And this is now.
Berit threw down the newspaper in disgust. He really should know to stop buying these things: how long did it take him to learn? This was evidence of the very same flaw in most of humanity: time and again the same patterns repeated. Once more he was reading about a country trying to control the thoughts of its people: he had seen where that led several times before. He stood to get a drink, no longer amazed by the concept of fresh clean water running into every home on demand.
If it wasn't war the newspaper was full of murder, fraud, negligence and other worse crimes – it had been better when Berit hadn't known so much of it existed. Standing in his kitchen, glass of water in hand and thinking of the ugliness in the world Berit was putting off his next project. He thought of them as projects but in truth they were no more than minor diversions: something or anything to fill the endless days.
He had learned to play musical instruments that were long broken, to speak languages now all but forgotten. He had studied what was once known as the natural sciences before realising he was never going to apply the knowledge and tried to return to his previous state of archaic ignorance. He had travelled the world and seen wonders now reduced to ruins and dust: places recorded on no modern map and known only in fables. He kept away from 'ancient history' these days, finding the errors far too aggravating and that so-called experts seldom liked to be corrected.
Gazing out of the kitchen window into the small back yard, Berit pondered: little amazed him these days but it did still surprise him how anybody went about their fleeting lives with any sense of purpose or curiosity considering how pointless they were. From his perspective anyway.
The truth was that it had been years since Berit had felt any real motivation for anything and he was traversing into a bleak future. What could he do about it? Nothing, squat, naff all. He had no agency, no control over his life or his death and he had been stewing in pointless inactivity since the day he died. Or just afterwards. His life had been over long ago and all he had left was this rage and an echo of purpose that was fading with each passing year, all meaning had been stolen from him...
Berit realised his thoughts had wandered into dangerous territory when he felt a sharp pain in his hand. He actually had to look down to work out what had happened, so used to random pains had he become – he had gripped the glass hard enough for it to shatter. He pulled the shards from his palm, dropping them into the sink to follow the path of dark red droplets sliding towards the plughole. He dispassionately watched the slashes seal themselves up, barely feeling the icy healing. He would have to be careful: he'd had somber thoughts before and they had taken him very close to a Darkness that scared him. If he let that anger consume him his actions would disappoint a lot of people. They weren't around to disappoint any more but he still had a sliver of pride that kept him from descending to that place. For now.
Berit opened a tap, washed his hands clean of blood and reached for another glass when he felt it.
It wasn't unusual. It happened from time to time – a shiver that travelled down his spine and flipped his stomach. Damn promises. He didn't want this reminder right now. Then it happened again. And again. And again. That happened rarely, usually only when there had been an accident. Again. More. The shiver constant enough to make him tremble and stumble as he ran from the kitchen to the room with the map, scrabbling to flick on the light switch.
Normally it was a large blank piece of heavy parchment laid out on a table, the four corners held down with wood that he had given up on carving. His stomach flipped as he muttered a few words and pressed his palm to the centre. From his touch, spreading outwards like spilled water was an image of the entire world, and scattered across it tiny copper lights. Some were grouped together. Some out on their own. Some were brighter and some dimmer depending on the strength of the bloodline. Once there had been many more but a war followed by a famine and then a plague had seen to most of the lives that they represented. Holding his hand on the map for long enough sometimes he would see them moving as the people travelled. He didn't used to be able to do that – horses were not nearly fast enough to show movement at this scale but these days he could watch them soar over oceans. Now they were disappearing, blinking out at an alarming rate that was reflected by each shiver he experienced.
The ones grouped together went out at the same time, followed a few moments later by one close by. Berit could identify half a dozen tracks, moving from point to point, turning out those small sparks of light.
"Damn it." He muttered. He had no idea what was going on, but could hardly stand by and watch – and feel - it. "Damn promises and meddling with things you don't understand." He said to himself, once again regretting careless words, and regretting that his sense of duty was still strong enough to pull him to act. He fixed his eyes on the point that was geographically closest to him – one that shone brighter than most. He could go to any, but it would take more effort to go further. And he hadn't actually done this in... how long? Too long.
Berit needed a few things and rifled through the drawers behind him, the image on the map beginning to fade as soon as it lost his touch. A string of green beads – the only important thing being the colour. One of the blocks of wood from the map went into his pocket, that was the natural element. A shiny coin joined it. Berit stepped towards the door to the outside, tremors causing him to lurch as he moved. "Think you know everything, you go rushing in and don't stop to think there might be consequences." he told himself.
He took a breath and began another sort of muttering: this language would be intelligible to no-one but him, even it's name buried in the detritus of history. Reaching for the door handle, green beads in the other hand, Berit finished the prayer. When he opened the door there was a film over it, blurred like an out of focus photograph but with the twisting movement of oil on water. Unfocused as it was, it was obvious that the other side of the door was not right – instead of his own front path and gate he was looking at the inside of someone else's home.
