Velocity equals distance divided by time. The volume of a prism is length times width times depth...

Even though complete darkness masked the creature, it also worked to Chuck's advantage. If there had been even the slightest glimmer of light, Lydia would have seen the walls. She would've a.s.sociated them with something hard and immovable, solid barriers that trapped them within that potential abattoir. Her energies still pulsed in rhythm with Chuck's own and the state of intimate familiarity allowed her to trust him completely and without question; but she still hadn't freed herself from this world yet. The first steps had been taken, but until Lydia thoroughly rejected the lies her senses fed her, the woman would remain a model prisoner, dutifully obeying the rules and regulations of her incarceration. Chuck, on the other hand, didn't have that problem.

Pa.s.sing through the wall was no different than running through un.o.bstructed s.p.a.ce. It wasn't really there, after all...at least, not for him. The creature pursuing the couple, however, was still bound by the world in which it lived. Its body slammed into the wall with a hollow thud, and an inhuman screech of rage receded in the darkness as Chuck scurried through non-s.p.a.ce. To find them again, the thing would need to navigate halls and pa.s.sages, which would take time. Hopefully, enough for Chuck to convince Lydia that sights, sounds, texture, tastes, and smells shackled her to this nightmare. That it was within her power to cast them off and move on.

When he'd first seen her sitting in that bathtub, something sparked within him. He looked upon her and knew he never wanted her to feel pain or suffering, to never shed a tear, or have her heart broken; he wanted her to embrace the warrior within, to recognize her own strength and beauty and to glow with the radiance of a thousand suns. He wanted to see her smile and hear her laugh, to stroke her hair as he gazed into eyes steeled by her own resolve.

The handbook had no warnings for this.

"Remember water lapping against the sh.o.r.es of Lake Cheyenne and the aroma of sizzling hot dogs amid the crackle and pop of the campfire; a sky br.i.m.m.i.n.g with stars and tent flaps rustling in a breeze that carried hints of rain."

Bursting out of the darkness, the couple found themselves on the stairs of a tower. Chuck was fairly certain it wasn't the same one he'd been in earlier, but one gothic turret looked more or less like the next, so he couldn't be sure.

What he did know was that he had to release Lydia's hand. Though the creature was no longer a threat, other dangers could be lurking close by. With emotion flowing through them, Chuck and Lydia may as well have been beacons shining into the darkness.

Part of him, however, didn't want to sever that connection. He felt as if eons had pa.s.sed while he searched for her, as if he'd truly never been whole until their energies had merged. Releasing her hand would be akin to ripping some vital part out of his essence when all he wanted was to bask in the radiance of their union.

The area of a triangle is one half base times height...

Lydia squeezed his hand and moved closer as Chuck closed his eyes. Basic math had proved powerless against the emotions she invoked, so he mentally went through the parts of the translocation equation he actually understood and forced himself to tackle-yet again-those that he didn't.

"d.a.m.n it, Chuck, I can't do this on my own. You've got to give me something to work with, buddy. Get your s.h.i.t together or I swear to G.o.d I'm pulling you outta there."

Chuck relaxed his grip and stepped back, allowing his fingers to slip from her grasp. The moment they no longer touched, the brilliance faded from Lydia's aura. The joy that had lit her face and eyes evaporated and Chuck watched the light of hope and happiness wink out. Though he still felt residual pulsings of elation, he suspected it was because he had not allowed himself to become trapped here. He realized he was simply a visitor, a transient soul pa.s.sing through instead of a resident. For his dearest companion, however, it was as if something had been switched off.

Lydia looked like a woman who'd been startled out of a dream. Her eyes were wide and her mouth agape as she spun in circles, taking in the spiraled stairs, flickering torches, and a tapestry so ancient that the images originally depicted on it had faded into obscurity.

Chuck tried not to stare. He'd been in Crossfades where miniature suns shone like fiery pearls in nebulous clouds whose colors defied description; he'd seen stars sparkling in the darkness of s.p.a.ce like glitter that had been blown from the cupped hand of G.o.d, yet nothing he'd ever witnessed was half as beautiful as the woman standing before him.

With their esoteric link broken, more earthly desires now flittered through his mind. Chuck fought to keep his eyes from lingering on the swells of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and following the gentle curves of her hips. Through longing so intense that he physically ached for her touch, warmth kindled in his stomach. He realized he didn't just want to bend her over and have his way; he wanted the closeness that would follow the act, the gentle caresses, giggling, and breathless snippets of conversation. He wanted to lay on his side and hold her, to trace constellations from the moles and freckles and whisper secrets he'd never shared with anyone else.

