The Grand Attraction

by Enoch Enns

  He took the vial from the empty slot on-side of the device. The illusionate had shown so much interest in such a simplistic object as the e-Link he now held, hands of his own shaking to it. Is this some kind of addiction? Am I to become the same as well? he asked himself, recalling his first experience with e-Links. But why had the illusionate fled? He'd seen its face, his face. So eager. So driven.

  The company title stretched across the length of the glass. Beneath it were faded words obviously smudged from the damage dealt to the machine. He held it in his hands, sweating and in pain. A stimulation, he reminded himself. Nothing permanent, but something out-of-the-ordinary.

  An addictive substance. That would explain the expression of desperatecy. But why then had it fled? Whatever it was, he could feel his body trembling from all the trauma. He'd never been put through so much before. Never forced to function whilst everything else cried otherwise.

  He injected the serum.

  The initial sting was nothing in comparison to the nausea that infiltrated his veins thereafter. He stumbled backwards, head throbbing. What's... happening?

  Then it began to clear in a queer manor. He felt a subtle flow of energy through his bones and flesh. His eyes widened despite being burdened for rest; he saw more clearly but lost peripheral. He now faced the adjacent wall, heart adjusting to the sudden influx—the vial clinging to the floor.

  In silence the illusionate stood. The same that had attempted retrieving the vial earlier. It looked depleted as though its entire life had now been emptied with the substance that now resided within Carls. He looked up at the figure, palms low so as to not startle the illusioned man.

  The figure but stared.

  Locke eased a foot forward the best he could to adapt to the adrenaline rush. Now what? he asked himself.

  All it took was the distance of two heartbeats and the figure was gone—a shade of black rushing toward him in its place. The cold substance clashed against his lower abdomen. It was fortune he had missed the support beam and instead skid across the hard tiles. His mind was still trying to convince himself of what was attacking him when he took the second hit. Only adrenaline kept him conscious as he collided to the concrete block. It definitely was not what he had faced in the gardens. Nor was it a Fallen One. Its breathing was harsh, skin black as ebony, face void of identity. That, and the form itself seemed to be constantly shifting according to its momentum. The basic figure of a man, but it was not defined by such. Its head seemed to lash out at him from the distant stance. Carls thrust his body to the left feeling the impact to his side-- cold, sharp, and crushing. No bone, all muscle (or whatever the substance was).

  He found himself breaking for cover behind the pillar he had at first missed. The gun was useless. He could only evade this desperate creature as it ravaged against him. Xavier's words were of no comfort to him either and they echoed deeply. Once again had he fallen to a tripper—a holographic trap. But this was no previously faced foe. Indeed, the head of the creature cleared the curve of his cover screaming at him in war. The thud hit directly above him-- black dripping everywhere. Carls looked up to see an arrow pin the form to the pillar but only for moments as it rearranged itself and peeled away, form now resembling a four-legged hunter.

  To Carls' left stood another figure, this one sane. The man held a crossbow in his arms and a smile across his face. “I said scat!” he yelled, tossing a canister at the foe which resonated as lightning through the open halls. A shrill and the form dissipated from sight. The man but smiled, his eyes tight but somehow aware. “Stealing from my machines, are ya?”

  Carls looked to the puddle a black where the shade had once stood.

  “Don't do it again,” the mystery man said.

  “Wait,” Carls pleaded, still struggling with controlling his attention. The drug, the tripper, the demon-- what was he thinking? “I need to find someone. Norwick, do you know of him?”

  “That, my friend, is no friend of man nor beast,” he said, pointing to where the hunter had last been. “A Shem is what they are, and you do best to not play chicken with 'em next time, ya hear? As for the man of whom you speak, I know not his whereabouts.”

  “Wait, please!” Carls said again. “I can pay if you want. I didn't mean to steal it, it simply dropped into my hands and I was desperate--”

  “They too are desperate. There is no cost to you, just don't do it again. You'll just be look'n for trouble. Later.”

  “Sherlin,” Carls cut in, “You wouldn't happen to know him either?”

  The man looked over his shoulder. “Like I said, you're just look'n for trouble.” And he left.

  Carls Locke had thought it best to avoid another confrontation in the Hanging Gardens; thus, he had taken to the second floor. For the most, it was silent. He tried focusing on the way things had been-- seeing a faint illusion of his wife still wandering from store to store. He wondered if she had noticed it at all or just as blind as he was before the illusionate had struck him. Perhaps, in another's eyes, it looked all the same. Had he but crossed into a nightmare? If so, was his reality even real?

  He stopped before a shattered display. The mannequins still bore a smile in their eloquent pose. Their clothes seemed stripped of the vibrant life they once held. Was he but seeing an illusion of what was? Was his reality still in beat with the one he had thought to be real? Was he a ghost?

  Looking down at his hands it was hard to doubt their substance. They felt dry and worn and even a little stained with the blood of his confrontations. His clothes suffered the wear and tear of countless poundings. The buttons of his shirt had ripped from their holdings-- having once bound his movements. It was no longer white as he had once recalled. The jacket that he had showed with pride no longer on him. He missed the warmth of it already and that of his wife's embrace. So smoothly had she brushed his face with her palms. So tender her voice even amidst his trembling. So innocent her eyes to his battered form.

