Adam

The man who entered the café looked much younger than Adam had expected and was cunningly disguised besides. It would have been easy to mistake him for a drifter or a pirate, both easily overlooked in Lowtown, if you didn't know how to look. Sweat-stained shirt, ratty coat, dusty cargos. He even got the smell right—just the proper mix of sweat, piss, and alcohol. The sort of bum that the privileged eye liked to pretend not to see. You wouldn't think him dangerous but you'd feel it, just an uncanny itch by the margins of your skin or a terrible auguring behind your neck. An almost-sound telling you to get up and leave. Terror and excitement settled in Adam's stomach, tying it in knots, as the man's somber gray eyes found his across the room.

"Last time I met a man for coffee, I put steel pipes through his mouth," the man said casually, casting suspicious glances about. He dragged a chair opposite Adam and offered him a warm smile. A few tables away, a fat Saudi man gave them a curious look before turning back to his newspaper.

"Must have been some terrible java," Adam said unimpressed, rising from his seat to offer his hand. "How are you, Jacob?"

The man grinned and grabbed Adam's hand, giving it a single hearty tug with a bony hand of his own. "Tired, as always. So many people asking for things, as if I don't have my own affairs to settle. I've people to hunt down too you know, vengeances to exact," Jacob said as he plopped heavily on his chair. He leaned back and stared at Adam through sunken eyes. Outside, the harsh afternoon sun bore down on Madripoor, carving deep shadows across Jacob's bald profile and making him look very much like a living skull. "And the girl? She is well?"

"Yeah. Tougher than she seemed," Adam replied.

"Good. That's good."

Adam waited but the other man did not seem inclined to add anything more. "So. Vengeances and affairs to take care of… This is why you're doing the drop off in person this time?"

"I can't leave without seeing you; it's bad form to never meet a client face to face. And I thought you'd want to hear personally from me that the Wolverine is truly dead. Saw the remains myself."

Adam grew cold at the mention of the name. "Good," he said with a hard edge to his voice. "How?"

Jacob waved an impatient hand. "Details. Partial atomization, I believe. Disruption of weak nuclear forces in genomic atoms. Can't regenerate if there's no healing factor."

"You are sure?"

"Yes, Adam. He's gone. He won't trouble you anymore.

Adam closed his eyes and released a shaky breath, one that felt like he had been holding for years. He was a powerful sorcerer but Logan had slipped through the crevices of his spells and this only reinforced the man's conviction that Adam was too dangerous to live. The spell held fast, fortunately, and the Wolverine could not convince the Avengers of what Adam had done. Still, he had made it his personal mission to find Adam and to put him down.

"And with that, the Age of Heroes ends," Jacob said, when the silence strained too much.

Adam took another deep breath and grounded himself. "There are still Avengers."

"But none of the old ones." Jacob's mouth twitched. "These ones are young and green."

"Still Avengers and still dangerous."

Jacob hummed in agreement. "I suppose. I wouldn't grow careless. But with Logan gone, I feel safer already."

Adam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "They weren't all bad. They saved a lot of lives too."

"A lot of lives? Only if they weren't mutant!" A look of rage passed over Jacob's face, terrifying enough that Adam felt compelled to look away. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "These Avengers only got mixed up with mutants when they were fighting the bad ones. The ones who dared think we deserved safety and dignity and had the foolishness to fight for those ideals. The ones who forgot that their place was beneath the boot of humanity. Where were these heroes when our innocents needed help? Mutants burned by the thousands. And even now, disappearing all over the place. Tortured. Killed. Children torn away from their families, vivisected in camps. Which Avenger bothered to lift a heroic finger?"

In the absence of an answer, Adam let the silence stretch as he let the words simmer between then. He had been a hero once too, so where was he then? Where was he now?

He turned his eyes back to Jacob and cleared his throat. "Must you go?"

"Afraid so, my friend." Jacob leaned back and visibly relaxed. "It has been a good seven years but I'm afraid I can't be of much help now."

