not as a term of endearment. It’s a verbal tic displayed by the English. I don’t use it with Zeus because I call him by his codename, and the Joneses I call by their names.”

The bouncing commenced again. “Do you know any terms of endearment that the Indians commonly used? I feel like I should–”

Hekate raised her hand. “Pardon the second interruption within a minute, but maybe you could also look that up once you’ve settled in. I enjoy answering your questions, but I think the others may have some too.”

“Oh, yes, of course! Burrow here has tons of questions she’d like to ask. And I’m sure she’d also love to know her pretty new name.”

Relieved, she moved to the right again. “Yi-Ze Barbera Xia. How does that sound?”

The short Yi-Ze nodded, still avoiding eye contact, but less noticeably than before. “That sounds great.”

“Hmm…” She reached out and inspected the girl’s hair, causing her to flinch. “I know I said I’d have a hair stylist waiting by the time you arrive, but I decided to leave that until tomorrow. Your hair seems fine, but would you mind waiting another day before having it cut?”

Just like that, the timidity was replaced by eagerness. “Yes, please! I mean, yes, I can.”

“Excellent. Then you can also choose a style to match your attire.”

Next in line was the tall and oh-so-ill-tempered Travis. He’d recovered sufficiently from the sight of her to commence the staring down. He was taller than her, true, but the dark web was not for the faint of heart. Nothing he could do would ever come close to the horrors hidden there.

“I guess this is where you tell me my name and say something cute to try to get me to like you.”

A bemused smile played on her lips. “You’re right on the former, Andrew Mariano, but you’re wrong on the latter. As long as you are willing to obey instructions and work with your teammates, I am satisfied. You can hate me for all I care.”

“Could I possibly choose my own name?” the dark-skinned man beside Andrew asked, his timing excellent (perhaps deliberately so). “I know you’re probably gonna say no, but I have to try, y’know?”

“Strategic use of the tic. It’s good that you tried, but you’re right in assuming it won’t happen. Hopefully, ‘Dorian Seabright’ won’t be such a bad name.”

“I love the sea, actually! It sounds fantastic.”

Hekate feigned slight relief; she had always known he would like the name. Extrapolating information from what people wrote and said was something at which she liked to believe she was skilled, but when the subjects gave you all the information you needed, it wasn’t difficult. Reading body language was something she’d also tried to study in the past, but she was hardly in her steward’s league. He would have been able to deduce what the blank slate – in more ways than one – in front of her thought, whereas she could most certainly not. (She had, of course, moved on to the next guest.)

“Fodder is an entirely inadequate name for you. I trust Basil Walker will suit you better.”

To her surprise, Basil bowed. He was attentive, that one. More than willing to take his silence as a prompt to move on, she teased, “I needn’t even wonder whether you have questions for me, Jeremiah Smith. I merely ask that you delay them until you have acclimatised sufficiently.”

“Can I ask just one?”

She brushed the folds of her dress with her one hand. “As long as it’s not a trap, you may.”

“What are we supposed to call you?”

“That’s… actually a reasonable question. I was brought into this world an orphan and received an official name from the orphanage. However, the name I received then is now on a death certificate. I never liked it anyway, so after I faked my death, I claimed the name of Hekate, the titan goddess of magic and darkness. Addressing me as such is more than enough – Samuel includes the style out of respect. But if you must speak of me in a situation during which it is better than my name remain unspoken, rather use Maryanne Rose, as that is the name of the alias that owns this castle.”

“So… just Hekate?”

“Exactly. Now come, we have the majority of the castle to traverse. I printed some of the plans and marked our route in colour.” She walked over to an end table at the side of the hall, retrieved the concerned papers, and handed them to the group. “Don’t lose them, since I’ll have to burn them afterwards.”



“Why?” Jeremiah asked.

“Because I’d be more at ease if the design to the castle was not in hostile hands when we are inevitably besieged. Fire is the most effective way of disposing of paper if you ensure it is fully consumed.”

“What are the colours for?” Yi-Ze asked.

“And were they drawn with colour pencils?”

