Chapter 24 – Shards of the Hourglass
Amber hazard lights washed across the buggy's dashboard as the engine coughed, struggled, then caught again with a guttural rasp. Serena's knuckles blanched on the wheel. Ahead, the sandstorm looked less like weather than a living wall—ochre, roiling, lit from within by the reflected glare of Dubai's distant skyline. The bronze ZX rattled as if afraid to enter.
Lucas Vale leaned forward in the passenger seat, sweat cold against the bruises stamping his ribs. "Throttle steady," he said, voice raw. "The intake will choke if we hammer it."
"Gearbox is arguing with physics," Serena answered, squinting through goggles already filmed with grit. "And we still have a phantom passenger riding the storm."
Lucas exhaled through teeth. The void-mind presence pulsed at the edge of his awareness—pressure without sound, like standing beside a cathedral bell seconds before it rang. He still carried the chrono-dampener vial secured in a padded camera bag at his feet, a paradox of safety and danger. The Ouroboros card under his arch beat a chill metronome: T-30 h 47 m.
A shape emerged on the storm's threshold—an off-road motorbike poised atop a dune's crest, rider clad head-to-toe in matte black. No thoughts escaped him; the signature vacuum confirmed a third agent. The rider lifted a hand and, absurdly, beckoned.
"Not the welcoming committee I hoped for," Serena said.
"Nor I." Lucas rolled the window, letting abrasive wind slap his cheeks. He weighed the cost of a pause—if he could even manage a half-second—but the fibers in his muscles still trembled from the last exertion. Instead he leaned on telepathy, fishing for surface intents from the biker's machine rather than the null mind: the bike's engine sputtered with mechanical concern—RPM, heat, traction. Machinery worried about itself in simple wavelengths, easier to influence. Lucas nudged the throttle sensors downward.
The rider revved; the engine choked. Sand sprayed as the bike fought physics, rear wheel burrowing. The agent stabilized, but the delay was enough. "Go," Lucas said. Serena floored it. The ZX lunged past the dune, skirting within twenty meters of the marooned bike. Through swirling dust Lucas saw the agent fling something—small, oblong. He dove across the console, shielding Serena as the object struck the side panel and burst with a phosphorescent hiss.
A haze of blue sparks washed over the cabin but dissipated before permeating. The metallized paint of the buggy crackled, sensors blinking offline for a breath before resetting. He recognized the effect—localized chrono-interference, cousin to the gel. A near-miss.
Heart jack-hammering, Lucas settled back. "Their toys are getting trickier."
Serena's eyes were all fire in the mirror. "Then we out-think them. Seat belts tighter."
They plunged into the sandstorm. Visibility collapsed to two car lengths. Particles hammered the windshield like birdshot. Serena rode second gear, engine howling against gusts. In the cocoon of noise Lucas felt time thicken—storm friction dragged at seconds.
A metallic clang rattled the roof. Lucas looked up: the agent had mounted the ZX's spare tire rack, gripping with one gauntleted hand, other palm pressed to the polycarbonate canopy. From that glove came a tendril of navy gel smearing across the roof—its chemical chill bled through plastic, frost spider-webbing between interior layers. The gel's effect spread in a disc, halting the second hand on Lucas's wristwatch mid-tick. If the pad of dampener smeared inward, it could freeze vital engine components—or worse, freeze Lucas himself in a bubble of stalled entropy.
Instinct overrode exhaustion. Lucas wrenched open his door; sand cycloned in. In the same beat he reached back toward the vortex of the storm's chaotic eddies. Dust grains danced in random vectors—too many, too small—but he snagged two fist-sized stones and hurled them with TK. They were clumsy, off-balance objects, yet momentum amplified by the buggy's speed made them missiles. One rebounded off the agent's elbow; the second smashed his goggles. The rider reeled, lost grip, and tumbled away into blinding dust.
Lucas slammed the door; cold grey spots swam before his eyes. Shoulder screamed as if hot iron pierced it. "Gel's still active," he choked. The frost disc on the canopy trembled, its edge expanding centimeter by centimeter. Serena flicked windshield wash: desalinated water sluiced across roof, mixing with gel, diluting potency. The disc's growth slowed, then ceased.
She exhaled. "That buys us minutes. My map says maintenance depot nine klicks east—generator hub for the solar farm. Shelter and tools."
"Take it," Lucas agreed, voice a rasp.
The depot materialized like a mirage of corrugated steel half-submerged in dunes. They skidded beneath an overhang and dismounted. Wind screamed past open bays, rattling chains. Inside, banks of photovoltaic panels sat stacked for deployment; flight cases labeled with Arabic stencils lined the walls.
Lucas's breath wheezed. He knelt, rummaged for solvent. A bottle of isopropyl cleaner appeared in his hand; he doused a rag and scrubbed the gel smear. It fizzed, then melted to inert slurry. The watch on his wrist stuttered back to life. He pressed rag to shoulder wound—only bruised muscle, no fracture. Relief tasted metallic.
Serena unrolled maps on a crate lit by portable work lamp. "Silica Ridge here. But your curator voice said 'Silica Gate.' Maybe a sub-sector?"
Lucas traced finger. "Gate could refer to the old research outpost—abandoned silica extraction well. Coordinates align." He folded map. "We arrive in twenty-six hours. First we need rest and new transport; our ZX's electronics just took a micro-nap."
As if summoned, the ZX's dash alarm blared. Battery icon glowed red; gel contamination must have laced circuits. They had maybe ten minutes of start-time left.
Serena's gaze flitted to a line of supply trucks: matte-white pickups with reinforced intakes. She raised a brow. Lucas shook his head. "Security cams?"
"Offline," she said, pointing to a silent bank of monitors—storm had severed comms. "Borrowed vehicles aren't new sin territory for us."
Lucas flashed tired grin. "Fair point."
They transferred jerry cans of fuel, water cases, med-kit, and the cash satchel into a Hilux outfitted with dune-tires. As they worked, Lucas sensed twinned pulses—the Ouroboros card and, stranger, the chrono-gel vial. Proximity resonance? He slid vial from bag; the liquid pulsed deeper indigo, swirling as if magnetized by the card. An idea flickered: if Curators weaponized time stasis, could he invert it—use gel to anchor himself during freeze, maybe reduce metabolic strain? Theory postponed; priority remained survival.
By the time the Hilux roared to life, wind had softened marginally. They drove half-hour through corrugated sea of dust until Dubai's outskirts reappeared, skyscrapers hazy and luminous. Serena cut toward Al Barsha, weaving traffic lighter than usual under storm warning. Above, clouds thinned; dawn's first magenta streaked horizon. Lucas's stomach knotted with adrenaline hangover and hunger both.
He ticked countdown: T-24 h 11 m. Too tight for their next move, yet fateful.
"Artifact run first," he said.
Serena glanced over. "The museum job? Why?"
"Curator symbol on artifact. I need leverage. Proof that predates modern players. Something to trade or decode."
She processed silently. Serena's greatest interviews required letting sources talk themselves into corners. Finally she asked, "Which museum?"
"The Helios Collection. Private vault beneath Emirates Towers. Owner's a smuggler in philanthropist skin; security obsessed but complements storms with complacency. And," he added, sliding tablet, "tonight is gala for disaster-relief donors. Staff stretched."
Serena's mouth quirked. "You scouted this before?"
"I gather insurance gigs," he smirked, then softened. "Actually, dossier teased in Hong Kong. Part of the Curators' breadcrumb trail."
She steered toward bustling Sheikh Zayed again. "We recon the tower at dawn, infiltrate midday shift turnover. Minimal power use," she emphasized. He nodded—promise, though necessity often overrode promise.