That was probably about right. Berit thought and without fear – for what would be the point? – he stepped through.
Once the long forgotten fog of portal travel drained away to only faint after images Berit could take stock of where he found himself. It was a dangerous method of travel – taking a step through reality when you couldn't see properly like walking into a dark room from bright sunlight - and left you open to attack or a simple misstep. That, and it could rip your insides out if you didn't get it right.
Once his vision had cleared enough Berit took in the room. Kind of shabby: worn furniture, wallpaper peeling in the corners. The curtains were not hung properly and the dusty windows were ajar to let in both the engine noise and fumes from the road below. Dirty crockery littered the surfaces and the television fixed to one wall blared some sort of music channel.
Slobbed out on the couch was the source of that little pulse of light – from this distance Berit didn't need a map or a device – he could feel the connection as an itch in his brain. The boy was staring at him, mouth agape. A reasonable reaction to seeing someone walk into his home through a wall. If this dreary place passed as a home. With some disdain Berit strode to the window, silencing the tv with a cutting gesture, and peered into the street several stories below.
"Is there anyone else here?" he asked.
The boy pushed hair back out of eyes, sitting slightly and gave a small shake of his head as if unsure whether to admit to this apparition that he was alone.
"Has anyone tried to come in? A delivery or a new neighbour? Are you expecting anyone?" There was nothing of note going on in the street – no disturbances, no unusual activity. Just the ebb and flow of a city of people going about their business with blinkers fixed firmly in place.
"Nnnn... I mean. What? H... how did you get in here? What do you want?" the boy stuttered, at last finding his voice but Berit ignored the questions as irrelevant. Instead he was hyper focused on his environment, senses straining to notice anything out of place that would signal incoming danger.
It would have helped if he knew what he was looking for but unfortunately the spell didn't work like that. He couldn't feel how the lives were being lost, only that they were being snuffed out. The trembling that had wracked him just a few minutes ago had dwindled to just the occasional shiver. He had felt enough of his own pain that he was glad to feel anyone else's as much as it would have given him some indication of what he was up against.
Two firm raps on the door snapped Berit's head round, and he gestured to the boy to stay where he was still sat on the sofa, still staring at him dumbstruck. For a few moments Berit was caught in indecision. There was no spy hole in the door so no way to see who was on the other side. There were a couple of mystical ways but they were not quick or easy. He could always open the door, but in his experience that was the shortest route to getting a knife in the gut.
His strategising proved pointless as the door exploded inwards in a shower of splinters, the boy diving for cover behind the sofa. Probably faster than he had moved in years. Berit's hand instinctively reached for a sword that wasn't there. Some habits were hard to break. Framed in the doorway and revealed by settling dust was a robed and hooded figure who stepped with purpose into the room.
"I am looking for the Bloodline" the robed man intoned from the shadows of his elaborately embroidered hood and Berit rolled his eyes at the dramatics of it all. You had to really work to get your voice to sound like that and eliminating your peripheral vision for a cool silhouette was unwise.
"Well, there's no blood line here so you owe us a door." Berit said distractedly, thinking more of exactly how the door had been shredded. There were several ways that he could do it but... there was an echo of power floating in the room that Berit didn't recognise. Which wasn't possible.
Robe took his hood down, a look of surprise revealed on the weathered face, thick eyebrows frowning. "Who are you? You are not meant to be here."
"I don't think you are either or you wouldn't have needed to make such an entrance. Most people just use the door handle."
"No matter." The man said reaching into one gaping pocket the man drew something small, a dull black grip and barrel pointed right at Berit.
Instinct took over and Berit flattened his left hand, circling it twice clockwise and then forming it firmly into a fist. A green glow spread from his hand, taking the form of the shield that Berit had fixed in his mind – it started to solidify. By the time Robe pulled the trigger the spell had reached it's full size that would provide cover from shoulder to mid shin.
By the time the bullet reached him, however, the shield had started to flicker. It trembled, faltered and disappeared. It could happen sometimes if you weren't earnest enough in your prayers and the deity deemed you unworthy. Or if your gestures weren't quite as sharp as they should be because you haven't practiced for decades as some sulky protest at being ignored. For which ever reason the bullet sailed through the fading outline of the shield and took him in the chest with the dull crack of a snapped collar bone. The sharp searing pain caused Berit to stagger back a few steps into a half empty bookcase, grabbing at it to keep upright.
"Now that was interesting, son." Robe mused, moving further into the room, gliding in a way that only a floor length robe could allow. "No-one else is meant to be able to do anything like that. If I have time later we will have a conversation."
Robe swung to where the boy was hiding behind the couch, peering over the threadbare top, eyes wide at what he had just witnessed. The gun was trained on that worried brow.
Berit clenched his jaw, irrationally angry now. Maybe not irrationally at that – he had been shot. And that hurt. And now he was being condescended at. And this stranger was threatening someone who clearly had no idea how to defend himself.
