At the far end of the rectangular space, black sand bags are stacked up against the wall. But aside from those—and give or take a few crates scattered along the periphery—the room is more or less empty.
But in contrast to the room itself, the walls are as burdened as can be. The rustling sheets of paper that Dylan felt earlier belong to an enormous panorama: a rich collage consisting of maps, charts, newspaper clippings, photographs, color-coded notes, and much more.
The volume of information is staggering. But even more astonishing is how with just one glance, Dylan can tell just how intricately-connected everything is.
On the wall to his right, a large map of Vancouver beckons his focus, and he turns to face it.
But it isn’t the map itself that he finds fascinating.
Splayed over it, there are three colorful networks of thread—red, black, and blue—vaguely resembling spider webs.
The red network—the largest, and by far the most elaborate of all three—is speaking to him in a way he can’t quite articulate.
So much red. Pins and thread. A beautiful web of connections so labyrinthine that it takes a moment for Dylan to realize what it actually represents:
Him.
The network is a visual representation of not only anchors like his apartment and Galen’s office, but of countless other random locations that he has visited over the years.
Someone has been watching him for a very long time. Not just watching, but tracking his every move!
His thoughts come to a screeching halt, and then all Dylan can think of are the mysterious shoeprints he discovered in his apartment.
The urge to simultaneously laugh and cry is rising up in him. He knew it. He just knew it wasn’t all in his head! Alex was convinced it was just paranoia—that Dylan’s crippling fear of his nightmares was slowly driving him mad. But after years of trying to explain to Alex the nature of his nightmares and the severity of his pain, Dylan finally stands witness to proof.
And it doesn’t even matter if anyone believes him. Because now he knows the torment he has suffered his whole life was not a sickness in him.
It was real.
He flings his focus onto the other two networks. The smallest, and by far the least sparse network, is the one in blue thread.
It takes Dylan little time—taking note of Romer’s workshop and the British Columbia Penitentiary—to realize who it belongs to.
Dylan cranes his neck back. He has barely been in touch with Romer since he returned from New York. So why on earth would the Reaper care to keep tabs on Romer’s wherebouts?
At a total loss, Dylan diverts his attention to the black network, and his gaze is immediately drawn to the pin from which nearly all the threads stem:
Neve’s apartment…
Dylan backs away from the wall and looks at all three networks in unison. Neve’s and Romer’s barely overlap. There is a spot in Gastown close to Romer’s workshop, but that’s it.
And that makes Dylan’s red network the common denominator amongst all three.
Dylan starts to feel sick to his stomach, his short-lived bout of vindication, eradicated.
He stares at the way the red network bleeds into the black and the blue. And he can’t shed the feeling that he is the one responsible for putting Neve and Romer in the Reaper’s crosshairs.
He starts to pace the perimeter, scanning the wall for more clues. It’s beginning to seem that practically everything knowable about them is somewhere on these walls—info as broad as school transcripts, and as invasive as genetic profiling.
But why such an astounding investment?
He comes to a section on the wall that’s riddled with data, charts, research summaries, and complex mathematical formulas.
He scans the sea of letters, numbers, and symbols, failing to understand any of it. And then, from within one of the summary paragraphs, the world ‘suicide’ leaps out at him.
His heart skips a beat, and then he’s just reading, his eyes darting from left to right, all the way down the paragraph at hand.
The rage swelling up inside is making him shake.
His focus wanes, and then he is staring at nothing, wondering how Alex could betray him like this.
Because how else could—whoever the FUCK has put this room together—know about all the things Dylan told Alex when he confided in him in therapy?
How could anyone know about the degrading details of Dylan’s disturbing nightmares unless Alex hadn’t divulged them!? Or know about Dylan’s guilt over his mother’s death, the shame of feeling like a burden on everyone around him, and even about the numerous times he begged Alex to put him out of his misery..?
Alex betrayed him. Day after day, as Dylan poured out his heart and soul, Alex kept on insisting that his nightmares are just fabrications of his own troubled mind. That his premonitions are nothing more than coincidences.
And not once did he mention the Fray Theory.
Why would he do this? Why would he spend years soaking up Dylan’s words like a sponge, but offer no insight in return? Why withhold the theories from his own godson, but readily hand them over in a neat little package to a girl he’s just met!?
His face goes slack, realizing he has no idea what happened to Neve after his arrest. For all he knows, they could’ve taken her as well.
With a pang of anxiety wringing his core, he looks to the network in black.
He skims over Neve’s anchors, most of which are within walking distance of her studio apartment. But further south—next to Mountain View Cemetery, a hand-written note is pinned onto the map.
Dylan leans in and reads:
The Anvil’s frightened reaction to sinking into the mound shows a lack of understanding of her condition.
Her Merging appears to be triggered and propagated by extreme duress, which as of yet she is incapable of consciously controlling.
The Kinetic’s poorly-executed influence on the tombstones is indicative of the same. If not for his determination, he would’ve likely failed at uprooting the Anvil.