Morning in central Dubai glimmered like a hologram. The storm dissipated behind them, leaving sand-coated boulevard edges and glass facades reflecting a sky too blue to pity yesterday's dangers.
The Helios Collection occupied floors forty to forty-three of the west Emirates Tower, two levels public gallery and one subterranean vault for "sensitive holdings." Lucas and Serena entered disguised as wealthy donors: she in tailored emerald suit, he in charcoal three-piece borrowed from the property's boutique—Serena's quick shopping spree funded by the rally winnings. A forged invitation manifested via Lucas's influence on the gate clerk: simple nudge, no direct mind rewrite, but his pulse still thudded double-time at the exertion.
Inside, gilt signage welcomed them to Treasures of the Caravan Trails. Glass cases displayed Nabataean incense burners, Persian astrolabes, and at center stage an illuminated plinth containing the target: a palm-sized sandstone emblem, edges chipped, carved with unmistakable double-ouroboros—two serpents eating tails while encircling stylized hourglass. Plaque claimed "3rd-century desert sultanate token of celestial calendar," but Lucas knew the symbol predated most dynasties.
Serena filmed discrete angles on phone. "Subtle enough," she muttered. "How do we 'borrow' in broad daylight?"
Lucas scanned gallery. Security included two guards per wing, pressure sensors under plinth, lasers across glass, and subterranean tag emitters. Cameras nested in opposing corners. "We don't. We let them move it for us."
She blinked. "Meaning?"
"Fire-safety drill at noon. They transport high-value items to vault." He pointed to schedule board near staff desk: red text—Mandatory System Test 12:00-12:20. "During transfer we intercept in freight elevator."
"That's twenty minutes from now," she noted. "Tight."
"Tight keeps my heart working."
She shot him stern look. "Your heart's already overdrafted."
Eleven fifty-eight. They loitered near staff corridor door disguised as donors admiring a tapestry. A klaxon chirped; sprinklers dry-popped but no water. Staff chaperoned guests toward exit stairs. Lucas and Serena eased along flow until hidden from guard sight, then slipped through "Staff Only" door into sterile hallway. Lucas exhaled, back pressed to wall. Pain throbbed less now but fatigue shadowed every thought.
A dolly approached: two technicians in tan jumpsuits wheeling a climate-controlled crate—the artifact's temporary capsule. Each wore ID on lanyard. Lucas inhaled, focused micro-influence: to one he pushed urgency to smoke break; to the other, sudden need for restroom. The first technician frowned. "Hey, Ahmed, cover for me?" Without waiting, he hustled toward stairwell. The second grimaced, following opposite hall to lavatory. Crate left alone.
Serena slipped gloves, produced security bit set. Lucas cracked crate locks with TK—minute flicks; shoulder barked but held. Lid up: inner gyroscopic mount suspended the sandstone emblem on carbon rods. No additional tags visible. He lifted stone; it pulsed faint warmth, like sunbaked memory. The Ouroboros card vibrated in shoe, sympathetic resonance.
Serena traded sleeve rolled, revealed a 3-D printed replica painted identical but resin weight far lighter. Lucas winced. "Sensor matrix uses mass."
"I accounted for that." She extracted tungsten slug, slid into replica's core cavity, clicked shut. Weight nearly matched. Lucas placed fake on mount; crate closed. They wheeled dolly into service alcove, wedged door to appear stuck.
In his satchel Lucas wrapped authentic emblem inside bandana alongside the gel vial—time inside time. They merged with evacuees streaming past atrium fountains to outside muster point. Fire-drill ended twelve-fifteen. Staff cleared guests to reenter. Alarms silent.
Lucas and Serena crossed boulevard to parking deck. Heartbeats normalized—or tried to. Lucas pictured technicians discovering dolly; confusion but no immediate panic. Real alarm would sound once crate opened in vault later. They had one hour.
"Where now?" Serena asked, easing Hilux from bay.
"Outskirts safehouse." He punched coordinates: a former construction office near Silica Ridge. "We examine artifact, maybe decode coordinates, then gate meeting."
As they merged onto highway, Lucas's phone—burner—pinged. Unknown number. He answered on speaker.
Static, then Graves's voice, taut. "Enjoying museum tours, Mr Vale? Global intel channel lit up ten seconds ago—Curator artifact compromised. Guess who's top suspect."
Lucas stiffened. Graves continued: "Meet me before sunset; I can shield you from Interpol blowback. Refuse, and every checkpoint lights you up like Eid."
Lucas closed eyes. "You're tracking phone networks."
"I'm tracking patterns. Yours smells like hubris," Graves said. "Choice, Vale."
Line cut. Serena accelerated. Sirens pealed somewhere behind—police units shifting.
"Global alert achieved," Serena murmured. "Congratulations. Next option?"
Lucas examined emblem in lap. Fine grains sparkled as if tiny mirrors embedded. He turned it; sunlight refracted through windshield, projecting faint lines on dash—geometric lattice outlining desert topography. Serena glanced. "Map overlay."
"Silica Gate entrance," he whispered, tracing intersection lines. "Artifact is key, literally."
Behind, first police drone buzzed overhead, spotlight scanning. Serena swerved onto dirt service road flanking a pipeline, dust plume hiding their trail. Sirens receded.
Lucas pressed sandstone to Ouroboros card in shoe. Card reacted—pulse accelerated, hologram numbers rewriting: T-17 h 03 m. Hours lost? No—short-cut. Curators demanded earlier arrival now that key secured.
He swallowed. "Timer jumped. Rendezvous at dusk, not dawn."
Serena cursed. "We're down nine hours."
Ahead, pipeline road narrowed to single lane bordered by half-buried cable spools. A checkpoint gate arm lowered—temporary police station set due to storm cleanup. Officers waved vehicles through slower lanes as license scanners flickered.
Serena slowed. Lucas's eyes ached; telepathy might sway two officers, but scanners would flag their plates stolen.
He opened palm to chrono-gel vial. "Maybe we use their own pause tech," he said.
Serena's stare hardened. "You can barely stand."
"Gel anchors time locally," he argued. "I smear on Hilux emblem; we drive through bubble. Scanner sees nothing—time slice out of sync."
"And if it seizes the engine block…"
"Then we push," he finished, half-smile.
She pulled onto shoulder fifty meters shy of checkpoint, hazard lights on. They stepped out under pretext of mechanical trouble. Lucas palpated vial, unscrewed cap. Liquid shimmered like midnight. He dabbed drop on Toyota badge; metal frosted, ticking silent.
"Get back in," he said. Serena obeyed. Lucas gripped wheel; gel chill radiated. He inhaled, focusing field not around engine but ahead—visualizing wedge of stillness slicing forward. He eased accelerator; Hilux rolled, slower than idling speed yet momentum sustained. The world outside windshield dulled—colors flat, motion blur absent. Officers mid-gesture froze, dust motes suspended. In passenger seat Serena's breathing continued—inside bubble's nucleus time flowed but outside crawled.
Lucas's temples screamed, blood vessels ached, yet he held concentration eight seconds—enough to pass barrier. Once beyond, he released breath; color snapped back. Rear-view mirror showed puzzled officers glancing at scanner errors; they never saw Hilux appear.
Lucas sagged. Serena caught wheel, straightened course. "You okay?"
"Thirty percent battery," he joked, eyelids heavy.
She handed electrolyte bottle. "Sip."
They sped west across shimmering flats toward Silica Ridge, sun dropping like a copper coin behind dunes. Helicopters beat distant sky; search net tightening. Lucas brushed fingers over sandstone emblem. Warmth seeped, not heat but memory—a door waiting.