Seven years. Yes, it had been seven years since Jacob had drifted into Adam's orbit, carried seemingly by fortuitous fate itself. The man was good for information, if a little unreachable at times, and asked few questions of his own. Adam was loath to admit it but he'd miss Jacob, who was a perfect stranger really but was almost a friend, though he suspected that this sudden burst of affection had less to do with the actual loss of propinquity than with the fact that this separation was rather symbolic of a more comprehensive loss. Jacob, after all, was the last person who knew Adam from his old life—well, in some flexible approximation of knowing anyway—or that Adam even had another life.

"Can't you send someone else?"

"If this were any other task…. But this one I must do on my own."

"Where to, then?"

"Safer for you not to know."

"Tell me anyway."

Jacob seemed to consider him, measuring him up as if deciding whether he was worthy. He tilted his head and yawned. Adam felt a dormant power in Jacob stir. A small pulse, nothing overtly powerful, but a surgical strike to take out any eavesdropping device for a couple of blocks. "I leave for Genosha."

Adam startled at that and the word slipped out thoughtlessly. "Genosha?" The sound of it on his own lips felt awful and hallowed. It conjured images in his mind: a sanctuary profaned, their people herded and collared, mass graves. A place built for hope, turned to ash.

Jacob shrugged. "I have business there."

Adam narrowed his eyes and said in disbelief, "All of a sudden? All this time, why now? Why the sudden need to attend to this business? What changed in the world? Is it because the old heroes are gone?"

"Not really." Another shrug. "Like I've said… enemies to hunt, vengeances to exact. Nothing's changed in the world."

"Ha! So a change in you, then," Adam declared with a triumphant jab of his forefinger.

"What, were you a psych major?"

Adam pushed his advantage.

"I knew it! So it's a woman…" he concluded with a grin and then with a teasing voice added, "or maybe a man?"

"So you're a telepath, are you?" Jacob turned back and regarded him with careful eyes. A small smiled played on his lips. "You are lucky I am fond of you, Adam Thorne, because I have little patience for telepaths. They know too much and understand too little."

"Well, I am not a telepath. Just trying to make conversation, " Adam said. "I won't keep you from your hunting and your exacting; you've got something for me?"

"You could go with me, you know," Jacob said sympathetically, ignoring the attempt to get on with business. "I was actually going to ask before you told me you wanted out. Heard you were very helpful with the Red Skull incident in Singapore. Saw the footages myself—don't worry, I had them erased as you'd asked. Point is I could use a man like you."

"No, thank you. No more running. Now that Wolverine is dead, I want a fresh start. And for real, this time. I'm tired, Jacob."

"Tired,"Jacob scoffed. "Youth these days… You haven't lived enough to be cynical, boy."

Adam made a face but gave no reply. Jacob drummed his fingers on the table and watched thoughtfully. Outside, a heavy shadow fell on the island, as rain clouds gathered to blot out the sun. "Adam Thorne…" he said, amused now. "Must say you're much younger than I imagined."

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

"What are you, twenty-five? Twenty-six? You could be my grandson."

"Around there."

"Ah, to be young again… So tell me, Adam, why's a young man like you running from the Avengers? What have you done? I never did ask."

Adam took a sip of coffee and held the man's gaze, silent and determinedly unmoved.

"Or maybe I should be asking what it is you can do?"

"Jacob."

The man grinned, an ugly smile that stretched tight on his emaciated face. "Here, my friend," he said as he slid a small metal box across the table. He tapped twice on the lid and the lock released with a loud pop. "Passports. American, Swiss, Singaporean, and South African. For you and our friend. I hear you've taken a couple of strays—don't be so surprised; it's my business to know these things—but you have to make arrangements for the mutts yourselves. Bank accounts to your name and two others, Joshua Cain and Abel Smith; I thought I'd go with the theme, Adam. The book you'd asked for, I couldn't find, but I have an address of someone who might know something about it. And, as usual, a dossier on the households of the Upper West Side. There's something else I took the liberty of adding. I know you didn't ask but I think you'd find it interesting. I've enclosed the police report in there. Under the false bottom."