“You boys can be as thick as bricks sometimes,” she replied, giving Andrew a disdainful hand-wave. He made to retort, but she waggled her index finger at him. “Manners. The other men have them despite being amnesiacs, so a loss of memory doesn’t excuse rudeness. Yes, I used colour pencils. What of it?” She purposefully manoeuvred her body so that he was mostly behind her while she faced Yi-Ze. “The colours indicate the stages of the tour, love. Mostly, it’s to prevent confusion, which results from having different lines of the same colour on the same page. I figured you might want to see where we are during the tour so that you may familiarise yourself with the layout. Let’s go.”

As the designs indicated, the first stop outside the grand hall was the deck. She had to remind everyone to follow her, for the sight of the lush landscape surrounding them was enough to force the guests to an amazed standstill.

“You’ll all be living here for however long you want,” Hekate said, moving to the back of the group and shooing them to the doors on the other side, “so you’ll have enough time to enjoy the panorama. This tour is just to show you where everything is.”

They reluctantly allowed themselves to be herded into the kitchen, after which they once again came to a stop. She chuckled in exasperation.

“I hope you don’t do this at every room.”

“It’s so massive!” Yi-Ze proclaimed.

“Spacious, yes, but hardly as large as some kitchens I’ve seen. This is simply so the cooks don’t feel claustrophobic. By the way, do any of you have that?” She briefly gazed at everyone in turn. “You know, claustrophobia: the fear of being in confined spaces?” No response. “Never mind. This is the playroom,” she said, leading them into it and then right back out. “It’s meant for children, which you aren’t, but I don’t fancy the idea of having little busybodies running around the place.”

“This room looks comfortable,” Dorian commented.

“It’s the ground floor family room, located close enough to the playroom so any visiting parents can keep an eye on their children, but far enough so that the noise won’t be a bother. You’ll love sitting in front of the fireplace during the winter, since it snows here.”

“Do adults play in the snow?” Marala wondered. “Even if I experienced it in my previous life, Mister Archibald remembers snow being cold and fluffy, and while I think being cold wouldn’t be all that nice, fluffy things usually are, so playing in the snow should be nice too. Unless it’s deceptively fluffy like those ugly fish that live in the bottom of the ocean and have those cute, glowing, white thingies hanging in front of them but which they use to lure and eat–”

“Hey, that’s a fish that makes light!” Dorian exclaimed, grinning excitedly. “That sounds awesome!”

“Ooh, I guess that’s true! Wouldn’t it be the best thing ever if you could make your own light so that you never have to be afraid of the dark? Wait, adults are also afraid of the dark but pretend they aren’t, right? I think it’s because there are mean, ugly things hiding in the dark. Hopefully they won’t try to eat us like small kids believe. That would be more than a little scary.”

While Hekate had watched Dorian’s and Marala’s exchange, Jeremiah, Yi-Ze, and Alex had gone to inspect the couches and fireplace. Andrew stood off on his own, shifting through a variety of stances to express his boredom and frustration. She expected to see Basil staring out of a window somewhere, but he was nowhere to be seen. A second before the seed of panic could be planted in her mind, the concerned individual spoke to her from behind. She spun around to see him staring out of a window after all.

“Beg your pardon?” she asked.

“What is this room called,” he replied, still transfixed.

Speaking loudly so that everyone could hear they were supposed to move on, she said, “This is the morning room. It serves no purpose other than to present an indoor view of the land and sky.”

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

“Indeed. As you can see, there’s also a terrace outside. Now, follow me. We’re going downstairs to the basement floor.”

As they descended, Jeremiah said, “I get the feeling this place has a lot of confusing staircases.”

“It’s only confusing until you eventually discover them all,” Hekate replied. “But for now, yes, it has quite a few, which is how I can take you through most of the castle without crossing paths.”

When they entered the next room, Jeremiah frowned. “This looks a lot like the family room upstairs.”

“Well, that’s because this is the basement family room. You’ll also notice that to our left is a social room, rather than a kitchen.”

“Is that a playroom too?”

“Actually, no. That’s the game room, which differs from the playroom in that it has a large television and two consoles, rather than toys and board games. I suspect you boys will be spending much of your time here.”

“None of us besides Yi-Ze really looks that young,” he protested. “Though we’re all about thirty or lower, we’re still adults.”

“Adults with amnesia, meaning you’re not familiar with what the world expects from you or how you should behave, meaning you’re more attached to your inner child that most. Don’t be afraid to play around.” She smiled, then substituted it with her best evil grin. “However, if you get mud on the carpets or stay rooted to a screen the whole day, I’m going to force you to do the dishes.”