  No, she had not seemed to recognize him as for the state he was in. She had not seen the nightmare he had been awakened to, and for that, he was grateful. Her last memory was not tainted by fear or illusion. And nor shall mine.

  A faint tone emanated from his Hand-Pal. He adjusted its volume and signal (as it seemed to operate much like a radio, only one-way).

  “I hear you are quite the venturous fellow,” came the voice of an old man. “And that you seek a man by the name Shaw M. E. Norwick. I am Philis Antoinette. It seems you seek something the Big Man himself has desired for quite some time now. I may be able to help you there, but only for something in exchange. What knowledge I have gained was nothing easy to come across. I only hope you have what it takes to succeed where I did not.

  “As for Friedelock and I, we use to share many ideas-- though I doubt you truly know anything about the man you are entwined with. He is more than Friedelock Industries and Friedelock Industries is a whole lot bigger than you think. Regardless, I care not to reminisce over such pointless recollections. If you desire my help, there must be something in return. Do me a favor and swing through the Euphora Gateway and pick up some tarsh lilies before you come to me. Then we shall talk more face to face, man to man, eye to eye.”

  Something In Exchange (A Mystery)

  Carls Locke had yet to convince himself he was capable. His feet barely managed to clear each step as they pattered across the stone tiles. He was being chased, and had been since he turned off the last hall. The Euphora Gateway wasn't too far off now, but he doubted being able to reach in time. He couldn't run forever and he certainly was no coward when presented ordinary situations. This, however, was different. What part of ordinary was a rampaging man withered and beaten, already having a chair to the back of his head, chasing after another human as for food. A mutant, one could say. Or simply a bold-tempered illusionate.

  As bold as those he had encountered at Paradise Suits.

  Carls felt the hands reach at his feet as the figure dove, yet again, at him. His face hit the floor
, waist twisting so as to confront the pursuer. He freed a leg and sent a heel digging into the illusionate's face. For the third time, he broke its hold; for the third time, he escaped its rage just barely, and for the third time, he scrambled to his feet and ran.

  The illusionate seemed four times stronger than he, but it made it up in a loss of communication and understanding. Carls found his way through some shattered glass and into a woodwork store-- the illusionate closing behind.

  His hands grabbed hold of one of the displays, flinging it at the man. Simply enough, it was taken to the head and the figure momentarily stumbled. This time, however, Locke decided not to run. He grabbed hold of another display and lunged it at his oppressor. It hit hard and the figure dropped to knee. But that didn't immobilize it.

  For carelessness, Carls took a fist to his knee and before regaining balance he found another palm digging into his falling chest. He bore the impact as he hit nearside the wounded illusionate. Wounded? He'd already taken a chair to the back of the neck! Nothing seemed to be slowing it!

  Carls reached for a near night stand and flung it at his opponent’s exposed abdomen. The illusionate guttered in pain, seizing the object and throwing it back. But Carls had already made it to his feet and leaped to the side, barely dodging the projectile as it crashed through yet another display rack. The figure neither wasted time in recovering itself nor standing, it simply propelled its body as though a lion lurking for prey.

  Carls Locke had found hold of a stool and also charged, pounding his every intent into the illusionate.

  Glass shattered as the illusionate tumbled backwards. Carls had met with more than enough force (having not only met, but overpowered his foe, stool locking its shoulders and now holding it against the broken display). Still conscience, the illusionate struggled to break free but Carls held it there trapped beneath the weight of his stool. Its hands could not reach him and body could not twist from the wreckage.

  It was helplessly pinned down.

  He didn't have the luxury of taking an extra breath. He did notice, however, that this illusionate was different. The eyes were not blood shot, skin not as frail. It did not bear the irregular heartbeats. Instead, its chest pounded with a sense of rage. External rage. The source of everything he saw seemed in anger, hate-- much more so than the confusion and madness of the illusionate. Was it another stage? Were they all stages?

  His eyes penetrated into those of the ones before him. They were dark and cold, no longer wavering in doubt. It seemed forced to act. And though its actions could not be disregarded nor justified, Carls felt pity for it. His fight had not been with a man, but the demon that possessed him (or whatever it was he had yet to find out).

  “You are no illusionate, are you?” Carls asked the still raging figure which bellowed back at him. “No, you are not. You are something else. But what? What are you? Why are you like this?”

  The sudden jolt in force had been overly unexpected. Carls' body was flung into the air as the beast roared below him, palms outstretched as though its inside were boiling and body manipulating. And it was. A dark substance torn through the man's shirt as he gained another twenty pounds in muscle. Carls hit the floor still amazed at the transforming.

  Of the soon-to-be Fallen One.

  “You don't have to be this!” he yelled, hands sprawling to keep distance. The beast ravaged everything around it, its body untainted by the force that steadily overtook it. Its chest grew to three times what it had been (a miniature of a hulk).

  Carls could not reach it, and so he fled, feet once again skidding across glass and into the open hall. In only a matter of seconds, the Fallen One had emerged and regained pursuit.

