Warm water lapped at Clay's toes as he sat on his dock, his fishing pole in hand. The sun was coming up over the water, the weather promised to be perfect. Clay was resting. He'd done a lot in the past few years since he was given his second chance at life. He wanted to help people, so he was helping those that had given him this second chance. Without him they knew a lot less than they would have. He knew he;d have to contact Hawk soon as it was coming up on that time.

He'd worry about that later. Right now he was enjoying his life. Warm Indian sun and water, a light breeze to play with his, now long, blonde hair, and the relaxing act of fishing. Clay was content.

Clay did wonder what the others were doing though. Except for a brief visit to the Vault in Dubai Clay hadn't left India in years. Everything he'd needed he'd had shipped to India and he'd brought it from the mainland, here. But there were things in the Vault he'd needed to get in person. He hadn't heard from Hawk in a while, though he sent reports when needed. He had no idea where they were, what they were doing, or if they'd done what they'd set out to do. His last message from Hawk had been a few weeks ago when they'd left Russia and were making a detour to Israel. After that he'd been sitting in the dark. But Clay was used to that, he didn't mind so much.

A fish tugged on the end of Clay's line and Clay tugged back. He pulled the fish in slowly before leaning down and picking it up from the water. "Hello lunch," he said and slammed the fish down onto the planks to stun it. The fish's mouth gasped as he took out the hook and threw it into the bucket next to him. From the smaller bucket he pulled out some fish guts from yesterday's catch and cast it back out into the water.

He hummed a little to himself as he sat, holding the line in nothing but a pair of shorts. Apparently it was unbearably cold everywhere else. But this close to the equator the seasons still weren't that extreme. Clay enjoyed it and could get away with going around half naked. Sure he was a bit red, since like most people with Eastern European heritage he burned rather easily, but that was the price of living on a tropical island.

Another fish caught his line and Clay reeled it in. He gave it the same treatment as the first fish and then dumped the rest of his bait into the water under his dock. The fish were smart, they knew every morning Clay came out here to fish and then dump his bait. They knew to come here in the morning to be fed, and if two of them got taken every day, it wasn't a big deal.

With a grunt Clay got to his feet and grabbed his buckets and his fishing pole and walked back towards the beach. The docks creaked a bit under his feet before he stepped onto the sand and made his way up the path to the house. A few birds in the trees sang to the new morning, but for the most part the tropical forest around him was quiet. Clay didn't mind the silence, he didn't mind being alone. He honestly never was really alone. Not anymore.

The house was empty when he entered, the windows open. It was nice out and he was letting the cool winter air filter through the house. He dumped the fish onto the kitchen counter and pulled out a fillet knife. Scales and flesh parted under Clay's knife as he dumped the guts and the skin as well as the head and tail, into the bait bucket. That went into his cooler and he frowned into it. It used to be full of meat from the mainland. Now he just used it to keep his bait from stinking up the house. Since he'd gone into lockdown his supplies had slowly been running lower and lower.

Clay returned to cleaning his fish. He rinsed the pale flesh and meticulously pulled out the bones left behind. He put the cleaned and deboned fish on a plate and put it into the fridge for lunch, and then later for dinner. He'd been having fish for just about every meal for about a year.

He never wanted to look at another fucking piece of fish in his god damn life.

His morning routine complete he made himself breakfast. Tea with what was left of his sugar and some lime, cereal with dehydrated milk, one of his last mangos, and canned sausage. He mostly ignored the sausages, they were disgusting and he only ate them when he was really so sick of fish he couldn't even think about fishing.

As he was eating a shade came and sat across from him. He'd been afraid of them at first, thinking that the block that prevented his Bleed had cracked. Altair had promised him it was as strong as it had always been. The shades were just his mind projecting the 'screen' of his viewings onto the world. The block was still there, but his mind was still a bit cracked, and this was his brain's way of dealing with the strain he put on it, especially what he was doing now.

"So who're you?" Clay asked as he sipped his tea. The shade was female, young, with blonde hair. She looked like his mother, except his mother's eyes had been green. She said nothing. "Go on," he coaxed her. Sometimes his mind didn't quite know what to do with all the extra information it held. It needed to be directed. He didn't know what grain of information this shade held for him, but he hoped it was useful.

"Chandra," she said, her voice, like all the shades, an echo. "I'm looking for my son, have you seen him?"

Clay shook his head. Not anything important, just a fragment that had found its way into the front of his mind. "No," he said.

"He looks like you," she said.

He sipped his tea, "Never seen him. You should probably move on, ma'am, your son isn't here."

She frowned at him, "No, I suppose not," and her form faded from his sight. Clay went back to his breakfast. Honestly this shit should terrify him. People, ghosts, just showing up randomly. The first few times yeah, it had scared him shitless, until he'd figured out what they meant: his subconscious was forcing communication with his conscious, projecting it as people he'd seen through his trances, that he could talk to, ask questions of, and interact with. It was weird, but fuck it it worked and was helpful.

As he was doing the dishes he felt another shade staring at him. He turned and looked at them, elbow deep in dish water. "Ah, hello Solomon," he said. Not King Solomon, but an important guy anyway. He was the color of eggplant all through, only the whites of his eyes and his teeth any lightness in him. He wore rags of what had once been nice clothes. Clay still didn't know where Solomon had come from, he didn't always remember everything he experienced while in his trances.