Jeremiah lifted his one eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a threat?” he asked bemusedly.

“Trust me, not even Zeus or Samuel like doing the dishes. It’s as if men inherently abhor it. Let’s go.”

“According to your predestined path, we’re supposed to detour into the game room before leaving,” Andrew remarked.

“Can it, or you’ll get stuffed into the wine room.” After realising they were passing it, she added, “Which is over to our left.”

He stopped and folded his arms across his chest. “By whom?”

Hekate shifted the tail her dress back behind her and faced him with pursed lips. “By me – after I pepper-sprayed you and shot you with my stun gun. Like I said earlier, you can hate me for all I care, but if you continue walking over my hospitality and neglecting to show some common decency, your accommodation will forthwith be the dungeon – no castle is a castle without one. Each cell was specifically designed for its prisoner, and as distressing as this may be, there’s one for each of you. Keep pushing me and you’ll regret it.”

An awkward silence ensued. Yi-Ze and Alex were actually wide-eyed with shock, the others simply uncomfortable. She continued the tour, only pointing out the rooms as they passed through or by them. Her silence didn’t last for more than twenty seconds, though, for she had to explain the concept of a sauna, and Dorian could barely contain his excitement upon seeing the lap pool. (She then also had to explain the concept of a Jacuzzi on the elevator ride to the second floor.)

“Why aren’t we covering the second floor all at once?” Marala asked once they had exited the study and were heading back downstairs. “You said you didn’t want to walk past the same point more than once, but wouldn’t it be simpler to finish one floor completely before moving on to the next?”

“It would,” Hekate admitted, “but sometimes, I simply get carried away with the details.” Jokingly, she added, “I’m sure you’ll be reassured for it when you’re out saving the city.” She winked. “Anyway, this is the sun room. It’s noon already, which is why it’s getting darker here, but in the morning, it’s delightful to sit here with a cup of whatever hot beverage you prefer.”



“Could we do that tomorrow already?”

“Yes, Yi-Ze, of course! In fact, once you’ve picked your rooms and settled in, I’ll have the maids come over and take any requests you may have. If you’d like to be woken at a certain time or would rather be left to sleep in, just tell them. Of course, breakfast is from seven to eight, so if you miss that, you’ll have to wait until one, when we have lunch.”

“Are those meals served in the dining room?”

“Mmm-hmm. We should go there now, actually – we’ve been here long enough.”

“Wait! I have one last question.”

Hekate chuckled. “It’s not like you won’t be able to ask elsewhere in the castle, but sure, love, go ahead.” She motioned for them to follow.

“What is the name of the song that’s playing?”

“Marriage D’amour by Paul de Senneville and Oliver Toussaint. For some reason, it’s frequently confused for Chopin’s Spring Waltz, even though it’s neither a waltz nor at all in Chopin’s style.”

Upon hearing Alex double back and remind Basil he had to come too, she smiled. Whatever he used to be, he must have loved gazing out of windows.

“Oh, wow, this is lovely! It looks like you could hold a banquet here every day! We probably won’t, since this is like our secret base, but it might be fun to hold one here when everything is over. Or even a ball! Although, I don’t know yet if I like dresses. From Mister Archibald’s memories, they look pretty, but they might be…”

“I guess we’ll be eating supper here as well?” Jeremiah asked, drawing her attention away from the still-rambling Marala. Judging from his facial expression, he must have realised he had asked a question with an obvious answer, so she was quick to interrupt his thoughts.

“That will normally be the case, yes, but there may be times when nobody really feels like sitting around a table and making polite conversation – or even talking at all. At times like that, I suppose it will be fine if everyone disappears to their own corner. But usually, supper is also at seven, just in the evening.”

“Five hours between breakfast and lunch and lunch and supper sound all right,” Yi-Ze said, “but what happens if we become hungry at other times?”

Hekate frowned slightly. “That’s a valid question, but I guess I’m so used to the times, I’ve never had reason to think of that. Hmm. There’s an unofficial brunch at ten and something like a high tea at four, but outside of those times, it will depend on how willing the cooks are to make something for you. We don’t exactly have an open kitchen.”

“And after supper?”