"Must be very important," Adam said absently as he rifled through the contents of the box. He took out the dossier first and searched for 'Kaplan'. No deaths, no medical diagnoses, no reports filed. Good. "I'll take a look at your mystery gift when I get around to it."

"I'd look at it sooner than later. Might change your mind about this," Jacob said with a lazy twist of his hand. "And that other business you asked me to look into… I've compiled everything I have. Don't think that I've forgotten. But before I leave you with it, I must ask one question. Surely I'm entitled to just one after all these years of friendship?"

Adam flipped through the rest of the dossier, feigning interest in the affairs of other Upper West Side families. Jacob must have taken this for approval and decided to start probing.

"You are an enigma, Mr. Thorne. Can't find anything on you and I don't know how you did that. There's always a cyber footprint, no matter how thorough you are. Else, someone always talks. And yet my hackers and spies have got nothing on you. Even in Singapore with the Red Skull and the girl… A lot of people saw you, Adam, and yet no one seems to remember what it is you do—or how you look, even. I'm not gonna ask who you are; I already have my suspicions about that. I just want to know how you did it."

"You're asking me to show you my power?"

Jacob shrugged.

Adam held Jacob's gaze and slowly lifted a clawed hand palm up between their faces. He expected the other man to protest or to recoil reflexively but Jacob only leaned closer with an expectant smile on his lips. Adam breathed out and sparks flew between his fingers, jumping from one digit to another in a hypnotic rhythm. The air took an ozone scent—sharp and pungent not unlike a swimming pool.

There were a few yelps in the café and a couple of patrons promptly stood up and left. But Adam didn't quite care. This was lawless Lowtown of Madripoor; the Registration Act was not enforced here. People knew to mind their own business and to look away.

"Amazing," Jacob whispered as his eyes glazed over in wonder. "You'd think in my line of work, I'd get used to these things. But seeing a mutant wield his power so easily? So bravely? That never gets old."

Then, to Adam's surprise, Jacob reached out with his hands and held Adam's. He held each finger delicately, inspecting and marveling. The sparks didn't seem to hurt him, dancing around his skin or through his flesh. Adam's fingers tingled and grew warm at the touch and he felt their powers meet and merge at each point of contact. He withdrew his hand when it got too hot.

"Complementary powers," Jacob explained with a pleased look. "So electrokinesis. Doesn't explain why no one remembers you, though."

Adam huffed and almost laughed. "Magic," he said, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms.

Jacob groaned and rolled his eyes, like he had just heard the lame solution to a difficult riddle. "That's a cop-out but all right. Since it's you, I'll believe it." Jacob reached in his coat and handed Adam a thin manila folder. "Here's all I have."

Adam unwound the string and reached inside. Nearly a decade of running and globetrotting to chase the flimsiest leads only to give it all up. That was two years ago. He couldn't remember anymore why it had been so important even though it had been something of an obsession back then. Admittedly, running for one's life did tend to rearrange priorities, especially when you had an immortal psychopath on your tail. Still, an old sentiment stirred in him. Fear and hope pressed eagerly against his ribs as his hand retrieved a single sheet of paper with half a page printed and a small wallet-sized photograph tacked on to the corner with a paperclip.

"Did you find her?"

"I tried."

"That's a nice way of saying you failed."

Jacob shot him a glare.

"Sorry," Adam said quickly and Jacob accepted the apology with a nod.

"I'm afraid there isn't much that you don't already know."

"This is it? All those leads I sent you and this is the best you've got?"

Jacob's face was an impassive mask. "You mean all those rumors from two years ago? Here's the thing… almost none of your leads checked out. See if anyone so much as whispers about her, the whole web trembles; no one says her name without the entire world turning an ear to listen." Jacob paused, allowing the words to sink in before continuing. "But nothing. No one talks. She's gone, Thorne, and nobody wants her found. Or remembered. It is my professional opinion that the Witch is dead."