Perhaps Lydia sensed this, for her cheeks suddenly flushed with embarra.s.sment. She covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with one arm, cupping her other hand over her mound of pubic hair as she turned slightly, glancing at Chuck over her shoulder but avoiding direct eye contact for more than a second at a time.

"I...I don't understand. How did we...why are..."

She wasn't ready to create her own clothing from nothingness yet. If she'd been that far along, they wouldn't have even been having this conversation. Chuck walked to the wall and ripped the tapestry from its frame, releasing a shower of dust and freeing the musty scent of age. Gripping its tattered border in his hands, he snapped it with a flick of his wrist several times, filling the stairwell with dust motes. They swirled lazily in the air as he moved to Lydia and draped the wall-hanging over her shoulders like a cape. Turning his back, he listened to the rustle of fabric as Lydia mumbled her thanks.

"You have to listen to me, Lydia; none of this is..."

"And that's another thing." Her voice bordered on hysteria, its pitch and volume rising with each word. "How the h.e.l.l do you know my name? Who the f.u.c.k are you?"

Without their souls touching, Lydia had obviously forgotten that moment of recognition or that she had whispered his own name without being told what it was. The Cutscene had enveloped her within its reality again and Chuck doubted if she even truly remembered the two of them running through the darkness, hand in hand.

"Someone who cares." The moment the words crossed his lips, Chuck's cheeks warmed and he hung his head like an embarra.s.sed schoolboy who'd just admitted a crush.

Though she was at his back, a tarnished shield hung on the wall before Chuck. Most of it was covered in a patina of rust, but some sections were still as shiny as chrome. Lydia was distorted in the reflection, but the image was clear enough for him to see that she'd fashioned a braided tieback into a makeshift belt. It encircled her waist, transforming the tapestry into a toga. Despite threadbare patches and discolored stains, she looked like a G.o.ddess; her aura pulsed and shimmered and torchlight touched her skin with a golden, honey-colored glow.

He would gladly worship at her altar. He'd kneel before her, bringing offerings of devotion and loyalty...all in the hopes that she might grace him with a single smile.

"The sting of fire ants overpowering the tickle of them streaming across bare feet in gra.s.s cooled by the morning dew." Control's voice was no more than a murmur, her words meaningless.

There should have been a warning about this; but even if there had been, how would Chuck have prepared? How would he have fought off such unprecedented feelings? Chuck shook his head as if he could fling thoughts from his mind. He knew he didn't have time for this. He had to keep her safe, to protect her from all the things that scuttled and crept through the muck and slime; he had to shield her from the horrors of this place until she realized all the protection she'd ever need lay within her own fierce spirit. And he was more than willing to do that...even if it meant sacrificing himself in the process.

"Let's get going." He tried to sound more authoritative than he actually felt as he turned toward her again. "We don't want to stay put for too long. Hard to tell what else is in this place."

Chuck didn't wait for Lydia's reply. He trotted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and trusted she would follow. As they climbed, he tried to explain everything to her as best as he could. He told her about Crossfades and Cutscenes, explained in layman's terms exactly what he did for a living, and tried to help her see that she'd transitioned into an entirely different dimension when the last of her brainwaves had faded.

"Energy," he explained, "can be neither created nor destroyed; it can only change form. This is part of the first law of thermodynamics. Basic physics. Now keep in mind that the human body contains ma.s.sive amounts of energy. In fact, there's enough in our fat alone to charge a one-ton battery. So if it can't be created, where does it come from? If it can't be destroyed, where does it go? Your energy has changed form, Lydia. And you need to start coming to terms with that."

The top of the stairs led to a vestibule dominated by a heavy oak door set into the wall facing them. The studded slats were held together by wrought-iron fixtures shaped like horizontal stalks of corn and a stone arch framed the doorway, hiding the hinges from view.

"So you're trying to tell me that I can just walk through this?" Lydia rapped her knuckles against the wood as she spoke. "Hear that? Solid. I may not know exactly where I am, but I do know a door when I see one. And this is a door. This is real."