Robe had been careless. He thought that Berit, shot and bleeding was no longer a threat, so had moved too far into the room. He was too close. And looking in the wrong direction.
Berit pounced across the few short feet. With his right hand, his currently uninjured one, he grabbed Robe's gun hand, squeezing at a point in the wrist that cut off the nerves. Robe dropped the gun with a curse, and aimed a weighty punch into Berit's shoulder with the other. Berit gasped at the aggravating impact to his injury, seeing stars. It was only instinct that let him block an incoming jab to the jaw. He managed to combine a grab to the wrist with a solid kick to the stomach, putting Robe off balance. In a smooth movement Berit had the man's hand behind his back, dodged a headbutt and pivoted so the man was now pushed firmly up against the wall. If Robe tried to struggle too much he would break his own shoulder.
"I'm not your son, friend." Berit growled into his ear.
Korin was having a bad week. He had lost his bank card so was reduced to hunting the apartment for spare change. He was out of work – again – so there wasn't much in his bank account anyway. His cat had run off somewhere so he didn't even have that cute furball for company.
He had been despondently lying on the couch contemplating yet another meal of cheap packet noodles when a ghost had stepped through his wall. A solid looking ghost. A pissed off looking ghost, but a ghost all the same as who else could step through walls?
Then his door had exploded. And the ghost had got shot. And then he was going to get shot. But the ghost saved him and was now looking even more pissed off and bleeding all over the carpet. That was his security deposit gone.
He was behind his couch because everyone knew behind the couch would protect you. Or did that only work on tv monsters and not real monsters? Did it work against ghosts? Friendly fighting ghosts? Or weirdly dressed guys with guns?
This was such a bad week.
"Why are you doing this?" the ghost was grimly asking the guy with the gun. The guy without the gun, now. There had been a gun pointing at his head!
And the door! Oh god the door! How was he going to explain that to the landlord. Korin closed his eyes tight – this really couldn't be happening, he had an inspection next week.
"This one won't matter, my brothers will have done enough" the attacker was saying.
The other one gave him a hard shove into the wall, punctuating the question "Enough for what?"
"To eliminate the blood line, weaken the seals and open the gate and the Holy One shall be free."
"Which demon?"
"Not a demon! Our God. And He shall bless us for our service once He walks the earth."
"There are no gods." The man bit off bitterly.
"But there will be. His rise will be glorious for the faithful, not so much for the unbelievers."
"Give me it's name." The man demanded, shoving the man into the wall hard enough that his head bounced.
"You will hear it soon enough. You will cry out to Him for mercy when the likes of him are gone." A gesture of his head made it clear who he meant. "Perhaps I will be the one to hear your pleas – I will look forward to it."
The air surrounding the two began to shimmer, like a road in the summer. The ghost stepped back as the shimmer intensified. Korin could feel the heat coming from that side of the room or was that his imagination?
It must be or the whole room would have caught fire by now but just to be sure he ducked further behind the couch. Heat bathed him – for real, for sure. Probably.
"Shit." The heartful swear was surprising enough to bring Korin's head up once again now the wave of heat had passed. Where just a moment ago there were two men fighting now there was just one. The ghost stared at the place where the other had been just a second ago, hands outstretched feeling the empty space and shock painted across his face.
"Where ….. where did he go?" Korin exclaimed.
"I don't know." The man shook his head "That shouldn't be possible."
"What disappearing into thin air? You walked in through the wall."
"Yes. I did." he shook his head and focused on Korin. "We should go."
"Go where?"
"Somewhere safe, this one is gone but they might be back."
"Then we should go to the police. And you need a hospital."
"I'm not going to hospital. And you will sit in a police station for hours while they decide whether you need a psychiatric evaluation if you tell them what just happened. Meanwhile if that... " he clearly couldn't find a word he liked so he settled for a harsh snort "person decides he still wants you dead he can probably get to you just as easily as he left. Unless you come with me."
Korin swallowed hard. It was true. The thought of someone shimmering into existence as he was sleeping, or taking a shower, or cooking his packet noodles made his heart pound. The stranger, still bleeding steadily, came round to his side of the couch and hauled Korin to his feet by the back of his shirt.
"Then what difference will going with you make?"
"Because I know all the places he can't get to." With his good hand clasped firmly around Korin's arm, the stranger maneuvered them both to stand just about a foot in front of the wall he had stepped out of. "Do you trust me?"
Korin looked at him. Took in the gaping shoulder wound, the slightly dated clothing. His clean shaven chin had a determined set and blue eyes were steady with confidence though his brow had a frown of impatience. This mysterious stranger had walked into his apartment somehow, got shot, had a fight with an even more mysterious stranger who had then vanished, and now expected him to go with him somewhere.
"No."
The ghost's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Smart." The man's hand moved to the back of Korin's head and with one strong movement drove his head towards the solid brick wall.