Anvil. Kinetic.
Good, Dylan nods to himself. We’re finally getting somewhere.
His gaze lands on the report pinned directly next to the note he just read.
He flips up the pages one by one, skimming over the unimaginably complex mathematical calculations he’d never be able to understand in a million years. Over formulas not only packed with highly advanced symbols, but some that are over a page long!
Formulas which seem to account for—
Teleportation!?
And just like that, the broken links between his fragmented thoughts are mended, and for what feels like the first time in his life, he can see clearly.
It’s all beginning to make sense: Dylan’s relentless feeling of being shadowed. The mysterious prints he found in his apartment. Even the means by which he was brought here—to a room with every inch of its walls covered.
A room with no apparent doors or windows.
But it can’t be possible, can it? Teleportation is far too big a leap for mankind to even come close to, no matter how elaborate these formulas may seem. But at the same time, dismissing what’s right before him would mean denying what he’s felt deep in his bones practically his entire life.
He reads on:
Teleportation (also known as Glitching), is conceptually simple. Instead of walking from A to B, a Glitch takes a shortcut.
He Syncs with a Proxy in another dimension who’s already at point B.
This temporary fusion makes him vanish, but once the bond is broken, he reappears in his own dimension at point B, thus completing the jump.
Jesus… Dylan skims over the remainder of the text until he arrives at a section titled: ANVIL.
Material Syncing (also known as Merging), is the rarest form of Syncing known to man.
It is a temporary fusion with one’s Proxies, resulting in an immediate increase in body density.
But this overlap can only occur with Proxies who are at the
exact same spatial coordinates as the Primary who initiated the connection.
Since Merging occurs at a molecular level, it initially confuses the electrical flow of the nervous system, causing numbness. As things progress, the buildup of electricity leads to rapid firing of nerve endings, causing the same prickly sensation as a limb falling asleep.
Once the Merge is complete, the rapid firing ceases, and the temporary morph (a.k.a. Anvil) is linked—physically and psychologically—to all dimensions in question.
Dylan exhales a trembling breath and looks to the hand-written note about Neve and Romer.
The cemetery. The mound would’ve been freshly-poured and soft. If Neve is an Anvil, and if she was in Sync with enough of her Proxies, she would’ve been dense enough—heavy enough—Jesus Christ.
He backs away from the wall, fingers raking into his thick hair. Through cross-dimensional Syncing, the laws of physics can be bent.
Even broken.
Bewildered, he makes his way around the room. And he sees and reads and marvels at what feels like decades’ worth of research on the science of Syncing. Science that is further reinforced with Neve, Romer, and himself acting as prime examples.
But why them? Why only them? They can’t be the only people in the world who are capable of Syncing.
What’s more, if Neve’s ability is the rarest of them all, then how come most of the research in this room is concerned with him? And if they’ve all been under surveillance for this long, how come they are being apprehended now?
Dylan huffs a sharp, exasperated sigh. And then another, releasing the tension he’s been bottling up.
It’s too much. All of this is too much.
How is he supposed to deal with facts that have completely massacred his understanding of reality? With answers that have raised even more questions?
And how does Alex play into all of this?
Dylan takes another scan of the space, but not at the collage of intel.
He’s looking for an escape.
Because even if he was brought here by a Glitch who has little use for a door, that doesn’t mean this place doesn’t have one.
He starts to feel around for indents or protrusions in the walls, working his way around the room. Upon arriving at the fourth wall, he leans forward onto the sand bags to check behind them.
Except, they aren’t sand bags.
At the touch of rigor-mortised flesh, Dylan cringes and rips himself away, his mind racing back to the gunshots he heard when he was trapped inside that dark trunk.
Do these bodies belong to the cops who arrested him? Is this the work of the masked man who stuck him with a needle?
If so, then he couldn’t possibly be the Reaper from his nightmares, can he?
Backing away from the bodies, Dylan brushes his hands over the rough texture of his jeans, desperate to wipe away the sense-memory of cold, dead flesh.
He looks around again, this time taking notice of the small crates scattered about.
He walks over and starts to dig into them, hoping to find something that can aid in his escape—keys, a weapon, a miracle?
Instead, he discovers a rather thin pillow, a worn blanket, a lamp, and several other personal items—basically little else besides the bare necessities one would require to sustain himself for a few days.
And then, beneath a collection of files and folders, Dylan catches a glimpse of something familiar.
His heart sinks.
No. He reaches in and pulls out Neve’s sketchbook from under everything else, his pale face a portrait of terror.
This isn’t an old keepsake. It’s Neve’s most recent sketchbook. He was flipping through it while she was in the shower just… yesterday..?
Feels like ages ago.
But how the hell did it wind up here? And why?
He flips through it at the speed of shuffling cards, the black and white sketches blurring into abstract shades of gray. And right before the blank pages take over, a familiar face jumps out at Dylan and he slams the sketchbook shut.