Adam's hands trembled slightly as he quickly scanned the words. Jacob was right; there was barely anything that he hadn't already known. Born in Wundagore… The Vision… Latveria… Doom… And last confirmed sighting in Utopia, when the Phoenix descended. Nothing on the other side of the paper. The photograph caught under his thumb, old and yellowed and tattered at the edges, and the woman inside peered up at him through sharp solemn eyes. "I guess it doesn't matter now," he said as he looked back to Jacob and slid the paper back in the folder. His lips curved into a soft smile. "I can't keep looking back if I want to start over, can I?"

Jacob studied him and made no response. Then, he looked at his watch and cleared his throat. "I wish you luck. I'm leaving and I have already made arrangements to keep you safe to the best of my abilities. But once you leave Madripoor, I won't be able protect you anymore. I hope you have sense enough to reach out should you need help," he said, as he pushed against the table and made to stand. "Always a pleasure to hear your voice, my friend, and good to finally see your face. I am sure we will meet again."

"Thank you, Jacob, for everything. I never could have—"

Jacob made a dismissive wave of his hand. "None of that, boy. I'm just an old man trying to do better. And one last thing, Mr. Thorne. There is one other thing you might want to know."

"What other thing?"

"There are whispers of a man. Appearing all over the world in the past seven years, wielding the same power as the Witch."

Adam felt the hairs on his arms stand. "Yeah?"

Jacob stared at him with a disapproving twist to his lips. "They're calling you the Scarlet Heir."

Adam was on his feet quickly so he was eye to eye with the man.

"Calm down, son. I'm not looking for trouble," Jacob said as he put a hand on Adam's shoulder. He looked around them, as other patrons turned to watch the unfolding spectacle. Two mutants about to fight. Always a fun watch. Only a few had the sense to leave. "Just want you to know that while I'm much quicker than SHIELD and their Avengers, it won't be long now before they hear of this. You best be careful and turn quickly that new leaf of yours; they don't take too kindly to those with more power than they."

Adam opened his mouth to make a response but Jacob shushed him with a frown. "No need for words now, my dear Adam. It will be a cold day in hell before harm finds the Witch's child through me."

An old sentiment gripped him then and Adam clutched desperately to the other man's sleeve. "So you think it's true? You think I— you think that I'm her—?"

Jacob smiled at him in a manner that was almost fond and gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. "Take care of yourself, son. And be safe; there aren't so many of us left."

And just like that, the yearning for the Witch was gone again, forgotten almost.

Adam watched as the old man left the café, giving him one last nod as he stepped through the door. Outside, the deluge broke, heralded only by a sudden clap of thunder.

There was the usual crowd on the bus ride back to Hightown. Commuters jostled and elbowed their way through the packed decks and rushed for empty seats at every stop. Adam was older now, more careful and more observant. He took note of the faces that walked past him and was careful to notice any who stared too long or were too quick to avert their eyes (there had almost been an incident in Nice, four years ago, that he was determined not to relive). He pushed his way to the back of the bus, where a seat, as if by magic, had kept itself unoccupied. The old Indian woman looked up to him in surprise when he sat beside her. He gave her a tight-lipped smile before stuffing his earphones into his ears and turning the volume up.

Outside, through rain-streaked windows, the sewer-drenched streets of Lowtown gave way to roadside houses and narrow alleyways, stretching far into the horizon where Madripoor hid her labyrinthine slums from the eyes of tourists and her wealthier denizens. Adam could just about make out the blur of towering structures in the distance, built in equal parts poverty and ingenuity by squatters who made houses out of galvanized steel roofs and plywood. The ride through Lowtown would be an hour long in the rush hour traffic so Adam lifted his eyes away from the pitiful sight and toward the sky, where stars had begun to emerge behind the dark curtain of rain and cloud.

There were few things that repelled him as keenly as Lowtown, which appalled him not for its poverty or even its lawless desolation but for what it represented. He remembered seeing it for the first time—smelling it for the first time—four years ago. Just a month after Tony Stark's assassination and the incident with Mother. And now it made him think of what Jacob had said. Why were there no superheroes for those who needed the most saving? How could Captain America and Ironman and the rest of the shining Avengers call themselves heroes when this place, this wretched hopeless place, existed on the very same world that they have sworn to protect and save?