"No, you just think it is." Control whispered something in the back of Chuck's mind; the babble was rushed and excited, but the words were drowned out by his own conversation. "It goes back to energy. Everything we think-everything we experience or perceive-it's nothing more than electricity jumping from one synapse to another. It just so happens that we humans have somehow come to a collective arrangement, an agreement as to what const.i.tutes reality as we know it. You're still honoring that contract, Lydia. Even though you don't have to. Not anymore."

"You're insane...you know that, right?"

"I'll prove it." Chuck smiled. "I'll walk through the door myself. And you'll see."

"f.u.c.k that." Lydia pushed the door with both hands and its hinges creaked as it swung inward. "You try running through this and you'll end up on your a.s.s with a b.l.o.o.d.y nose, crazy man."

Lydia walked to the entrance and Chuck rolled his eyes before following. Though part of him dreaded the moment she disappeared into whatever came next, he knew the only way she'd truly be safe was to leave this realm entirely. And her well-being far outweighed his own selfishness; her security was all that mattered. Everything else was secondary.

The tops of the walls in the room they entered were bordered by an inset trough affixed with panes of stained gla.s.s. From somewhere on the other side, light streamed through and the images depicted in chunky blocks of color lit up in vibrant hues, their colors tinting the wooden floor. A red serpent gorged itself in a tangle of green brambles, the thorns piercing scales that leaked ruby teardrops as a pair of human legs jutted from its mouth; in the background, an azure sky masked demonic faces within seemingly innocent clouds and the sun was an angry orange sphere whose rays ignited fire within hollow-eyed skeletons. Body parts littered the landscape and strange symbols separated portions of the scene, multipointed stars trapped within circles of bone.

For a moment, neither Chuck nor Lydia spoke. They stood in silence, their minds fumbling through the details of the room as they struggled to make sense of it.

"Oh...my...G.o.d." Chuck's head swam with the realization of what he saw: not the images depicted in the stained gla.s.s, but what was below it.

He reached out to steady himself with one hand, and the stone archway surrounding the door felt as though it sighed in response; rather than the rough texture of rock, the blocks felt spongy and warm. They throbbed as if he were feeling a pulse through his fingertips and Chuck s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away, feeling as though his fingers had been irrevocably tainted by the brief contact.

"Are those"-Lydia's voice was barely above a whisper, her tone one of shocked confusion-"moths?"

The walls of the room were literally carpeted with the creatures. Dusty-colored wings fluttered and flapped, struggling against the silver needles that pinned their thoraxes to the wall. There were so many that their bodies overlapped each other, making it nearly impossible to tell where one ended and another began. Though the eyespots on their wings were nothing more than defensive mimicry, each one seemed to glisten behind a well of tears, and Chuck pressed his palms against his eyes, remembering what Johnson had told him about moths sometimes being linked to departing souls.

"How are they even still alive?" Lydia leaned toward the creatures with her mouth pulled into a frown; for a moment it looked as though she were about to cry as well, but her expression hardened with a furrow of the brow. "What kind of sick f.u.c.k does this s.h.i.t?"

Uncovering his eyes, Chuck stepped toward his companion and placed his hand on her shoulder. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. Exactly how many souls were pinned here? He had no way of knowing, of course. Even if he wanted to count them, it would've been impossible. So many moths were tacked to the walls that they blurred together in fuzzy blobs if he stared too long, and he continually shifted his attention to the walls and ceiling, to Lydia and the stained gla.s.s...anything.

Lydia's hand crept over her chest, seeking out Chuck's. She squeezed it tightly as her body tensed. He hadn't mentioned the correlation between moths and the dead to her, but it almost seemed as if the woman somehow knew that this was more than the torturing of small animals.

Behind them, the door banged shut and they both jumped, impulsively clutching each other as they spun around as a single unit. At the same instant, fog rolled up through the floorboards. At first it was nothing more than a thin mist, but within moments the tendrils had merged into a veil so thick that Lydia was nothing more than a vague impression, despite the fact that she was mere inches away.

The moths' wings beat more rapidly, providing a soundtrack of agitated swishing as the fog continued to thicken. Footsteps thudded against the floor, each step slow and precise as the newcomer circled, entirely hidden behind the veil of fog.

This concerned Chuck more than he cared to admit. He should have been able to sense the person in the fog like he had the creature that had pursued them. Yet every time he thought he'd pinpointed a position, it changed. Almost as if the person winked out of existence mid-stride, only to immediately reappear in a different location.

Whoever this person was, it was clear that he was far more dangerous than the monster in the dark. For that type of power implied that Chuck and Lydia had just been joined by the Master of this realm.