Serena drove, silent, eyes on horizon. Questions nested in her posture—about ethics, about countdown, about what they would find beyond the Gate—but for now she let him drift.
Night fell fast in the desert. Far ahead, a sliver of red light pulsed from ground level—beacon or trap. Lucas stared, pulse matching Ouroboros cadence, until shapes resolved: two monoliths of polished quartz framing a ramp descending into darkness.
Silica Gate.
They were almost there, yet brakes squealed as Serena slowed. Between them and the entrance idled a matte-black armored SUV, Curator sigil on hood, and beside it Mason Graves, arms folded, expression unreadable. Floodlights snapped on, criss-crossing dunes. Helicopters' rotors thundered overhead.
Lucas clenched sandstone key, fatigue forgotten. Cliff-hanger tension tightened like wire.
Graves stepped forward, shouting above blades: "Time to choose your keeper, Lucas. Clock's stopped unless you push it."
Lucas senses swirling anti-chrono fields activating around the Gate and realizes if he attempts a full freeze here, he may never restart time again—yet stepping forward without powers might hand the artifact directly to his hunters.
Chapter 25 – Dubai International — Seconds on Trial
Lucas Vale tasted blood where hot desert wind had split his lower lip. Flood-lights carved hard shadows across the sand, transforming the twin quartz monoliths of Silica Gate into spectral skyscrapers. Anti-chrono emitters—sleek tripods pulsing indigo—ringed the clearing, their overlapping fields droning like cicadas. Every instinct screamed that if he even thought about freezing time here, those fields would pin him in place like a butterfly to cork.
Mason Graves took a measured step forward, flanked by two void-mind operatives in matte armor. "You stole from a sovereign museum, crashed a police checkpoint, and walked into a restricted archaeological site carrying the lost keystone of a clandestine society." His voice carried the slow relish of a man reciting a winning hand. "But I'm still offering you a door that isn't a prison cell."
Serena stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Lucas, hair whipping across her face. Her camera dangled uselessly; batteries fried from the storm. "Your door," she said, "looks suspiciously like a trap."
"It's a bargain." Graves's gaze flicked to the sandstone token Lucas clutched. "Hand over the artifact, surrender quietly, and I'll make sure Interpol charges disappear into paperwork. You get to breathe free air again—under my thumb, but alive."
Lucas heard Graves's real thoughts—sharp edges cloaked in diplomacy: Break him before the Curators claim him; study the pause firsthand. No altruism, just control. Lucas flexed aching fingers. One more full chronopause might stop his heart, yet handing over the emblem felt like amputating possibility itself.
Ouroboros card ticked cold in his boot: T-16 h 45 m. Time's river narrowed.
"Lucas," Serena said under her breath, "live to fight tomorrow. Please."
He scanned the perimeter. Anti-chrono tripods hummed at calibrated intervals; between them a three-meter gap shimmered weaker, like thin ice. Maybe thin enough.
Lucas raised the emblem for all to see. "Okay, Graves. You want the key? Catch."
He lobbed it—not to Graves but high, arcing toward the weak gap. At the same instant he hurled a telekinetic shove, small but precise, toppling the nearest tripod. The emitter died with a pop; its field collapsed, tearing a ragged hole in the anti-chrono net.
Graves's eyes widened. Sandstone spun through free air beyond suppression. Lucas felt the familiar shift—like sliding between gears that weren't meant to mesh—as he snapped a half-second micro-pause. Pain stabbed his temples; the world dulled to sepia, soundless.
One heartbeat of stillness: He grabbed Serena's wrist, yanked her two strides sideways through the opening, and snatched the token from mid-arc. Then time roared back—tripod parts crashing, agents shouting.
They sprinted downslope toward the idling Hilux. Bullets barked—rubber rounds, non-lethal but vicious. One cracked Lucas's shoulder; numb fire spread. He fumbled keys, engine growled. Serena vaulted into driver seat; tires spat gravel.
Flood-lights shrank behind. Graves's voice thundered through a megaphone, distorted by wind: "Run all you like—Dubai is a sandbox. Airports have walls."
**
Three kilometres out, the Hilux's dash vomited warning lights—antifreeze leak from earlier damage. Serena coaxed another kilometre before the engine seized with a metallic shriek. They abandoned the truck, dashing toward highway. Headlights wove in the distance—civilian traffic resumed after storm clearance. Lucas flagged a dusty Corolla, driver slowing at sight of Serena waving a scarf.
A quick telepathic nudge—They're injured, hospital, hurry—and the Good Samaritan unlocked doors. They piled in back. Lucas squeezed the emblem beneath his thigh; shivering exhaustion laced every breath.
"Terminal 3, arrivals loop," Serena told the driver. She met Lucas's bleary gaze. "Graves will assume we flee Emirates side. We'll ghost through commercial chaos and buy time."
Lucas nodded, fighting black spots. Half-minute pause had cost him more than any five-minute freeze months ago. Powers and counter-tech were racing to stalemate; his physiology was collateral.
At the airport, they melted into the tide of travellers—families with giant teddy-bears, influencers live-streaming layovers, suited execs barking into earbuds. Lucas fixed sunglasses over bloodshot eyes, listening for blank spaces where thoughts should be. None—Graves's operatives still moving pieces.
Serena elbowed him toward restrooms. In the handicap stall she produced two boarding passes—purchased during the ride on her phone: "DXB → Muscat, departs in forty." Smart—short hop, different airline, less security fanfare. She patted his cheek. "Stay awake ten more minutes."
He forced a grin. "Can't nap when reality's this absurd."
They emerged—and walked into a wall of plain-clothes security. Logos on ear-pieces read ADAC Private Security—Graves's corporate imprint. The blank-mind aura pulsed behind them; corridor exit sealed by two more agents. Serena's hand squeezed Lucas's once, apology and courage entwined.
"Lucas Vale," the lead agent said, professional calm. "You will come with us."
Lucas considered a freeze; muscles twitched unwillingly. No field emitters here, but fugitives didn't vanish unnoticed inside the world's busiest terminal. He raised palms. "Take me somewhere quiet or your YouTube cameo will be spectacular."
They chose discretion, escorting him and Serena through staff corridors to a glass-walled interrogation suite overlooking the runway glow. Surveillance cameras inside wore blinking red caps—live feed.
Graves entered alone, rolled shirtsleeves, laid three items on the table with theatrical click: Lucas's forged passport, the broken chrono-taser from storm, and a printed high-res still of Lucas lifting the sandstone emblem—captured by a drone at Silica Gate.
"Evidence," Graves said, seating himself. "And leverage."
He slid a document: Co-operation Agreement. It promised reduced charges and medical care if Lucas demonstrated his 'temporal anomaly' under controlled lab conditions.
Serena sat handcuffed beside Lucas, eyes blazing. "He's not a lab rat."
"He's a public hazard," Graves countered. "He destabilises casinos, airports, cultural sites. He needs guidance."
Lucas smirked. "Funny. Guidance sounds like cages with prettier words."
Graves leaned forward. "Lucas, you're running on fumes. Anti-chrono tech is scaling; every freeze costs you more. Align with me before the Curators dissect you."
At the word dissect, Lucas's gut flipped—flash of drowned teenage terror, lungs burning. His gaze drifted to runway glass. A midnight cargo flight taxied, strobes blinking like cellular automata across tarmac.
"Give Serena immunity," Lucas said softly. "You get a demonstration."
"Noble." Graves removed Serena's cuffs, but two guards stayed close. He produced a small silver egg—newer version of chrono-dampener. "Try your trick with this on the table. If you succeed, I sign immunity papers."