The world was doomed, he was sure, doomed in a way that no superhero could save… And he thought briefly that it was broken in a way that only a supervillain could fix.

Adam withdrew himself from the mires of memory and, with a stiff twitch of his fingers, extended a portion of his magic, just a tendril, to clear a small area of the sky so he could see the stars. No use dwelling on things that he couldn't fix. Instead, he let his thoughts drift from the miserable planet, up over the sky, across the vacuum, and carried onwards by the eddies of space—to the wild flare of stars, where galaxies spun like iridescent dust and moons and planets hurtled past him at impossible speeds, where quasars pulsed intermittently through endless space like a beacon beckoning home. He thought too of old friends. Four years since Mother, since they last saw him. They hadn't missed him—well, they couldn't—and they would probably never see him again. Too much risk to the spell. Or maybe he didn't have to keep the spell up. Maybe he could finally break it. Maybe he could return to his old life. Become an Avenger again, even, and finally save the world in the way it most needed saving. Now that the last of the old Avengers had fallen…

The bus jerked violently as it drove over a pothole and Adam almost lost his grip on the metal box. He caught it with a yelp, just as it flew out of his hands, and he held it closer to his chest. One more day and he'd be starting a new life with Ruixian. What was he thinking about just now? He forgot now. He turned back to the sky and blinked, and the clouds parted further to a river of starlight.

It took an hour before the intertown made it to the walled garden city of Hightown and then another half-hour to Adam's stop. It wasn't raining on this side of town and it was a comfortably cool evening, so he decided he'd walk home instead of transiting to a city bus for the three-block distance. It was dark now, especially under the canopy of trees, and the streetlights were already turning on, dousing the tree-lined sidewalks with silvery light. Well-dressed men and women were pouring into cafés and restaurants, talking, laughing, and flirting. Adam removed his earphones and listened to the city.

There was the nightly cacophony of nocturnal mynah waking up, somewhere amongst the leaves, and taking flight to destinations unknown. The birds tended to wake in the early evening just at the beginning of rush hour traffic. Buses and cars moved more quickly on this road, though still slow, than on the intertown highway between Hightown and Lowtown. Adam watched the vehicles creep along the asphalt of Vineyard Road, paying particular attention to a gold-plated Ferrari crawling between two citicab taxis.

Two blocks down was the middle stretch of Vineyard Road, where rows of towering shopping malls rose on either side of the street like modern towers of babel scraping the soft belly of the clouds. The crowd was denser here and more fashionable. The sidewalk, which made clicking sounds under the crowd's well-heeled boots, was as wide as the road and of polished granite, lined with statues of animals and plants caught in various states of activity or repose. Dull lamps were installed deep into the pavement and fairy lights were woven amongst the foliage, giving the impression of constellations in the canopy. This was Adam's least favorite part of the Road. Often it was too crowded and he felt nauseated by the assault colognes and perfumes that mingled abominably into a smoggy mix. And, most unforgivably, it reminded him too much of Manhattan. He held the box close to his chest and hurried in a brisk walk, taking as little breath as possible.

At the end of Vineyard Road, he took a right turn to Vineyard Close, a long narrow strip of a street between two hotels and at the far end, crossed into Melaka subdivision. And in there, he finally felt at home. Just inside the gated entrance, the small road was lined on either side by market stalls, which were now in the midst of closing down. The crowd here was less ostentatious though perhaps more distinct. As he walked down the street, Adam smelled oils and curries and spices and saw under the stalls' awnings unfamiliar meats hanging by hooks and piles of colored powders of uses that could be culinary, medical, or even mystical. Knots of people walked past him, chattering in tongues he could now easily recognize as Thai or Vietnamese or Filipino or Malay. And when he finally turned into Melaka Lane, there was already a line in front of the Filipino food truck famous for its balut, which lovers enjoyed in the small adjacent park.

Adam fished his phone out of his pocket to check the time—6:38pm—and his heart sank when he saw the notifications.

-Dinner at Cha Cha Cha?

-Halloooo, where are you?

-Have you met your creepy sugar daddy, yet?