“Curfew is at eleven, but the staff leave for their apartments at nine-thirty. Their day starts at six, after all.”

“I have a question about our rooms,” Jeremiah said, studying the route she had marked. When Hekate didn’t respond, he looked up, realised she was waiting for him, and then asked, “Err, do we choose them next?”

“Actually, yes. Let’s go.”

No sooner than they had stepped onto the second floor landing, Jeremiah declared, “I claim bedroom four.”

“Ah, so that’s why you were studying the plans so intently,” Hekate mused. “Unfortunately for you, that’s Zeus’ room. It also happens to be connected to mine, so you wouldn’t get it even if it wasn’t already taken.”

“Then I claim number five.”

“Demanding, aren’t we? It has a rather large walk-in closet, so you can get it if neither of the ladies object.”

He looked at Marala and Yi-Ze expectantly. They consulted the plans before answering.

“That walk-in closet is pretty big and it would be fantastic to have enough clothes to fill it. Oh, and that balcony probably has an amazing view of the landscape. Just imagine waking up to that every day! But I don’t want to steal a room someone else is already interested in, so may I claim room two, if that’s possible?”

“Sure thing, Marala! Consider it yours. How do you feel about it, Yi-Ze?”

“He can have it.”

Jeremiah punched the air. “Yes!” He looked around awkwardly. “Ahem. I mean that’s great.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Hekate cautioned. “There are nine unoccupied bedrooms and seven of you, so you can each have some privacy for the moment, but the hope is that more people join the team as time progresses. Assuming that is indeed the case, rooms will have to be shared from the third recruit onwards. If you therefore wouldn’t mind sharing a room with a particular person, it might be wise to make the suggestion as soon as possible; a lack of volunteers would mean assigning roommates randomly, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to share rooms with someone you don’t like. Having said that, are any of you willing to be roommates already?”

“I’m willing to share a room!” Marala immediately announced.

“Any takers?”

For a few seconds, no-one said anything, but then Yi-Ze responded the affirmative in her timid way. Marala immediately swept in and caught the girl in a hug. “It’ll be like having a sleepover all the time! I’ve never had one before, but I’m sure it’s going to be loads of fun. I wonder–”

“Any other volunteers?” (It was interesting to note how Marala never minded being interrupted.) That time, however, the silence remained unbroken as the boys awkwardly gazed around, not really wanting to share rooms, but not wanting to seem overly reluctant either. In the end, Hekate just shrugged. “Fine, then we’ll continue with the room-picking. Who wants bedroom three?” More silence. “Really, guys? It’s because of the sunroom, isn’t it?”

“The other bedrooms have sunrooms?” Basil asked, showing interest for the first time.

“Well, there’s one on the side of the west wing. The east wing is meant more for staff or the like, which is why bedroom twelve, the one furthest east, belongs to the Joneses. As with bedroom eleven, it has its own living suite and kitchen.”

“May we see these other rooms?”

“Err, no. We shan’t be entering the rooms, but we need to visit the west wing as part of the tour anyway, so we could go now, if nobody objects to it.”



“Let’s just go already…” Andrew said impatiently.

“Shush!” Yi-Ze waved him off, earning her a glare. But when she turned to Hekate, her confidence dissipated. “Err, what’s this gorgeous piece called?”

“A fellow lover of classical music, eh? It’s a Romanian ballad for violin and piano. I can’t pronounce the composer’s name, though.”

“Where is the music coming from, if I may ask?” Basil’s gaze wandered about, seeking out the source at the same slow tempo he did everything.

“Oh, there are intercoms hidden all over the castle. They’re only used for playing music right now, but later on, they will be used to summon you. That’s why the music sounds louder at certain places.”

“Why are they hidden?”

“No reason in particular. I suppose I just wanted them to be inconspicuous.”

Jeremiah narrowed his eyes. “Do they only broadcast sound, or do they register it too?”

“That’s a remarkably good question. Let’s go see the library now.”

As she led them down the corridors to the west wing library (all the while pretending not to hear Jeremiah’s paranoid whispers to whoever would listen), she showed them the office they were allowed to use, the balcony doors, the little tower between bedrooms six and seven, and then finally the library itself. Dorian had decided on bedroom six for no particular reason, Basil had chosen number seven to be close to both the sunroom and the little tower (she’d have to remind herself later to place a chair there), and when they had reached the library, Alex opted for number eight. She suspected it was out of a desire not to be isolated. Of course, that meant Andrew would be isolated, but he seemed unperturbed – perhaps even pleased – and claimed bedroom nine.