Lucas weighed chances. The egg would broadcast null field, but maybe narrow enough for him to skirt. The room's CCTV would capture incontrovertible proof. Curators might intercept footage; world governments might weaponise it. Yet Serena's freedom hung on success.
He set palms on cool tabletop, exhaled. His heart hammered so loudly he feared microphones would pick it up. He pushed into pause.
SEMI-STILLNESS—like wading through syrup rather than true inertness. The egg's field resisted, grinding at the chrono-seam, but Lucas eeked a sliver of phase space, enough to blur edges of motion. His wristwatch hesitated; second hand jittered between ticks.
In that viscous state, Lucas flicked the egg across table with TK—less push, more intention. The egg rolled, collided with laptop, and bounced to floor. Its LED went from blue to red—field offline.
Lucas collapsed into chair, gasp ripping throat. From everyone else's viewpoint the egg simply teleported mid-roll. Graves's pupils dilated, predator thrill. He pulled papers, signed with flourish. "Impressive. She walks."
Guards uncuffed Serena fully, guiding her toward door. She looked back, horror dawning. "You didn't negotiate your release."
Lucas managed a wink. "Working on phase two."
Door shut. Graves tapped laptop; footage saved to secure server. "Thank you. Now let's refine protocol."
Lucas's body screamed quakes. But mind leapt: server synced wirelessly; freeze disruption offline now; only biological limits remained.
He palmed the Ouroboros card under table leg. Pulse synced with his heartbeat—wild drum. Emblem was still hidden in his belt pouch, unknown to Graves. One gambit left.
"Need water," Lucas croaked.
Graves nodded to guard; man exited. Lucas flexed cramped fingers, counting footsteps fading. He read Graves's surface thoughts—run blood test, trace mitochondrial variance, patent. Ego science.
Time to rob him blind.
Lucas slammed eyes shut, dove into full chrono-pause.
Agony impaled skull; veins burned ice, but the world shattered into grayscale silence. He stood—knees almost folding—and surveyed the tableau: Graves frozen mid-inhalation, signature smirk fossilised. Guards outside door statues.
Lucas limped to laptop. Hard-drive security LED flickered slow even in pause—some electronics still twitched. He pulled sandstone emblem, pressed it to laptop lid. The device's clock stilled utterly; whatever ancient resonance the token emitted smothered circuitry beyond even his freeze. Backup servers might still sync, but core evidence here died.
Next, he collected the signed immunity contract—proof Graves's word could still be leveraged. He pocketed it. He searched Graves, confiscated a satellite keycard and wrist-mounted field control for emitters—a bracelet laced with micro-gel cartridges.
Blood roared in ears. Vision tunneled. Thirty seconds subjective left—he felt it, lungs burning without oxygen movement. He staggered to glass wall, shoved it open on emergency hinge, stepped onto maintenance ledge overlooking runway. Nightside wind slapped heat away.
Below, luggage trams crawled like ants. He scanned for vectors: a service stair to tarmac fifty meters right. Far but feasible.
He released the freeze.
Alarms wailed instantly—the open panel triggered sensor. Guards spun; Graves cursed, sprang up. Lucas vaulted rail onto corrugated roof, rolled, pain exploding. Adrenaline blurred edges.
He sprinted—half run, half controlled tumble—along service catwalk toward stair. Shouts echoed, but behind glass they'd need override to reach him. He hit stairs two at a time, reached tarmac level just as an electric baggage buggy trundled by. He leapt aboard, crouched between crates.
Using freed hand, he snapped Graves's wrist-bracelet onto his own wrist; LED flashed green, recognising biometric override he'd stolen. Field controller armed. He set it to emit a 30-second radius null pulse behind him—would scramble pursuing security radios and their gel weapons.
Buggy passed under jetway. Lucas hopped off near catering truck, ducked inside lift platform. He exhaled, dizziness tidal. Somewhere terminal-side, Serena walked free—but unknowing he had burned their last safe alias.
At edge of apron, a maintenance gate yawned onto perimeter road. Lucas slipped through as klaxons receded. Night sky over Dubai shimmered electric with city glare. The Ouroboros card in boot cooled further—T-15 h.
Purpose sharpened: Get Serena back, crack Gate secrets, outpace Graves and Curators alike. But first—the Mediterranean freighter in cargo manifest memory offered stowaway passage east. Egypt, perhaps. Distance to breathe.
He jogged along fence until a white panel van idled, driver smoking. Telepathic suggestion—urgent delivery, airport security badge flash—and door opened. Lucas slid inside, tugging cap low.
As van rolled toward city lights, Lucas let head droop against rattling wall. Pause hangover spread like molten lead, but he smiled despite the pain. Graves had a video of magic; Lucas now possessed the off switch to Graves's toys, the keystone, and a signed admission of immunity. Leverage enough to flip the board—once he rescued the most important piece still trapped on it.
Fifteen kilometres away, Serena's phone vibrated with an encrypted text from an unknown number: "Curators observed your integrity. Parley offer—Gate reopens in twelve hours. Come alone."
Chapter 26 – Arabian Freighter — Hollow Wake
The metallic tang of salt and rust settled on Lucas Vale's tongue the way regret settled behind his ribs—permanent, metallic, impossible to ignore. He crouched between two towering stacks of shipping containers in the aft recess of the Khalid Maru, a Panamanian-flagged freighter now easing out of Jebel Ali. Beneath him the deck plates vibrated, a deep, thrumming reassurance that the ship was trading one shore for another. He clung to that motion; forward momentum at least pretended to be purpose.
Darkness hid him, but only mostly. Sodium lamps fixed high on the crane gantry spilled syrupy light across corrugated walls, leaving pockets of shadow where a stowaway could play ghost. A winch squealed somewhere overhead. Lucas's pulse answered in the same rusty octave.
He had boarded twelve minutes earlier by freezing the dockside timeflow just long enough—no more than a quarter-second—to slip past the night watch and vault a security railing. Even that micro-pause left searing bands of pain wrapping his temples, as though every capillary in his brain had combusted in miniature. He popped the last of his electrolyte chews; they tasted of artificial lemon and failure.
Failure had a face tonight—Serena's. The image recurred like a glitch every time he blinked: her brows knitting when the guards escorted her away, the silent question—What will you be without me? He had no answer. Worse, he had no guarantee she was free despite Graves's signature on those immunity papers stuffed into his jacket. He hoped she was halfway to her hotel, eyes rolling at how he'd Houdinied out of the terminal. But hope felt thinner than the desert air he'd left behind.
Steel groaned as the ship met open current, and the sound reminded him to breathe. He slid between container walls, into a slot barely wider than his shoulders. There, safe from prying deck lights, he assessed inventory: sandstone emblem wrapped in bandana, Ouroboros timer card taped to boot, gel vial glowing faintly indigo in his breast pocket, Graves's field-controller bracelet snug on his wrist, and the crumpled immunity contract dinged with fingerprints and underside coffee stains.
Tools and leverage, he told himself. And a body running on fumes.
He risked a probe of the crew's mental skylines—surface thoughts drifting above deck like stray radio chatter. Shift change soon… coffee empty… bills due… Nothing blank, nothing void-mind. Good. Curator operatives didn't ride midnight freighters when they could fly charter jets. Graves's private army, maybe—but they'd need maritime authority to board, and Dubai bureaucracy wouldn't move that fast.
Lucas slid to a seated position, back against cold steel. He removed a tiny LED key-torch pilfered from the van and thumbed it on, angling the beam toward the emblem. Sand grains within the carved ouroboros caught the light, shimmering like captive stars. He traced the double serpent motif with a thumb, half expecting pulse feedback. Instead he felt only warmth—steady, womb-like—as if the stone recognized him. Or maybe he was delirious.