-Are you alive? Pls don't make me come down to Lowtown if you're not dead. :(

Six missed calls. Crap. Adam typed out a message and hit send.

-Sugar daddy? Really? Gross. On my way back. Will just see you at home. Feel like mee goreng, anyway.

Just beside the park was Le Jardin, a condominium complex that had been Adam's home for the past three years. It was a squat building on the lower end of Hightown real estate but it was within Adam's budget and close to Ruixian's apartment. It overlooked the park too, which made a pretty view in the early mornings, and in the spring he could smell the flowers and watch them ride the updraft outside his window.

My last night, Adam thought to himself.

He took a right turn into Melaka Rise, the rectangular park on the southeastern side. Here was a stretch of family-owned shops that he frequented regularly. Most of them had already closed for the day but the bakery at the corner was still open so he went in, bought himself a fish floss bun, and left Mr. Khoo a handsome tip in his jar. The man shook his hand heartily and flashed him his toothy grin and Adam couldn't help but blush a little at the old man's affection. He explained that he would be returning to Canada tomorrow and that he was taking a stroll through the streets to see the neighborhood one last time. Adam left the shop with a box of cake in his hands, five baguettes under his arm and the business card of Mr. Khoo's sister-in-law, who lived in Toronto, in his breast pocket.

The other shops were closed but he took time to peer through the dark windows and looked at the items on sale. There was a doll shop, which was as creepy in the dark as one would expect, an antique store, another café, and a second-hand bookshop, which sat on the end of the street. People walked past him, talking loudly of which trendy restaurant to try or which film to catch, and he ignored them as they ignored him. Some faces were familiar and for those he stopped for a quick exchange of pleasantries and pastry.

When he reached the bookshop, he stopped and turned to look back down the street all the way to where Mr. Khoo had ensconced himself on the steel bench in front of his bakery. He tried to conjure a sense of sentimentality, now that he was leaving. This neighborhood had been home for him for three years and he had made friends here. He ought to be sad or wistful or at least anxious for nostalgia but every attempt at memory just filled him with dread. He had been in hiding—a fact, which he had never allowed himself forget for one second—and that seemed to taint every memory of the place. For all the safety it had provided all these years, the cozy neighborhood of Melaka would always be both sanctuary and exile.

Adam might have expected some melancholic ambivalence but the emotions in his chest were clear and unambiguous. The Wolverine was dead and he was finally free; now, he could truly begin anew. If there were to be any tears shed, they'd be tears of relief. Adam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, capturing for what might be the last time the heady scent of dama de noche that had just began to bloom, as it only did, in the night time. He opened his eyes and with renewed purpose, walked briskly down the street and turned into Le Jardin.

The courtyard was tiny and felt suffocating in the warm humid night. In between overgrown trellises of the courtyard were even tinier gazebos that would accommodate a couple and maybe an infant interloper. Adam walked briskly across the cobbled path, made irritable by the sweat that had started to trickle down his back, and climbed the brick steps.

A voice croaked in the dark just as he paused the heavy wooden doors. He was maneuvering his way to the access card in his pants through three pieces of baguette, half a cake, and a metal box of clandestine documents when the intruding sound called out to him.

"Oh, hello there, Mr. Thorne."

An elderly couple emerged from one of the gazebos and Adam turned to return a polite wave. The old man guided his wife up the steps and, without offering or asking, took the boxes off Adam's hands.

"Thanks. Nice warm evening we have, no?"

"Too hot, I think!" the man's wife answered for him.

"So you're leaving tomorrow?"

"Afraid so, Dolly. I'll miss this place. Been here for three years, after all."

The old woman scoffed and patted his arm. "This old place? Not much to offer. You're better off anywhere else."

"Then why do you stay here, doc?" Adam asked with a grin.

Dolly turned to her husband and pulled at his earlobe. "This old coot's Madripoor through and through. Never even been off the island, could you believe it? Not even Singapore or Malaysia!"

Adam couldn't help but laugh as the old man grumbled something about metal coffins. "Anything for love, eh, Sutan?" Adam winked.