“Is it just me,” Jeremiah asked, “or this library larger than the one we passed when we first entered?”

“It’s probably not just you, even though you’re still mistaken. You see, the library is only on this floor – what you see down there is the office section. The large space will be useful for briefings involving many of you, seeing as my control room is mostly occupied by terminals.”

“Where’s that?” Marala asked. “Is it in one of the unmarked storage areas in the basement?”

“Well, the entire basement floor of the west wing is converted to suit my purposes, but yes, the control room specifically is in one of those.”

“What are in the others?”

“One’s the actual vault, the other is a bunker, and one is currently empty because your gear will be stored there.”

“We’re gonna get superhero gear?” Dorian asked excitedly. “That so awesome! Like what?”

An audible groan came from the back of the group. “Please tell me we won’t have to wear some stupid costumes.”

“Not if I can help it,” Hekate replied, rolling her eyes, “but you’re not escaping the costumes, unless you want the public to know your identity and ruin your life before it’s even begun properly. And if that happens, it means you’ll ruin everyone else’s too, because it won’t be too difficult to track your movements after that, which will lead them back here eventually. The best you can do is be nice and hope you get something you might actually like.”

“Will we get weapons?”

“That depends on what your abilities are, Dorian, but it’s a possibility.”

“Is the tour almost over?” Alex asked, surprising everyone. “I’m tired. And hungry.”

“Sleep will have to wait for a while, but I had the cooks prepare supper early, so we can address that now.”

Without prompt, the group rushed down the spiral staircase, leaving her behind. She shook her head.

“I guess I’ll just let them eat and then ask Susan to make sure they make it to their rooms without getting lost.” She pulled the rim of her gown up, looked at her high heels and sighed. “If only I could take these off already…”

Food.

Rather ironically, this was the only thought consuming Jeremiah’s mind as he and the group of people with him left the Mistress of Erebus to her own devices and made their way for the expansive dining room. There was something incredibly appealing in this thought – if the rest of his experience here had been as it was, the food was bound to be just as incredible. While he’d had no problem with what he’d already eaten, Jeremiah hoped to find another blissful experience on par with the music and the elegance of this castle. A castle, for heaven’s sake. It was jarring, and incredible, to think that he’d woken up in a dingy and smelly alley, all to find himself here. Truly a rags-to-riches story.

Nevertheless, Jeremiah chose not to be trampled underfoot as everyone proceeded down the dignified staircase and entered the first floor’s west wing. They arrived at what was, by comparison, a simple and quaint office space, as Hekate had described. At least, as simple and as quaint as such a place like Erebus could possibly allow. The walls were coated in what had to be a dark and study wood, polished to an almost reflective surface. The floors were marble, and an empty desk sat in the middle of the room. The space itself seemed quiet and complacent, and an errant hand lightly rubbed the wooden paneling to find it completely smooth. Perhaps one of the attendants in the residency used it, although not frequently? It didn’t appear to have much use beyond emphasizing the purpose of the room, as there was only a small stack of papers and a fairly large computer sitting there, in front of a swiveling office chair. Cute rhyme, thought Jeremiah to himself as the gathering made their way towards and through a windowed space beside the outer wall that demonstrated yet more of the beautiful gardens and views that characterized a space completely and utterly designed for exactly that, including the limousine that had brought them to this locale. Before he left the small office, he couldn’t help but notice a fireplace peacefully sitting in between the doors on the other side of the room from where they were. White, simple yet refined. He had seen many of these before. He supposed that it should only make sense that such a large place as Erebus have need of a multitude of these.

The procession then made its way through an expansive room that seemed to be yet another social room. Also peaceful, similarly styled as the previous, though a little less empty. Many eloquent wooden chairs were scattered about the place (complete with embroidered cushions), and another unlit white fireplace served as a nice accompaniment. Definitely a room for social gatherings, and it seemed only fitting that it be next to a currently closed bar and a billiards room, which itself showed the same grace and complexity as earlier. There wasn’t much to say here, beyond the fact that Archibald’s memory seemed to show a grasp of the purpose of the pool table, and perhaps a couple of games to be played. That caught Isaiah’s interest, and he resolved to check on that later.