He laid the field-controller next to it. The bracelet's OLED readout listed five preset disruption modes: Null Bubble, Pin-Flash, Relay Jam, Sync Scrub, Hard Lock. He'd only tried Relay Jam at the airport. Pin-Flash sounded like a directed shot, Hard Lock more ominous. Operating without a manual felt like juggling scalpels in the dark, but ignorance hadn't killed him yet.
Footsteps scraped above: deckhand boots. Lucas doused torch, heartbeat lurching. The steps paused, a lighter flicked—crewman grabbing a smoke break. Lucas visualized the man—callused hands, bored eyes—and nudged with the gentlest whisper of influence: Cigarette finished; bunk warmer than wind. The thought drifted; the steps retreated. No stamina cost, but each nudge scratched Lucas's conscience raw. Serena's ledger of manipulations would update if she could see him.
He squeezed eyes shut, chasing sleep. Instead he found memory: interrogation lights haloing Graves's silhouette, Serena's release, the egg rolling across the table like a silver omen. He'd promised himself never to leave her behind again, yet here he was—ocean between them, guilt for ballast.
The Ouroboros card pulsed through boot leather. He removed it, and holographic numerals flickered: T-13 h 52 m. Time still hemorrhaged away. The Curators wanted a parley in twelve hours, according to Serena's message he hadn't seen. He laughed, a thin sound swallowed by engine hum. Either fate kept resetting deadlines to amuse itself, or he was sprinting on a treadmill built by ghosts.
Ship's horn bellowed. Below that, another sound leaked through container seams—a cough, then muffled sobs. Lucas stilled. Not crew: cadence too soft, voices layered. He crawled along the narrow gutter until a sliver of yellow light cut across his path. It came from a ventilation grate in a neighboring container left ajar a finger's width. He pressed ear to gap.
Inside, whispered Arabic, maybe Sudanese accent—men, women, children huddled. Phrases like Inshallah and Europa. Stowaways, likely trafficked migrants paying for a clandestine ride toward Suez and the hope beyond. Lucas's gut twisted. Their journey mirrored his but without the privilege of choice. He saw, in his mind's eye, Chapter 27's future headlines: Migrant tragedy in Mediterranean. Unless he intervened.
A plan began to blossom—dangerous, sprawling. He would need to keep the crew oblivious, ensure oxygen flow to that container, maybe covertly supply water. And if the ship ran trouble, he'd be their failsafe. Purpose—true, beating, bigger-than-him purpose—crept back into his bloodstream, warming cold mutinous veins.
He backed away as quietly as he'd come, parking himself two containers down where engine rumble masked thought. Fatigue threatened to sedate him mid-stride, so he gave his mind a task to stay awake: mapping the ship. He coaxed telepathic fragments from sailors—Portside ballast tank check complete… Galley low on rice… Autopilot until 0200. Over fifteen minutes he stitched them into a mental deck plan: bridge above, crew berths midships, engine room aft starboard, access ladders every fifty meters. Lifeboats portside, each rated for thirty. Numbers to remember.
His vision blurred. He allowed himself to think of Serena, to imagine her safe, phone buzzing with that cryptic Curator offer. Would she go alone? She was too damn brave. Worry panged, but he inhaled briny air and filed fear under deal with later. Survival first.
He tipped the immunity contract under LED light, reading Graves's signature again. The paper felt like both shield and chain—evidence of power, but one Graves could retract under pretext. Lucas folded it into an origami crane—a trick his mother taught for calming nerves—then tucked it into an alley between containers. If he didn't return, maybe a stevedore would find it, spark questions. Breadcrumbs mattered.
A metallic rattle cut the night—cargo door hydraulics priming. Lucas killed his torch. Voices called instructions: "Unlock hold three!" More crew would sweep through, maybe armed. He needed higher ground.
He clambered up container rungs, muscles whining. From the second tier he gained vantage over deck. Searchlights probed but left dead angles behind loading cranes. He crouched there, breath frosting despite humid air.
An hour slid by in mechanical heartbeats. He counted them to stay conscious. At one hundred-thirty he heard something new: the unmistakable vacuum in thought space—a blank mind. Void-mind agent on board.
Panic stabbed, then logic stepped in. Could be coincidence: shipping security contractor? No. Odds pitiful. Gravitation laws of his life dictated enemies recurred like bad chorus lines.
The blank presence skimmed below, methodical, angular—no stray musings, only absence. Lucas traced its movements by listening for where noise ceased. It headed aft, toward container with migrants.
Not today, Lucas swore. He scrambled higher, pace careful despite urgency, mind cataloguing options. Full freeze now would kill him; half-second micro-pause maybe. The gel vial? Could create static bubble, but side-effects unknown. The bracelet's Pin-Flash? He scrolled mode menu. Pin-Flash: "Directed null spike, three-meter cone, five-second duration." Enough to stun anti-chrono gear or, at minimum, short a comms unit. But he'd be revealing he held Graves's tech.
The void-mind paused outside target container. Lucas perched above, three meters up, palm sweating on cold steel. He tapped bracelet—select Pin-Flash, index finger primed on recessed trigger.
Below, latch squealed as agent cracked the vent further. Child's gasp echoed. Lucas vaulted.
Gravity offered critique; his landing jarred injured shoulder, stars burst behind eyes. He rolled, came up kneeling two meters from agent. Without thinking he fired.
A cone of shimmering distortion hissed through darkness, like heat above asphalt. It slammed agent square between shoulder blades. Null energy ate electronics: radio on belt sparked, visor display died, even the man's watch froze mid-tick. More important, the chrono-gel canister on his thigh crystallised, harmless.
Agent staggered half-turn, momentarily human in confusion. Lucas delivered a single TK-augmented shove. The man stumbled, struck rail, tumbled over side with a splash into dark gulf water. Life jacket? Possibly. Pity? Limited.
Lucas exhaled raggedly. Five-second Pin-Flash ended; bracelet screen blinked cooldown 12 min. He crouched, energy spent, hearing the frightened murmurs from within container. He whispered in Arabic he hoped was passable: "Calm. I'm friend." A pause, then the soft word back—shukran.
Footsteps pounded elsewhere; crew had heard something. Lucas melted into shadows, wove through container mazes until he reclaimed original niche. Only there did trembling start.
He'd saved strangers, maybe doomed himself. But the moral ledger—Serena's ledger—gained its brightest mark yet.
Ouroboros card pulsed: T-12 h 01 m. He chuckled—nothing like heroics to make deadlines tighter.
Adrenaline ebbed, fatigue crashed, sleep ambushed. His last thought before blackness: When Serena reads her new message, will she understand why I had to leave? He hoped the answer wasn't too late.
He awoke to silence so complete it felt loud. Engines had stopped. In their place, groans of shifting metal, distant shouts, a klaxon cut off mid-wail. Something was wrong.
Lucas sat up; muscles protested. Thin smoke drifted along deck seams, lit by emergency reds. He risked a peek past container edge.
The horizon listed thirty degrees left—ship leaning. Somewhere water sloshed against compartments it shouldn't. Crew dashed with fire extinguishers while alarm sirens flickered in epileptic pulses. A ruptured fuel line? Or sabotage. He tasted fear in their thoughts: bilge flooding… pump offline…
Above all, a new blank mind—different vector—approaching bridge. More than one agent.
Lucas's breath steamed in cooler air; desert humidity replaced by ocean mist. Night sky bore no city sheen—open sea now, gulf or maybe already Red Sea. If the flooding intensified, the migrants' container would be tomb.
He flexed aching shoulder, stared at bracelet down to cooldown 03 min. Then he looked at emblem glowing inside pocket, warm as ember, as if promising keys beyond locks of physics.