  God, I don't know what these things are, but please save them.

  He was relieved to see before him unfold the Euphora Gateway. He now had but to cross the vast open space in order to reach the only hope of escape he had. As if the mall weren't already big enough, the entrance to Euphora Gateway was massive. It held the entire opposing wall in hard plaster. The letters were enormously lit and lampposts lined in front of it. What was this place?

  He'd only the time to clear the winding doors as he found himself free-falling-- the Fallen One but a few steps behind, pulverizing its way through as though the doors had not existed.

  What Are Tarsh Lilies?

  His palms bled into the dirt in attempt to raise his chest. Oxygen was dire; he could not feel his feet. Something about the air was burdening him-- weakening his mind. Maybe it was to the sorrow he felt for coming short of expectation. He had let her down... again. Only this time it was on the last thread of her life. He had to find the samples. He had to finish Antoinette's work.

  Carls Locke inhaled yet again as he thrust an elbow beneath himself for support. He would have to watch his step next time. To shake hands with a rival of his enemy secured no position as a friend-- an acquaintance has no loyalty beyond the appointed task. It just so happened that Philis Antoinette was as twisted as Friedelock. They balanced each other out yet were never even.

  One thing was sure, he was not in the least bit prepared for what his eyes were to behold. There is no way this is real, he told himself, gazing endlessly at the vast expanse of foreign land and mountains and waterfalls (even more astounding as they flowed upward). Was this some kind of illusion or trick? He didn't know what to think, only that the Fallen One had taken a fall to the bottom-- a landing he was grateful to have not undertaken. Only a small ledge held him from certain death. But how had he fallen there?

  He looked to his left and saw a massive plant scaling the cliff seemingly to its top. However, at the last minute it branched above and away (as though a bridge once led to it). What sort of plant grows to such height?

  “Hi there,” a voice came from behind nearly jumping him off the ledge. He turned to see a girl in blue robes bearing extravagant yellow designs across her coat and blue markings to her bright face. Long, fine-lined hair hang across her back and she folded her hands before her. “I should welcome you to this place and apologize for such a forceful entry. So many things have been changing that not even I have had time to repair the bridge-once-golden.”

  “Who… are you?” Carls asked, quick to grip his side in agonizing pain. Nausea also had infiltrated him.

  “Oh, pardon me for my rudeness! You're badly hurt—I can help.” She smiled at him, kneeling to his level and touching his forehead with her palms.

  For the strangest reason, he felt a wave of relief swell over him. Petals as bright as her eyes flew everywhere but he took no notice. He but inhaled the air that was oh so sweet to him.

  “Do you feel better?” she asked.

  He looked at her, scarred and clothes dirty but body healed. Had magic taken place? “Who are you?” he asked in return.

  “I am Pamela,” she answered with a smile and outstretched hand. “Come, let us get you off this cliff. The view is much more enjoyed when experienced.”

  “Wait, how-- who-- where... tarsh lilies.”

  “Ha ha, you must have so many questions! You look perplexed!”

  “I happen to be. Nothing, and I mean nothing, has made any sense since... I can't even recall.”

  “Why are you here, Carls?” she asked.

  Carls? “How do you know my name?”

  She seemed to laugh. “Because there are only two of you who have entered as thus before.”

  “What do you mean? You look human to me and just as bizarre as everything else I've been encountering lately.”

  “Well, here I am known differently, and you are easily recognized as different yourself.”

  “Then what are you? A fairy? A witch?”

  “Ha ha, quite the jump there! I am neither. My people are known proudly as Calnor.”

  “Well, you are the first the heal and not wound, and I thank you for that, uh--”

  “Pamela. Now, shall we?” She held out her hand yet again, eyes focused deep into the valley below.

  He stood, for the
moment without burden, and hesitated. “For my wife's sake, I shall not,” he said, mind still at peace to the thoughts.

  “Oh, by all means, I respect you.” And they were off (strangely enough). It felt nothing as flying nor falling. Blue rings lit about them as they passed through some vortex of... something. Before he knew it, he was on two feet again, her before him looking down upon a small town.

  The structures themselves were simplistic and resembled extravagant huts united by pathways and wood fencing.

  “What is this place?”

  “This, Carls Locke, is Littlerut-- the town below Waterrise.”

  “Waterrise? I take it that is where the waterfalls fell upward?”

  “Yes,” she smiled, “that is where. All our fields are blanketed by its clouds, and we are grateful.”

  Half of it hadn't even registered-- the skies were filled with colors and streaks of vivid hues and streams of silky waterness flowed freely and independently high above him. Plants and shrubs and trees alike were of quite overly-peculiar shapes and disproportional sizes. A fairyland never before imaginable.

  “You said tarsh lilies when we first met. Indeed, they are beautiful remedies but hard to come across. If you wish to find some, the people here will be of help. But there is one you must first meet if you are to be welcomed here. Shall we go?”

  “Go where?”

  “To the Hall, where you shall be welcomed.”

  Even amidst his confusion they were off yet again-- the world around him passing in wonder and attraction. What is this place that everything be so unexpected?