It was an illusion, he tells himself. Just an illusion, no doubt caused by the drug that’s still lingering in his system. That must have been it. An illusion, he keeps on insisting until his mind starts to believe it.
But his trembling hands speak another truth.
He swallows and starts to flip backwards from the end cover, one page at a time, until he is faced with a frightfully realistic rendition of his worst nightmare.
He stares at the Reaper’s feral eyes. At his sharp, sunken brows. At his squared hairline, and his dark hair flowing down past his shoulders.
He stares at the face of the man who has haunted him, hunted him, and hurt him for as long as he can remember. The man Dylan always knew exists, while desperately hoping that he doesn’t.
A killer whose existence has now been validated by someone other than Dylan. And regardless of how Neve came to know the Reaper’s face, and regardless of why she chose to draw him, Dylan is now certain of one thing:
He is going to die.
Chapter 28
Rendezvous
Midnight was the plan. The old plan. In truth, Neve was not expecting Romer to actually show up. She had prepared herself for a long and lonesome wait, followed by inevitable disappointment.
Instead, barely an hour since she and Romer were split up at Galen’s, his arrival at the gallery put all of Neve’s doubts to rest.
Too bad their rendezvous was as brief as a blink.
Fully conscious of her surroundings, and skeptical of practically everyone, Neve follows Romer with a twenty-foot gap.
‘Keep your distance, but make sure we’re always on the same block,’ was the last thing he instructed; far enough to avoid falling into the same trap, but close enough to run to each other’s aid should something arise. So with half her focus on Romer, Neve zigzags through the congestion.
With twilight on the horizon, Gastown is as lively as ever. And Neve finds it ironic how the very thing she has always cherished about this neighborhood is precisely what’s grating on her every nerve. The only thing keeping her from snapping at all the dawdlers blocking her way is not wanting to draw attention to herself.
Romer is now idling at the intersection up ahead, waiting for the pedestrian light. So Neve lingers by a small gift-shop, occupying herself with the colorful postcards on the rotating racks.
Every single one of her actions feels artificial. Can people tell? It doesn’t matter. It’s not the crowd she’s putting on an act for, anyway.
She looks up just in time to meet Romer’s gaze.
What is it? Danger? What are you trying to say?
Her flustered thoughts are immediately silenced when Romer winks at her over his shoulder, then resumes his walk across the street. And it isn’t until the pedestrian light’s countdown begins that Neve realizes she’s falling behind.
σ
Neve follows Romer into the underground parking of the Vancouver Convention Center.
“Are you sure about this?” she whispers, trying to keep up with him. “I think we’re still way too close to your workshop.”
“Mmm hmm,” Romer responds absentmindedly as they come to a stop next to a side-exit.
The door itself has no handle, but there is a digital lock on the wall right next to it.
Romer pulls a keycard from his wallet, and holds it above the lock. He closes his eyes as though saying a prayer, then slides his card down through the slit.
The little beady light on the system goes from red to green, at the sight of which Romer’s fists spring up in the air triumphantly.
With a satisfied grin, he swings the door open and holds it. “After you.”
“Should I even ask?” Neve flashes him a skeptical smile and enters a sterile, white stairwell.
Snickering, “I can’t believe it worked,” he walks in after Neve and leads the way up the stairs.
“I’m guessing you used to work here?”
“Part-time securit
y. Good money.”
“When was this?” she asks.
“A while ago.”
“They didn’t ask for it back after you quit?” Neve indicates the keycard as Romer tucks it back into his wallet.
“I—” he clears his throat, “I didn’t exactly quit.”
Fired, Neve wonders? That sure would explain the shame registered on his face.
Romer starts to double his steps.
Did she press a button?
“Does it work on all the doors in this place?” Neve quickly asks with hopes of slowing him down.
“Only the building’s circulation.”
“Well then—where exactly are we going to hide?”
“The roof,” Romer says rather proudly.
“Uh… Shouldn’t we be looking for a dark hole to crawl into?”
“Oh, trust me, this is perfect,” Romer stalls at the next landing and faces her. “We’re literally right next to the seaplane terminal.”
Neve stops halfway up the flight. Why would that matter?
“Vancouver Island is probably our best bet. We’d be separated by a big body of water,” he resumes his climb up the next flight, “but we would still be close enough that—”
“What about Dylan?”
Romer’s head peeks from behind the wall. “What about him?”
Neve’s expression darkens. “You’re joking, right?”
Squinting, Romer steps back down on the landing. “What did you think we were going to do?” he says as he leans against the wall and crosses his arms. “We have no idea where he is.”
“Well—what happened to calling his dad?”
“We can call him from Vancouver Island.”
With that remark, she finds herself at a complete loss for words. So she just stares, waiting for Romer to come to his senses. Or to burst into laughter over his tasteless joke.
Arms still crossed, Romer squares his shoulders.
“They were trying to kill us, Romer.”
“I know. I was there.”
Without uttering a sound, Neve starts to make her way back down the stairs.