"Alright," he whispered to nobody. "Let's see if purpose keeps me afloat."
He rose, alone amid towering iron, as the ship groaned under a weight too heavy and the world tilted another degree.
A steel bulkhead ruptured below with a thunderous crack, seawater geysering into hold three—the same hold that housed the migrant container—and Lucas had exactly three minutes before the bracelet rebooted or the Atlantic swallowed them all.
Chapter 27 – Mediterranean — Breaths Between Breakers
The Khalid Maru groaned like a wounded leviathan, deck canted hard to port as seawater geysered from a ruptured bulkhead below. Lucas Vale hurled himself down the companion-ladder, boots skating on slick steel, the echo of klaxons chasing him through orange emergency light. Each rung stabbed his blistered palms—reminders that even heroes bleed.
Hold Three lay ahead, a cavern of corrugated walls now shrieking under the sudden weight of the sea. A torrent—ink-black, loud as thunder—poured through a jagged seam near the waterline, flooding the lowest tier of containers. Somewhere inside the second stack down, thirty-odd migrants pounded metal and prayed to be heard.
Three minutes, the field-controller bracelet warned, its cooldown timer blinking amber. Pin-Flash wouldn't save anyone yet. Lucas swallowed a curse; fatigue pressed needles behind his eyes, lingering punishment for the airport freeze and the void-mind takedown. But purpose, raw and new, eclipsed pain. People were going to drown. That was reason enough.
He skidded across the slanted deck to a fire-station locker, smashed the glass, and yanked free a manual bilge pump hose. Plastic couplings rattled like dice. He wedged the nozzle into a spill grate, then sprinted to the hatch of Hold Three's service corridor. Wheel-valve jammed—rust and seawater had welded it. Lucas braced, pulled… nothing.
Fine. He pressed two trembling fingers against the valve handle and let a pulse of telekinesis surge—a shoddy, spark-throwing engine misfiring under his ribs. Metal shrieked; the wheel lurched half a turn. Agony spidered through his shoulder, but the mechanism broke free. He spun it twice, kicked the hatch inward, choking on the brine-rich air that slapped him.
Inside, water already lugged knee-deep, swirling with detached palette wrap and a child's green shoe. High above, container number C-11—the migrant hideout—teetered on a shifting foundation. If water reached its vent, the people inside would suffocate before they drowned.
Lucas waded forward, boots sucking at the deck. The structural tear gushed six thousand litres a minute; patching wasn't an option. They needed the pumps. He eyed a rusting breaker panel glowing red across an ankle-deep current. Live electricity—touching it damned him. He inhaled once, twice, bent the seconds.
Micro-pause—point-two seconds.
The world dulled, waterfall freeze-framing mid-splash. His heart hammered slow thunder. He vaulted the current, slammed the breaker lever down, and was bleeding back into real-time before his boots landed. Sparks died; bilge pumps somewhere below groaned awake, gorging on seawater.
Relief was momentary. Another boom rumbled overhead—cargo shifting. The ship listed two more degrees. Lucas's balance reeled.
Above the din, he caught the telepathic flavour of pure terror: child crying Mama… man whispering it will be okay… He climbed a ladder to the first container rail and beat on C-11's flank. "I'm here!" he shouted in Arabic. "Stay silent, keep high!"
A chorus of muffled sobs answered. He pressed his forehead to cool steel. Hold on.
The bracelet chirped—cooldown complete. Modes scrolled. Hard Lock: local field freeze, radius ten metres, duration thirty seconds. Dangerous; might stall the pumps. Null Bubble: full-sphere suppression of chrono tech. Too broad. Pin-Flash: five-second cone—his earlier gambit. Could he weld the tear shut? No, but he could buy time.
He clambered down, bracing against the hull's trembling. Water sloshed mid-thigh. He drew the gel vial from his pocket—last resort. The indigo liquid pulsed like a heartbeat. Idea sparked: use gel to immobilize water flow long enough to lower the migrants' container to safer deck. Reckless science at best.
He knelt at the gash, cold Atlantic streaming over his shins now. He uncorked the vial, flung a thin arc across the rupture. Gel met water with a crack of frost, spider-webbing into a translucent plate. Flow slowed to a trickle. Behind him the pumps gulped harder, earning precious seconds.
Lucas scaled latticework to the crane controls—a manual hoist designed for harbour duty, not open-sea chaos. Still, its hydraulic levers offered hope. He slammed the DOWN toggle; chains rattled above, slow as winter molasses. Noise drew crew voices—alarm, confusion. He slapped Influence across their minds, painting urgency: fire in engine room, abandon hold. Footsteps retreated; he hated himself for tampering, but lives over ethics tonight.
Container C-11 descended metre by metre, water licking at its base. He guided it onto a higher catwalk, locked brakes. Vent now a full metre above floodline—safe for the moment.
Then the gel plate cracked. Pressure equalized; a geyser punched through, blasting him backwards. The ship lurched—list fifteen degrees—and gravity conspired. Lucas slid on slick steel, arms pinwheeling. He slammed into railing hard enough to rattle teeth.
A klaxon shifted tone: "All hands to lifeboats! Abandon ship!" Bridge decision made.
Not yet, Lucas thought, chest heaving. Migrants couldn't exit their sealed door from inside. He sprinted back along rails, boots splashing. Manual lockpin held the container's swing-door closed. Standard bolt latch. He produced Graves's bracelet again—cooldown twenty seconds. Pin-Flash could shear latch electronics? No electronics here.
He cursed, grabbed a rusted cargo hook, and bashed. Steel bent but held. Time for brute physics.
Lucas wound a rope through the latch gap, anchored it to railing, and heaved with telekinetic push augmenting failing muscles. Metal screamed—then snapped. Door burst inward; thirty terrified faces stared at open sea rushing below.
"Follow me!" He gestured toward catwalk. "Life-rafts topside. Hurry."
A grey-bearded man stepped first, carrying a baby whose eyes ballooned in silent horror. Others followed—mothers, teens, a boy younger than Lucas had been when he first tasted drowning. He shepherded them up ladders, one deck, two, lungs searing.
Above, portside lifeboat crew panicked; seats full, davit arms cranky under tilt. Lucas counted capacities—others would be left. He intercepted the officer barking orders, slid a mental whisper: Starboard boats unjammed; move overflow. Confusion but compliance—half the migrants rerouted.
Starboard launch, however, dangled lifeless over water, winch fused. Lucas yanked manual release—nothing. Ten people waited on cramped platform, hope turning toxic. He considered freeze—body might quit. Bracelet now idle. He switched to Hard Lock, aimed at winch gearbox, and fired.
Field shimmered turquoise; gears arrested, torque overloaded, bolts sheared. Winch arm lunged, boat slapped sea like dropped china, but afloat. Cable hissed; Lucas cut it with TK flick, pain blazing. He ushered passengers down scrambling ladder.
Another tremor—engine room explosion? The ship rolled. Containers cascaded into black waves; Lucas ducked swinging hatch cover, adrenaline final reservoir.
Deck angle now thirty-five degrees; only he and a teen girl with a mangled arm remained. Lifeboat already ten metres out, tether flapping. Lucas grabbed rope, looped it around his waist, told her to hold tight, and jumped.
They swung in pendulum arc, salt spray knifing their faces. Halfway, rope snagged on railing—jerk near tore Lucas's spine. He grit teeth, summoned failing TK to lift rope over spur. It slipped free; they splashed beside raft. Hands hauled them in.
A kilometre away, the Khalid Maru listed beyond recovery, stern disappearing. Lucas collapsed against rubber gunwale, the world tipping, pulse drumming in ears. Migrants stared with gratitude and fear; none asked why an exhausted Australian had materialized to save them. Miracles rarely filled out forms.