"Love... fear... who could tell these days?" Sutan said. "But that reminds me... your lady friend is upstairs."

With a lurch, Adam shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his card. He tapped it against the reader and the heavy wooden doors unlocked with a click, swinging inside to reveal a narrow corridor lined with apartment doors and the elevator doors at the end.

"Oh. Well, then I have to go. It was so nice to see you both," he said quickly and then after a bit of thought, added, "I'll write, when I can."

"You take care now, young man." Sutan handed him back the boxes and squeezed his shoulder. "Would you still be here for breakfast? I'm making waffles."

"My flight's at six so probably not. You take care too, both of you."

"Goodbye, darling." Dolly kissed him on the cheek and with that, he was off into the building.

As the elevator descended, he turned back to his neighbors one more time and waved, baguette and everything. He was impatient to get back now and regretted that he hadn't taken the city bus from Vineyard to Melaka and that he had wanted to be all sentimental and had taken a detour up Melaka Rise. He tapped his foot excitedly on the elevator floor all the way up and nearly broke his key in the keyhole.

For Hightown Madripoor, his apartment was rather Spartan. He had water, gas, and electricity, sure, but aside from the kitchen, every room in the house was criminally under furnished: the living room had a ratty old couch and a tv—the latter being a gift from Ruixian—, the small dining room was just a small plastic table and a pair of folding chairs, and the bedroom was composed only of chair, desk, and a single bed that he had never used. Amidst the dust and litter were islands of half-opened boxes in various states of unpacking and low wooden tables where he kept some of his tools for the craft. On each wall in each room hung a tall frame, beside each of which rested a large knapsack packed with rations, clothes, money, and some herbs. Of course, he had made sure to bury a protective charm bag beneath the floorboards.

"Are you sure you don't want any?" Adam called out from the kitchen as he filled a small pot with water. He could hear the television from the living room, where Ruixian had installed herself, and the scuffle of dog feet coming from his room. When he didn't hear an answer, Adam stepped through the doorframe and asked again. "Hey, I asked if you wanted instant noodles."

"No thanks, I'm good," the girl answered, without turning away from the Taiwanese drama she was watching. Sitting down, she was barely taller the couch's backrest.

"All right, suit yourself. Not my fault if you get hungry at the airport. Did you pack anything?" Adam said, as he moved back to the kitchen.

"Just a small carry-on suitcase."

"All right then." Adam would have preferred a backpack but he didn't nag. "And you've made arrangements for the boys?"

"Got them each a crate. I doubt they'd like it and I don't either but since you're determined to do this old school, there's no other way around it."

Adam hummed in agreement. "Everything okay?" he asked. "You're not nervous, are you?"

There was a small pause. When Ruixian replied, her voice sounded forced. "A little but mostly just tired."

"Okay. Tell me if you need anything." Adam took out two packets of mee goreng and dropped the noodles in the boiling water.

"Actually, I think I'll have a plate after all," Ruixian said as she stepped in the kitchen.

"Yeah? Well tough," Adam said while he grabbed the scissors. "It's too late now. I've already—"

As Adam cut across the foil, the scissors slipped and sliced the tip of his forefinger. He stared at the drop of blood welling out from the cut.

Ah, fuck.

His body moved quickly and unerringly. Adam grabbed a kitchen knife from the magnetic strip above the stove and whirled on the spot. Without missing a beat, he threw the knife to the direction of the kitchen door, where Ruixian was standing. She caught the blade between her palms, just a hair's width from her face, but still a little too late. The sharp tip had penetrated the mask, which made a soft crackling sound as it fell to the floor.

All the while, Adam had been quick on his feet. As soon as he had hurled the knife, he had leapt and slid across the kitchen island. He landed quietly on the other side and drove the heel of his right hand into the woman's solar plexus, making sure to bear down with all his weight. The woman looked up at him wide-eyed with surprise. She staggered backwards into the dining room and fell hard on the floor. Adam was immediately on his knees, straddling her chest and pinning down her arms under his shins.