"What have we here?" The voice was old but strong, each syllable hinting at mockery and disgust. "Have you come to grovel before me, boy? Have you travelled all this way to present yourself as an offering?"

The voice was hauntingly familiar. Chuck knew he'd heard it somewhere before, but couldn't quite place where or when. It wasn't someone he personally knew. That much he was sure of. An actor perhaps? Someone peripheral to his daily existence?

"And you, my dear; what do you make of your so-called savior? Do you think him a knight in shining armor?" The voice paused to chuckle and the pair spun in a slow circle, tracking it with their bodies. "Shining armor denotes inexperience or cowardice. Did you know that? Armor that has been tested by battle is dented and worn. It's scuffed and blemished. Your hero, as it were, is nothing more than a child playing make-believe. He can't save you. No one can. Not here. Not from me."

The temperature in the room felt as though it had dropped thirty degrees, and chill b.u.mps dimpled Lydia's arms as she shivered. The footsteps continued circling them, but the speaker was closer now. His nebulous silhouette faded in and out of the fog like an apparition attempting to manifest.

"I will leave you one good eye, boy." He spoke as if making an executive decision, as though Chuck should thank him for his benevolence and generosity. "One good eye to watch what becomes of your pretty little wh.o.r.e. One good eye to see what lies beneath that pale skin."

"Stay the f.u.c.k away from her!" Chuck's shout echoed as though the room had quadrupled in size; pulling away from Lydia, he positioned himself in front of her, shielding the woman with his own body.

"Organs, my son, are like slippery pouches of warm velvet and notoriously difficult to hold on to. But you will have one good eye to see what I bring you. One good eye to witness how miserably you've failed her."

Wings beat so hard that it sounded like a gale of wind stirring leaves.

"One good eye..."

The floor felt as though it dissolved beneath his feet and Chuck suddenly found himself falling, shattering dimensions like panes of gla.s.s as realities splintered in his wake. He tried to claw his way back to Lydia, to scramble away from the force rocketing him back to the confines of his physical body. But there was nothing to grasp on to, nothing to anchor him to the world Lydia was trapped in, no footholds to break his descent.

In the business, they called this Crashing. It was an escape technique the handbook said was only to be implemented in worst-case scenarios. And there was absolutely nothing Chuck could do about it.

Someone in the physical plane had called him back, leaving Lydia defenseless and alone. She was now completely within the hands of a madman, and even though he knew it was impossible, Chuck could have sworn that he heard the voice chasing him through the abyss, deriding his escape with a repet.i.tion of those three words.

"One good eye, boy...one good eye..."

Chapter 9.

Fallout

Chuck ripped the halo off his head and flung it at the wall as he sprung from the couch, his hands clenched into fists and nostrils flaring. Anger had detonated within him like an atomic blast, hunching his shoulders and melting his face into a mask of wrinkles. His entire body shook with rage and frustration and his eyes sparked with fury.

"d.a.m.n it, Control!" He wanted to smash everything in the room with nothing more than his bellowed roar, to rip the supports from the walls and bring the entire establishment crashing down in clouds of debris and dust. "He was right there! I f.u.c.kin' had him exactly where I..."

Words dried up as his gaze met cold eyes glaring through horn-rimmed gla.s.ses. The Director stood with beefy arms crossed over a tweed jacket and the veins in his neck bulged against the Nehru collar. The man's jaw quivered as though he clenched his teeth behind the thin, hard line that formed his mouth and trickles of sweat rolled off his bald head.

"Sorry, Chuck." Control's voice was soft, sounding sheepish and genuinely apologetic, even through the tinny speakers. "It wasn't my call anymore."

Chuck's stomach lurched and he gulped a single time. The fires of anger had guttered out, leaving nothing more than stammered excuses and nervousness bordering on nausea.

"Director Murphy...I can explain, sir. There was..."

"My office." The Director jabbed his finger against Chuck's chest, punctuating each word like a playground bully. "Now!"

"Director, please, you have to listen."

The man stormed out mid-sentence, slamming the door so hard that the table holding the Buddha fountain rattled and shook. Chuck's gut felt as though it were twisted and kinked, and he wiped moist palms against his slacks as he stared blankly into s.p.a.ce. He was vaguely aware of how hard his heart pounded in his chest, and needles of pain rammed into temples, causing him to squint as tears blurred his vision. With his face hot and flushed, Chuck's cheeks puffed with every labored breath and he swooned back and forth as waves of vertigo hammered his consciousness.