Minutes blurred to hours. Far to north-west, a tanker's running lights answered the emergency beacon the crew must have launched. Dawn smeared indigo sky into gold. Lucas inventoried survivors—thirty-two souls plus himself. Not bad odds.
He closed eyes, but mind refused rest. Instead it unfurled Serena's face, overlaying sunrise. Where was she? His last phone ping unreachable. He felt absence like phantom limb.
A gentle tap jolted him. The grey-bearded man—Mahmoud—offered a dented water bottle. "You saved our children," he said in halting English. "Allah sent you."
Lucas swallowed gratitude and seawater both. "Allah has better taste," he muttered, but smiled. Purpose tasted sweeter than adrenaline.
Hours later, the tanker Zahra Dawn winched them aboard. Paramedics checked vitals; crew distributed blankets. Lucas declined stretcher, slid into a recess near railing, watching the ocean bury Khalid Maru in foam. In jacket pocket, the Ouroboros card vibrated: T-9 h 44 m. Impossible—time had shredded, but his mission marched.
He retrieved the emblem; at sunrise it glowed brighter, facets projecting faint compass lines across deck. They pointed north-west—toward Crete? Curator parley loomed.
A medic approached—young woman, kind eyes. "Sir, we logged passenger names for immigration. May I?"
Lucas glanced at clipboard full of Arabic and Eritrean script. Lucas Vale would beacon authorities. He flicked Influence: skip him, already recorded. She frowned, looked again, then nodded, leaving line blank.
Influence guilt spiked; old habit resumed. Yet these people deserved smooth passage, free of complicated stowaway tales that might detain them for months. Small sin for larger mercy.
He dozed, waking to gull cries. The Zahra Dawn anchored offshore near Cyprus where coast guard cutters ferried survivors. Lucas feigned crew status, lifting crates to avoid scrutiny, then slipped onto pier under blur of bureaucracy.
He bought cheap tourist clothes in Limassol market, hid soaked ones. After shawarma devoured in two bites, he found a quiet alley, dialed burner phone.
Voicemail—Serena's number. He tried again. Nothing. Anxiety drilled holes.
A notification popped: Unknown Image. He opened it: Serena holding today's newspaper, safe, albeit eyes hard. Caption: "12 h. Silica Gate east entrance. Come alone or not at all." Curator watermark in corner.
Nine hours left. Card pulse matched.
Lucas exhaled. Freighter rescue proved his heart could pump for strangers; now it must pump for Serena.
He booked a ferry to mainland Greece, then train toward Istanbul where flights less monitored. Plan half-formed, but movement meant hope.
As engine thrummed under ferry deck, Lucas stared at horizon—sun blazing path like molten gold. Wind tasted not of failure but of beginnings.
For first time since Perth rooftop, the vast ticking clock of the world didn't terrify him. It invited him.
A shadow crossed the deck canopy—void-mind silhouette watching from upper tier—and Lucas felt a syringe of chrono-gel prick his neck before darkness eclipsed the Aegean sky.
Chapter 28 – Café of Echoes
The first thing Lucas registered was the smell of diesel on salt wind, the low thrum of engines, and the too-bright Aegean sunlight pulsing through his eyelids. He tried to move, discovered his wrists cinched with cable-ties around an iron stanchion. A humming numbness sheeted his veins—chrono-gel still fizzling through him, dampening whatever scrap of power he might have summoned. His eyes cracked open.
He was on the ferry's upper maintenance deck, tucked behind lifeboat canisters. Tourists milled on the level below, oblivious. Standing guard, half in the shade, was the void-mind agent who'd jabbed him. Mirror sunglasses, collar up against spray, mind a perfect vacuum.
Cardinal rule of escape: catalogue assets. Lucas had none. Emblem, bracelet, timer card—gone, pockets empty. But the cable-ties bit only into skin, not bone. He exhaled, letting his muscles go liquid, then drew a slow breath and swelled his shoulders outward. Plastic flexed, not enough.
The agent turned, speaking into a comm unit. No audible words, yet Lucas felt the shape of intent: transfer point confirmed… Barcelona… Curator courier awaits. Barcelona. His pulse jumped. Fate still wanted him in Spain; the blueprint of his life refused edits.
He closed his eyes, feigning woozy. Minute currents of time ticked around him. The gel dampening was strong, but already thinning at nerve endings—he caught a half-second stutter in a gull's cry, felt the moment's edge. Too risky to attempt a freeze, but a micro-influence—maybe.
He brushed the agent's mind with a whisper: phone vibrating—urgent. Even voids possessed reflex pathways. The man tapped pocket, turned half-step away. Lucas twisted wrists again, scraping skin raw, felt one tie fiber snap. He drove elbow backward into stanchion, splintering plastic lock. Free.
He launched upward. Shoulder screamed. A wild swing caught sunglasses, sending them skittering overboard. Startled eyes widened—human after all. Lucas head-butted sternum, shoved. The agent stumbled, boot slipped on wet deck, and gravity handled the rest. A splash punctured engine drone.
Lucas swayed, vision strobing. Gel backlash prickled skin, but the dampener field broke with the agent's fall. His powers flickered alive, weak but reachable. He climbed rail, peered down. No surface churn—life jacket perhaps, or not. No time to check.
His belongings lay in a tool bin. He grabbed emblem first, warmth soothing. Bracelet next, timer card last—now reading T-8 h 07 m. Meeting window shrinking. A search of the agent's pack revealed a Ryanair boarding pass—Rhodes to Barcelona–El Prat, departure ninety minutes after ferry dock. Convenient.
✦ ✦ ✦
Twelve hours later Lucas stepped onto La Rambla under a sky bruised purple. Travel blur: stolen scooter across Rhodes, budget flight with seat-belt lights flickering, a midnight hop from Milan to Barcelona after customs flagged the earlier ticket. He'd nursed electrolytes, dosed aspirin, slept in ten-minute snatches. Power reserves refilled enough to manage a lazy micro-pause— useful for skipping a taxi queue—yet fatigue clung like wet wool.
He followed Serena's breadcrumb: "11 a.m., Café Mirador, Plaça del Àngel." Now, 10:51. Enough margin to look almost human. He ducked into a public restroom, rinsed dried salt from hair, traded ferry-stained tee for fresh linen shirt bought at kiosk. The mirror reflected gaunt cheeks, storm-green eyes half-sunken—but alive.
Plaça del Àngel opened like a storybook courtyard, cobblestones glinting after a dawn rinse. Café Mirador hugged the corner—arched windows, wrought-iron terrace, aroma of espresso thick in air. Lucas's chest tightened more than fatigue allowed. What if Serena had lured him for Graves? What if Curators used her phone?
He scanned thoughts inside café—buzz of baristas, tourist excitements, no voids, no mercenary focus. One mind, at corner table, pulsed with taut expectation and righteous irritation. Serena.
She sat in teal jacket over white blouse, curls pinned back. Camera bag at feet. When she saw him, her face ran relief, anger, relief again—a loop. He crossed courtyard slower than any thief ever walked to gallows.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi." She nodded to empty chair. "You look like you wrestled Poseidon."
Lucas dropped into seat, every muscle sighing. "Won two-one. Tiebreak in penalties."
Ire trembled at her lip. "Four days. I watched the Khalid Maru sink on marine tracker. Then idle news clip of migrants rescued." She placed phone on table, screen showing fuzzy still—Lucas passing a blanket to a child on tanker deck. "Want to explain?"
He traced rim of water glass. "Ship sabotage. I stayed, got them out. Couldn't contact—you were ghost."