In all honesty, nobody was quite sure where they were going. All that they knew was that the cooks within the castle had provided supper, and it was within the massive banquet space that they had seen earlier. However, as they exited the left wing and proceeded into what was clearly the main portion of the castle, the landscape became more familiar and easier to understand. Avoiding stairs and making their way towards the castle’s entrance, the people (who were now enigmatically chatting, most of the easily pleased by their surroundings and having fun) now passed through a small gallery. A series of paintings and sculptures marked a path for them, each looking rather rare and beautiful, to no one’s surprise. Romantic scenes of landscapes, the interiors of other castles and elegant buildings, famous historical figures, and all over a smooth marble floor that seemed to capture the reflection of everything perfectly. It was a relatively narrow hallway, with a few windows that provided more outside views, and a purple rug stretched across the space. Barriers, like those Archibald’s memories had seen in museums and such, protected the artworks from being touched. Jeremiah certainly didn’t have the motivation to, regardless.

At this point, Jeremiah was mystified by this perpetual display of elegance, but slightly confused. It was a question that had been troubling him for a long time, and, as the group proceeded up to the massive foyer past where they had originally entered the castle, and were now being accosted by maids and servants leading them to the castle’s dining room, grew stronger. Hekate had quite clearly said she was an orphan. If Archibald’s ideas were correct, unless she had incredibly wealthy parents – which seemed unlikely, as she said she had been “brought into this world as an orphan” – she shouldn’t have anything to her name. How then, was she the mistress of this castle? How did she have the amazing style and class? This was a question Jeremiah was likely going to ask her at some later point, although he had sincere doubts he was going to get a straight answer. That seemed like a complicated, and personal story.

“Ah, welcome! Per the Mistress’s request, your supper has been prepared! Come, please!”

That thought will have to wait, mused Isaiah to himself as he entered the dining room, which still managed to take his breath away. Mostly because it looked like it could serve as both a dining room and a ball at the same time, with plenty of room for each. The space seemed to swallow the small group of amnesiacs in its grandeur and scope. Massive chandeliers hung over a table that stretched a good part of the length of the room, a feat in and of itself. Multitudes of chairs were positioned accordingly, and, a little unnerved by the size and formality of the space, everyone was a little hesitant as they were ushered to seats by the staff. Tapestries decorated the walls, and the multitudes of reflective surfaces across the space of the room made it bright and airy. Inevitably however, Isaiah grew comfortable with his situation. At least with the chair cushions, which turned out to be wonderfully soft. Light and pleasant conversation spread across the table as Jeremiah looked at his accoutrement of utensils and napkins. Thank goodness Archibald’s memories came packaged with table manners. It would be unbelievably repetitive to describe Isaiah’s sights at this point, yet that was what Jeremiah loved above this place.

Whether he liked the scrutiny and security here, this was what he’d always wanted. Everything was orderly, clean, neat. Schedules were adhered to, the same style resonated throughout the place, and it seemed straightforward in its sophistication. It was this pervading sense of tranquility and calmness that he, in his brief life, had strived for, and now it finally arrived. As did the waiters, who, to a series of audible gasps and mild applause, brought forth upon their shoulders and carts trays upon trays of food through a set of metal doors that seemed to lead to the kitchen. No expense was to be spared here, it seemed, as indicated by the massive variety and quantity of food set down in front of the gathering. Metal trays opened to reveal all kinds of rare and delicious dishes, the sight of which was as wondrous as water to a man stranded in a desert for days. It certainly made Jeremiah’s mouth water, and he had to hesitate and act composed before taking his first few bites. Though some of the others in the room did not seem to have the same compunctions, their watchful attendants didn’t act concerned by this, but let them converse and smile and try their best to act dignified, even if that was hard. Except for Andrew, who, as usual, sulking in the corner and ignoring everyone.