"Have you found the Key yet?"

"No," Clay said and looked back at the water and scrubbed at his plate before rinsing it.

"Time's running out," Solomon said, "Atlantis will rise."

Clay stopped and looked at Solomon slowly, "Atlantis?" he asked. "What do you know about Atlantis?"

"Its real," he said, "And it will return. When Atlantis rises the Eden will be reestablished."

"Eden? What about Eden?" he demanded, taking his hands from the water.

"The Eden will be remade and the Masters will control them."

"What does that mean?" Clay demanded, frustrated with himself. His conscious and subconscious were rarely on the same page, and often they didn't always communicate well. His poor, broken, brain was trying though. Solomon was its best attempt to force the connection between them. "Where is Atlantis? What is the Eden?"

"The Eden is control," Solomon said and cocked his head to the side, "Control of all humans, an illusion of delight in reality is servitude, slavery."

"The pieces of Eden come from this Eden?" Clay asked.

"No. They are the Eden. The Eden is a state, not a place… not anymore at least."

"And Atlantis. What about Atlantis… answer me Solomon!"

"Atlantis will rise again. The Unnamed brings its rise and the proeathans will return to their home." Clay was getting frustrated now. The shade was talking in riddles and in a round about manner, not saying anything that could help him.

"What is the Unnamed?"

Solomon cocked his head to the other side, "The end of everything," he said and Clay frowned. "If they make it to Atlantis, it will be worse than Toba. It won't just end the proeathan civilization, it will stop all civilization. The Unnamed is the end."

"What is the Unnamed? Is it a device? Is it a Piece of Eden? A person? What is the Unnamed."

"You will know him," Solomon said, "He will carry the mark."

"Oh this is fucking six-six-six bullshit I do not have time for this Solomon."

"Religion remembers," Solomon said, "Many have the man who carries the mark. They remember the Unnamed, though not who is what, what he will do."

"So the fucking antichrist is on earth?"

"Yes. Then I saw another that rose out of the earth; it had two horns like a lamb and it spoke like a dragon. It performs great signs, even making fire come down from heaven to earth in the sight of all. It deceives the inhabitants of earth Also it causes all, both small and great, both rich and poor, both free and slave, to be marked on the right hand or the forehead, so that no one can buy or sell who does not have the mark, that is, the name of the beast or the number of its name."

"So… fuck. You're telling me that Revelations bullshit is true?" Clay demanded.

"It is as close as humans have come to the Unnamed," Solomon said. "They say the antichrist will be a leader, strong, handsome, and charismatic. That he will lead an army against the righteous-

"Yeah I know the fucking scripture," Clay snapped. "Who is he? Who is the Unnamed, this fucking antichrist?"

"You will know him by his mark-

"But who?"

Solomon was quiet, "I don't know," he said. "I only know what you have forgotten," he said.

"Damn it all," Clay swore and looked away from Solomon. "And this world ender, he's on Earth, right now?" Solomon nodded. "How do you know?"

"He can't bear the touch of the righteous. He repels the work of angels, twists it."

Clay frowned, he knew Solomon was twisting his words, overcomplicating them. He tore the meanings apart. "So there is someone, on earth, right now, who according to every religion, in some way, is going to bring about the end of the world-

"End of civilization as we know it," Solomon corrected.

"Okay. And he's marked… marked by what?"

"The mark of the Unnamed, the end, the Gate of Atlantis," Solomon said.

"What is the Gate of Atlantis?"

"A doorway only the Unnamed can enter, a doorway to destruction. He must not be allowed to enter it."

Clay ran his hand through his hair, leaving behind suds and water. "Where is Atlantis?"

"Sunk."

"But it will rise?"

"The Unnamed with return Atlantis and then enter through the Gate."

"And if he does its the end," Clay continued, Solomon nodded. "What is Eden?"

"Control of humans."

"How does the Unnamed relate to Eden?" Solomon was quiet. "Solomon? Damnit man make the fucking connection you I can't fucking do it," he said rather desperately. He needed to get everything he could before the shade faded, so he could tell Hawk.

"I don't know," Solomon said.

"Damnit!" Clay yelled at him, "You don't know anything do you? Just random connections to things that might or might not be true!"

"I don't know," Solomon said again.

"You're fucking useless," and he turned away from Solomon. He needed to tell Hawk what he knew at the least but it was bullshit. He'd wait a week, see if anything else connected, and then send the message. Clay finished cleaning the dishes angrily, frustrated by his own incompetence. When he turned around Solomon was still there. "What?" Clay asked, exasperated.

"You know him," Solomon said.

"I know who?"

"The Unnamed," he said, "You know him."

"I don't," Clay said, "You're confused and pissing me off. Leave," and Clay walked right through the shade and went to the living room. When he looked back in the kitchen Solomon was gone. He rubbed his temple and went to find something his brain could do right. It was so frustrating doing what he had to do, seeing everything that needed to be seen. He just wanted to remember what he needed to remember and not rely on his subconscious' attempts to communicate with him what he forgot.

Why couldn't he just remember?