"Graves confiscated my devices after you vanished." Her voice split—hurt and professional detachment clashing. "He honored immunity but installed escort. Curators hacked my backup line, sent that 'come alone' taunt. I stole away."
Lucas flexed wounded shoulder. "Escort following?"
"Lost them in Gràcia quarter." She studied him. "Clock still ticking?"
He placed timer card between them—T-6 h 22 m. "Gate reopens west of here, but they'll move horizon if we keep missing appointments."
She traced digits with nail. "Lucas, this ends. Either I understand everything or I walk. No more half-truths. Powers, origin, why boredom terrifies you. All of it." Her gaze blistered.
He breathed. Tourists murmured by fountain; a dog barked; balconies dripped flower petals. Normalcy girded them like fragile armor. "Okay."
He reached for time.
The world hushed—not full stop, only a breath-catch freeze across a five-meter bubble: pigeons mid-flap, steam halted above coffee cup, Serena's pupils dilating but body stilled. He counted two, three. Released.
Sound flooded. She exhaled, hand flying to heart. "I thought I was ready." Tears pricked awe into her words. "Each time I see it, reality tears and restitches."
Lucas's throat tightened. "First happened at fifteen. Surf lifesaving practice, freak riptide. I drowned. Heart stopped ninety seconds. In that margin the world paused for me. CPR dragged me back, but seconds never obeyed again. When ordinary life bored me, freeze pulled harder. Thrill became drug."
"And guilt?" She asked gently.
"Arrived later—when I realized every tilt of odds has ripples. Picking pockets, rigging roulette, bending thoughts. I justified until I saw a child die in my paused world—unreachable ghost. Heroics felt better than heists. Last night proved it."
She nodded, eyes glassy. "I catalogued your manipulations. Ledger's a tome now. But pages of rescue weigh heavier than pages of theft."
Silence, intimate. He slid sandstone emblem forward. "Curators seeded this into history. It reacts to me." The emblem glimmered sunlit threads across her palm when she lifted it. She flinched. "Warm."
"Key to next riddle," he said. "And bargaining chip. They've watched, grading me. You too."
She swallowed. "I'm not spectator anymore. Partner, or nothing."
Lucas's chest expanded with fragile hope. He covered her hand. "Partner."
Across plaza, a street violinist struck a minor chord. Time rippled—Lucas sensed a void-mind approach before eyes saw him. Tall, plain clothes, phone raised pretending to text. Another mirrored across arcade. Serena saw tension coil, followed his glance.
"How many tricks left?" she murmured.
He flexed bracelet under sleeve. "Hard Lock for crowd hazard; Pin-Flash for them; maybe half-second freeze if heart behaves."
"Ethical options?"
"Donuts and conversation?"
She rolled eyes, but humor steeled them. "I create diversion. You handle stalkers?"
He squeezed gratitude. She rose, walked to violinist, dropped coins, knelt to tie shoelace—blocking walkway. Pedestrians bottlenecked. Void-mind #1 adjusted path; Lucas stood, timed dash.
He brushed by agent, slipped emblem into man's pocket, then ten steps onward turned, bracelet at hip, fired Pin-Flash. Directed cone engulfed agent and emblem; null spike shorted hidden disruptor and froze synapses. Agent seized, keeled onto bench unconscious. Second agent closed distance; Lucas grabbed half-full water carafe from table, hurled telekinetically. Glass shattered at man's feet, startling tourist gaggle into shrieks—they swarmed, accidental shield.
Lucas and Serena merged back, ducking into side alley. Heart hammered arrhythmic but holding. "Nice," she whispered, adrenaline bright on cheeks.
"Bought us fifteen minutes before backup." He glanced timer—T-6 h 06 m. "Train to Perpignan crosses border—less surveillance, from there we ride to Narbonne, then rental to Occitanie countryside. Coordinates align with Curators' 'second gate' ping. You game?"
She smirked. "Just started page one of partnership."
✦ ✦ ✦
Southbound regional train swayed through Catalan vineyards. They commandeered a two-seat alcove, curtains drawn, emblem nested in foldout tray. Lucas rotated it; sunbeams through window refracted map lines on ceiling—ever shifting, pointing northwest then due north as train arced. Serena filmed with backup camera.
"Looks like azimuth linked to my position," Lucas said. "Gate's mobile."
"Or we're meant to chase until worthy," she offered.
Border gendarmerie patrolled aisle; Lucas nudged their perception—ticket validated, nothing odd. Influence now felt lighter, as if motive purified effect.
Phone buzzed—unknown text: "Integrity verified. Final ingress at 46°58′N, 1°25′E. Sunset. Solo entry remains prerequisite."
Serena read over his shoulder. "Solo again."
He set jaw. "They fear you'll anchor my conscience."
"Maybe they fear I'll report." She folded arms. "Either way, we go together."
He pocketed phone. "Non-negotiable."
Gendarme voices drifted away. Serena touched his cheek—the gesture startled him more than bullets ever had. "If they take you, story ends unfinished. I can't allow."
Emotion clogged throat. He kissed her palm, something fragile but fierce.
✦ ✦ ✦
Dusk bled across rural France when their leased Citroën rattled onto dirt track flanked by sunflower stubble. Coordinates led to derelict monastery—a shell of sandstone arches and ivy-swallowed cloisters. Bats wheeled overhead. The emblem pulsed amber.
Lucas killed engine. "Curator aesthetic: dramatic."
They crept beneath crumbling portico. In central courtyard a lone figure awaited—black coat, silver walking stick, no void aura. Thoughts radiated calm curiosity. Around him, four tripod emitters etched square on flagstones.
"Mr Vale. Ms Kaur." Voice cultured, ageless. "Welcome. My name is Ansel. Curators delegate."
Serena lifted camera; Ansel raised hand amicably. "Record, by all means."
Lucas felt emitters rumble—no suppression field yet. He stepped forward. "The solo clause?"
Ansel smiled. "Negotiation tactic. Observing your insistence on partnership confirms dossier assessments." He extended palm. "Artifact, please."
Lucas considered lies, saw none useful. He placed emblem in Curator's hand. Tripods flared sapphire beams into emblem, projecting lattice of rotating sigils—ancient, but algorithms flickered like machine language.
"Test complete," Ansel said. "Moral calibration achieved. You both pass."
Serena frowned. "Calibration?"
"Curators defend timestream from those who would wield it recklessly. We lacked assurance Mr Vale could transcend boredom's corruption." He inclined head. "His choice to rescue migrants, preserve partner, reject imprisonment—proof. Gate now open."
Stone floor rumbled. A circular stair descended where fountain once stood, lit by bioluminescent panels spiraling into earth.
Lucas's pulse roared. "What's below?"
"Library of skipped seconds," Ansel said. "And people like you. Some who freeze, some who restart." His eyes, pale as dawn, fixed Lucas's. "Step forward, or step away. Choice is anchor of conscience."
Lucas glanced at Serena. Her nod held no fear.
They clasped hands, descended.
Halfway down, emitters shut, stair iris closed, and world above severed like a page torn. Depth swallowed them, but for first time weight felt light—purpose gravitational.
Meters below, ethereal glow widened into vast cavern dotted with silhouettes who walked as if unbound by time. Lucas inhaled—the air tasted of possibility.
At his boot, the Ouroboros timer card pulsed once, then dissolved into motes. Deadline met.
He squeezed Serena's fingers, whispered, "Boredom doesn't stand a chance."
She smiled, raised camera, and began the chronicle.
Overhead, far above sealed stair, Mason Graves's drone hovered—transmitting coordinates to an unseen command chain. The reckoning would follow them into the depths.