Isaiah, ever secluded, was doing the same. The food was amazing, unsurprisingly, and he helped himself to what was available rather happily, though he didn’t feel particularly hungry. On the other hand, there were those few facts hovering in the back of his mind that made the meals feel a little tainted, the turkey not as cooked, the melt-in-his-mouth dishes not feeling like that. As he ate contentedly, those thoughts continued to echo in his consciousness, and he found it incredibly hard to ignore them. How much in control of his own fate was he in here? He wasn’t a big fan of the prospect that Hekate did have a jail cell for him in the event that he was to act callous and rude, and it was designed explicitly for him. Isaiah hadn’t had any reasons to believe that Hekate had incredibly high standards when it came to their behavior, but appearances were deceiving. Specifically, for the incredibly rich girl who claimed to be an orphan, had refitted half of a basement with what were rooms not mentioned on the maps themselves, and likely tailored to her own ends.

Yes, he had been paranoid when he’d heard about it, and tried to propose his concerns to the others. Everyone else was justified in ignoring him, sure; she was marvelously calm and friendly, this castle had been a splendid place to see, and he had no reason to distrust her just yet. Even Travis hadn’t been too willing to listen to him, although that might’ve been because of their earlier conversations. In the end, he could never be as callous as Andrew, even if he was a tad pesky, but it was the principle itself that he found most troubling. She was the judge, and he could he count upon her to be a fair and non-arbitrary one? How free would he be to speak his mind, to act in his own fashion; would he be at her beck and call, with the threat of being thrust into a prison cell? Not to mention the sheer scope and purposes of the castle. What other hidden rooms could be possibly scattered about? What other rooms did Hekate “neglect” to mention? He got the feeling that there was a lot he did not understand, and he also felt that perhaps life was full of this. Except, of course, he didn’t imagine that most people had to worry about a forceful invasion of a massive castle with a lot of secrets. And what was this about costumes? What if he didn’t get a good enough costume? Or good enough weapons?

He pointedly chewed over these thoughts in his mind while absent-mindedly chewing the food in front of him, and didn’t notice how much time had passed (or how gorged he was), until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Interrupted from his train of thought, which now concerned fanciful imaginations of a dark castle and a subversion of multitudes of peaceful endeavors, Isaiah found himself staring at one of the maids. She smiled and replied, calmly, “I’ve been told to assist you to your new room. Everyone else has already left, and it seems that you have finished your meal.”

Isaiah blinked, widened his eyes in realization, and stood up, pushing his chair back into place before allowing the attendant to lead him away. He stared around, and found that she was, in fact, true. He’d been so caught up in his own mind that he’d completely forgotten to realize the conversation, and its participants, had all left the premises quite some time ago. Was he that self-absorbed? What did that imply about his ego? How depressing it was to contemplate himself and realize that it was far from any positive impression he might’ve had a couple of hours ago, thanks to a multitude of overwhelming experiences. At least now he could finally see the room that he’d taken so much interest to when he thoroughly investigated the castle maps. That should be worth his time. He’d already debated the questions of interest, and there seemed to be no rational solution that did not require him learning more about his surroundings and situation, so heading to his residence seemed preferable.

He was led from the kitchen into the massive two-story foyer – which seemed to have some kind of ceiling fresco of figures that Isaiah did not recognize, on top of more prestigious designs – and walked up the grand staircase, feeling gold/gold-painted staircases that curved their way upwards as he marched across the marble steps. His view of the open foyer and grand room made him think of himself as insignificant, and perhaps suspended above the ground in the twirling staircases spiraling above him. It was a strange and fascinating experience to behold, though it did not last for long. The sudden appearance of a floor surrounding the stairs indicated that he had arrived at the second floor, and he stepped over a small rug stretched over the entrance to this space. Isaiah was slightly thankful to find that his room was literally in front of him, as he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend any more time wandering among the scenery like a background figure lightly drawn in a landscape. The maid, seeing this as well, walked up the small set of stairs leading to the room. She opened the door for him, bowed, said a few parting comments that Jeremiah did not pay attention to, and exited.

“Is anything small in this place?” whispered the man as he stepped into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

The amount of furniture and items was small in comparison to what else he had seen. This made perfect sense, as it was his own personal room, and he would have to customize it and provide his own changes as he wished. The size, on the other hand, was impressive; the descriptions on the map simply did not do it justice. As Isaiah removed his shoes, he could feel the soft layers of carpet on his feet, which felt no longer restricted. They were relieved and eager, and it was then that Jeremiah realized how tired he was, physically and mentally, from the day’s experiences. So, why not explore his own personal space?