"Where is my friend?" He demanded as he wrapped one hand around her throat and lifted the other in a fist. "Who do you work for?"

There was a loud crash to his left just as someone kicked the front door open. Another woman stepped in the room and drew a gun to his head. He wasn't fast enough this time.

The bullet melted against his skin but the toxin buried itself into his forehead. Homeostatic spells kicked in immediately but he knew at once that they wouldn't hold very long. With a yelp, he threw his arms over his face, as if shielding it from another bullet, and half the floor exploded in a burst of splinters. The woman under him shuddered and went still and the other one leapt back out into the hallway as fragments of wood flew upwards with fatal velocity.

Adam thrust a clawed hand to the front door and with a loud groan, the walls crumbled and obscured the door. With a wave of his other hand, the door to his room opened with an explosion of sparks and he called out, "Oscar! Dante! To me!" The mongrels came out running and threw themselves against Adam's body. He carried them under his arms and then limped to the nearest portrait frame.

Fuck, he thought uselessly. Paralysis was already spreading to his limbs. With considerable effort, he bit his lower lip until blood was gushing down his chin. Adam sucked the blood into his mouth and swirled it in his saliva, conjuring in his mind a clear image of his destination. He spat on the area inside the frame and, with relief, saw the space turn into a shimmering ripple.

He had just about enough time to grab one of his survival bags before his legs gave in and he tumbled into the frame. His body plunged through something viscous and then he was falling out of another frame a dozen blocks away—this one nailed to the ceiling—and into another frame on the floor. Again, in another place—this one in a dusty attic—he emerged, only to be carried forward by inertia into another shimmering frame. Frame to frame, he tumbled and fell, alternating between air and the gel-like substance of whatever mystical space that existed between portals. Each frame fell into pieces as soon as he passed through it, burning off his trail. Singapore. Kuala Lumpur. Tokyo. New Delhi. San Francisco. Grenoble… The dogs were quiet and stiff, as if their muscles had ceased working as well, and if they found the in-between space queer, they didn't let it show. They must have gone through a dozen jumps, man locked in toxic paralysis and dogs in unwavering faith to their master, before they finally shot out into a room with no other frame.

There, Adam's arms finally lost strength and the dogs scampered away, their sharp nails making clicking sounds on the floor. Behind him, he heard the sound of the wooden frame breaking into pieces.

Adam crumpled painfully on the ground and hit his head against the cement. Only then, in the safety of his cabin, did the pain make itself known. His head throbbed and he was bleeding and he felt the strain of magic in his bones. Skin, muscle, bone, marrow, soul. Everything was on fire and the pain was just sharp enough to push him over the edge of consciousness. But he couldn't fall asleep. He couldn't. He couldn't afford to.

The dogs. The dogs will know to help, he thought deliriously through the red fog of his misery.

"Oscar," he called out weakly and then more forcefully, "Dante!"

The clicking stopped and the dogs turned their heads to him. Adam smiled to himself and said, "Fetch me the—"

Open sky. Warm. Cloudless. Sunless. Blue. And bright. An unmarred dome of light.

A cool breeze blew and stalks of barley bent and swayed around his knees. The fields rippled into the far horizon like a sea of gold, waves rolling across the expanse and then disappearing behind the edge of the world.

Where was he? What was he doing here?

He looked up, straining his neck as he twisted this way and that to gaze at the infinite sky. He shifted his eyes to the horizon, turned slowly on the spot and saw that the golden sea stretched to all directions. An endless field under an endless sky and he in the center of the world.

And then, in the space between heartbeats, the world shifted. A fierce gust blew, hard like a storm, that flattened the barley stalks to the ground. He squinted and threw his arms to his face. Quick as smoke, black clouds billowed up from the horizon and dimmed the sky, chilling the world.

There was a sound behind him. A rustle that carried despite the harsh wind. A pair of feet landing softly.

Then a voice spoke an impossible word. It was said gently. Like it were a fragile thing that, at the moment of being spoken, would break. A word said like a prayer.

"Billy," the voice said once again, warm and achingly familiar.

Billy turned and looked into the face of memory.