"Chuck..." Control sounded so very, very far away. Farther than she ever had. "Chuck, you're hyperventilating."

Concerns pinged through his mind, each one tightening the vise that seemed to squeeze his body. The Director had been p.i.s.sed. Angrier than Chuck had ever seen him. Maybe he could make the man understand, avoid a suspension, and return to work as if nothing had ever happened. He had to. He had to get back out there, back to the Cutscene.

Lydia.

He had to find her again. He had to keep her safe, to help her transition to the other side.

Lydia...

Time was extremely relative in a Cutscene. In the few seconds the exchange with his boss had taken, the equivalent of twenty years could have pa.s.sed. Two decades in the hands of a lunatic. Seven thousand, three hundred days of torture and misery. More than one hundred and seventy five thousand hours of praying for it to end.

If the b.a.s.t.a.r.d would do something like that to moths, what was he capable of when presented with the embodiment of an actual person?

He remembered the cacophony of wails and cries he'd heard from the turret's stairwell, the chorus of misery and suffering. Was Lydia now counted among their number? Was blood staining ashen skin as she screamed and writhed?

"Chuck, you're having a panic attack. Just breathe. Everything's okay, buddy. You'll see. Everything will be all right. Everything will be fine." Control sounded as if she were trying to convince herself of this more than she was Chuck. But he knew she was right. He had to get a grip on himself. Pa.s.sing out in his office wouldn't do anything to help Lydia. The longer he wallowed in the throes of anxiety, the longer she had to endure whatever unthinkable acts that son of a b.i.t.c.h thought up.

And it would only get worse. What the handbook didn't mention was that first and foremost The Inst.i.tute was a bureaucracy. There were protocols to be followed, reports to be filed, and selection committees formed to decide which Level I was best suited for a particular a.s.signment. By the time another Whisk ventured into that realm, a millennium could have pa.s.sed there. And that was a long time to beg for a death that would never come. So he had no choice. He had to get his act together.

Closing his eyes, Chuck breathed through his nose, consciously forcing his lungs to stop gulping down air. Once his breathing steadied, his heartbeat evened out as well. The surges of adrenaline trickled away and the tension that had stiffened his muscles dissipated, leaving him feeling as though he'd just run a marathon. Mentally and physically exhausted, Chuck felt hollow inside, but at least he'd managed to pull himself away from whatever brink he'd dangled above.

Turning, he looked up at one of the cameras. He knew Control's mic was still active; he heard what sounded like sniffles beneath the hiss of an open comm. At first, he thought he was going to say something; but it occurred to him that he had no idea what he wanted. Or even expected. Rea.s.surance, perhaps. Or maybe permission to bar the door and delve back into the a.s.signment, all metaphysical gun blazing. He really didn't know.

Nothing seemed real. It was as if Chuck existed within a dream so detailed that it was only barely distinguishable from reality. The fountain babbled water over the stones cluttering the lotus in Buddha's lap. The scent of sandalwood grew fainter. And through it all, the rhythmic rise and fall of his Sleeper's respirator marked time.

Control finally cleared her throat, and when she spoke her voice was a raspy whisper.

"You better get going, Chuck. It'll only make it worse. And for what it's worth...I'm sorry."

Opening the door, Chuck turned and threw a half-hearted wave at the camera.

"See you soon, Control."

With those words, he shut the door quietly behind him, took a deep breath, and walked to his fate.

- The apartment was so silent Chuck could hear his neighbor's television through the walls. It was a soft murmur, occasionally interrupted by canned laughter and applause. Which meant Mrs. McNeil had probably dozed off in front of the set again, allowing The Game Show Network to play through the night. Outside, a car alarm whistled and honked in the distance and Chuck's refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. The bedside clock said it was 6:00 a.m., which meant he'd been tossing and turning for nearly four hours. The sheets were twisted beneath his body and his pillow was damp with tears; he felt drained, as if he could close his stinging eyes and dream for all eternity, but sleep refused to grant reprieve from the events of the day.

Normally, this would have concerned him to no end. To leave the apartment by seven, he had to wake up by six-thirty at the latest. Which would have only left four and a half hours of shut-eye. When a deeply relaxed state is an essential part of a job's duties, sleep deprivation could really throw a wrench into the works, turning a planned Walk into an unscheduled nap.