Jeremiah stepped down the composed wood-paneled hallway and peeked into the first door that he saw. A large bedroom space, complete with a fireplace on one end of the room and a king-side blue bed with light blue curtains on the other end. Few details were neglected here, from the dark oak cabinets to a lamp beside his bed and the small desk upon which it sat, with a neighboring mirror. There even seemed to be a television poised above the fireplace. Was it a…flat-screen? Or whatever the concept was? The space was mostly carpeted, and clearly designed with comfort in mind, though the walls were smooth and polished, made of a substance that Isaiah couldn’t identify, but felt smooth. The presence of a gray brick wall on the other end of the space caught his attention, as did a door with a glass window displaying views of the gardens surrounding the castle.

He had his own balcony?

Isaiah resolved to investigate that later, after he checked the walk-in closet and bathroom. The former was, as Hekate had said, impressively sized, and fit the description nicely. There were a multitude of hangars and bars poised for different kinds and arrangements clothes, and even a hat rack and a place to store shoes, all complete with that same wonderful carpet. Jeremiah wondered how in the world he was ever going to fill this space; all the outfits of the staff he had seen thus far wouldn’t be enough to do so. Did the girls have any ideas, as Hekate implied? Or was that an absurd gender stereotype? How was he supposed to know, anyway?

The latter also managed to be astute and impressive. It was just as a large as the walk-in closet, if not larger – which was saying something. The floor here was, once again, marble, and the furnishings were impressive. A cabinet attached to the wall, next to a porcelain bathtub (with a few soaps and shampoo bottles aside it, as well as a candle) and toilet, which was squeezed in between the said bathtub and a shower with translucent glass walls. All the furnishings seemed modern and stylish, as did the sink with cabinets, a quartz countertop, and stainless steel faucets (it, to, had a few wrapped soaps). The area seemed spacious and cool, and Jeremiah was, as usual, incredibly impressed. It was almost enough to make him completely forget about his preceding thoughts. Why would anybody with any intent to harm him implement such a beautiful and well-designed place for him?

Unless, of course, it was meant to be deceptive. Understandably, the brief spell of utter bliss lasted about as long as Isaiah had hoped for. Nevertheless, it was not as though he was going to turn away now. This was an incredible place, a fascinating castle, and somewhere that he honestly wasn’t sure he could leave. At least, not unnoticed. He didn’t have anywhere else to turn, either. Nor did he have much motivation to. It didn’t help that, for the present time, he still didn’t have a clue who he was, or exactly what power he had. Until, naturally, he learned more about his powers and made his way to becoming a superhero crusading through the streets of New York. He enamored himself with the idea, which now didn’t seem nearly half as bad as it used to be, particularly if he had the ability to save the lives of people. The more practical side of him found it a perfect way to gain a little more leverage and a greater ability to deal with his present situation if it turned sour, which Jeremiah highly suspected. The more cynical side decided to call out if those dreams were in any way true.

He punched that cynical voice in his head. Why did life have to be so complicated? Why did he have to double-question everything? He was a little suspicious, perhaps a little paranoid. However, for now, here he was. There was still light outside, and it would be pointless to sleep so quickly. Jeremiah decided that he wouldn’t see the balcony just yet – he wanted to wait for the pivotal time to enjoy that, like when the sun would come down. There was something about ascribing a picturesque value to that scene that captivated his imagination.

So, in the meantime, the amnesiac resolved to see the pool in the basement. Isaiah having remembered the path the tour had proceeded through, that would be simple enough. Perhaps he would run into someone else, although he wasn’t quite sure what he would say. Most likely a few snippets of cheap conversation, or a desperate attempt on Isaiah’s part to leave. He could simply throw the person into the pool, but he didn’t imagine Hekate would like that. And that seemed unnecessarily harsh and also incredibly stupid. Why did he even think of that? But…that was something he didn’t want to consider. Jeremiah also had the impression that he’d want to inform a member of the staff that he’d like to not be awakened by them in the mornings. He had the strange confidence that he would able to wake on time himself, if only out of eagerness. Would he even sleep?

There were too many questions to be had, and he was still a hopeless amnesiac beginning to grasp the fact that he wasn’t the brightest man and his head didn’t always have the best of ideas. But he was finally composed and ready to take on the world. That was enough for him.