by Ross Buzzell
It only takes her a few seconds to do the math in her head, she has always been good with numbers, never really knew why no one in her family was. Before she flies three hundred meters, she laughs and shakes her head as she comes up with her answer. “760 Gs and I hardly felt a thing... what the hell happened to me?” Emma skims the water a little bit lower. Putting her hand down, she allows her fingertips to slice through the cold lake as she weaves back and forth in a lazy arch. In the distance, she notices something move in the distance; the forest and part of a distant beach seems to warp and fold in on itself. Never having seen anything like this, Emma begins to fly towards it, weaving behind another island.
As she circles around, she notices the edges of the distortion begin to crackle with electricity, which crawls at a snail’s pace in a circle. Gradually, the distortion folds back, revealing darkness and what appears to be a demolished building inside the ring of familiar blue light. On the far side she sees a woman with red hair sitting on the ground looking terrified. As if in slow motion, a man falls through the portal and into the water. His armor is tattered, clearly having seen some sort of fight, and he is both caked in blood and bleeding fairly severely. Emma circles far behind the man, her eyes not leaving him for a second as everything appears to move at a near stopped speed. She flies into the woods and comes to a hover. The moment she slows down, the man begins to speed up; the entire scene before her begins to speed up. He falls into the water. Watching him struggle against an injury that so rapidly changes the color of the water around him causes her heart to break for him. A well of sorrow for the man fills her chest, and she tries to put her feet on the ground, but her body will not let her get any lower than just a few inches from the Earth. This concerns her slightly, but her eyes are locked on this stranger. Clearly, he is in need of assistance, but what if he is not friendly? He could hurt her or potentially exploit whatever this new power was.
A bright flash of light causes Emma to float back a little bit; she throws up a hand to protect her eyes and she squints as it seems to come from the man. As the light fades, she lowers her hand once again and notices that he is no longer bleeding. The stranger washes himself just a little bit and starts to leave the water. Emma silently floats through the trees to keep an eye on him. He bends down and picks something up. A blue oval of light crackles into existence around his left forearm as he moves so swiftly that he appears to be a blur, and before she knows what is happening, the tree next to her explodes into splinters as she hears his voice roar loud enough and ferociously enough to cause chills to run down her spine.
“WHO IS THERE!”
Chapter 4:
Danielle’s Emissary
5:59AM. The apartment is dark, the blackout blinds are drawn and doing their job as the sun has been up for nearly an hour at this point; at the very edge of the blinds, a single beam of sunlight manages to break through and gradually scan across the floor as the sun moves in the sky. It passes over an Ikea rocking chair with white leather before making its way to the nightstand, which is home to a simple lamp with a silver stand and a frosted orb around the bulb to diffuse the light. A small black cube with the time sits next to it. The sun’s light bears down on the bed like a snail in a garden; slow yet inevitable. 6:00AM. The clock flips one minute. In the kitchen, a white coffeepot flickers to life and begins to pour coffee from the filter to the pot below. The black cube comes to life with the soft chirping of birds and babbling of brooks filling the room with calming nature noises.
The first thing she smells is the coffee. Even in her sleep, Danielle recognizes the heavenly scent of what she considers a holy beverage. The soft chirping of birds causes her to twist and turn slightly in her bed, the soft duvet giving way to her tall form as she rotates. She feels herself coming out of a deep and restful sleep and then it happens. That sloth-like beam of light finds its mark right on her eyes. The sharp pain of opening her eyes to the sunlight causes Danielle’s slow and serene wake-up routine to be disturbed as the surprise causes her body to jerk upwards, sitting up in the bed, causing her sights to fall on her closet door, which doubles as a mirror. She sighs as she rubs her groggy eyes; her hair is a tangled mess from the night before. Her white sleeping tank top drapes off of one shoulder. She fumbles with the strap as she pulls it back to its rightful place on her shoulder.
She throws the duvet off of her and climbs out of bed, hitting the “off” button on her alarm. Her loose white pajama pants match everything else in the apartment. She walks over the cold hardwood floors of her bedroom and into the attached kitchen. Opening a cupboard, she grabs a blue mug with a yellow cross that wraps around the mug with the word “Sverige” printed in the same yellow along the top of the horizontal laying cross. The coffee pot beeps as the last droplets of the steaming chestnut-colored liquid fall into the pot below. Danielle yawns a little bit as she pours the coffee into her mug, the scent of burning leaves filling her nostrils. It brings a smile to her face. Taking a sip of the smooth coffee, its smoky texture dances over her tongue as she savors the first sip. Turning to her refrigerator, she pulls out a small plate with slices of cucumber spread over it and covered in plastic wrap followed by a small tub of butter. She delves back into the cupboard and pulls out a paper rectangle with a yellow tag that reads “knäckebröd” on the side. She sets the container down and fishes in for a piece of the thin, crispy, and somewhat dusty bread inside. She pulls out two pieces and smears butter across their devoted surfaces before placing the cucumber slices on top.
The Swede with the build of an Amazon puts the breakfast away, taking another sip of her coffee before biting a piece out of the crispy bread. She looks at the clock: 6:15; the train will be at the station soon. She sets down her coffee mug, takes a few more bites of the bread, and then moves around the dividing wall into her bedroom before sliding her closet door open. Inside hangs a number of pantsuits that vary from light grey to black. She grabs one of the dark grey suits and quickly throws it on. She kicks her pajamas into the corner of her room, which holds a laundry basket, and both pieces of clothing fall in.
“Score!”
She quietly calls out to herself as she grabs a brush and quickly brushes out the bedhead that crept up on her over the night. Her long blond hair, now smooth, falls halfway down her back. She pins the sides back and grabs a briefcase from beside her bed. 6:35. The train will be here in less than ten minutes. She quickly gobbles up the last bit of her breakfast bread. Grabbing her coffee mug, she chugs the still rather hot coffee and places the mug in her sink before tearing out the front door and locking it behind her. As she exits her apartment, the cool Stockholm air fills her lungs. It brings a smile to her face as the sun gently kisses her skin, warming it despite the chill in the air.
She runs down the cobblestone street, her heels clicking with each step she takes. Just ahead is a tunnel that leads underground, and within moments, she is back out of the sunlight and into a halogen-lit corridor with advertisements pasted to the walls for plays, movies, and medicines. There is a rush of air that blows past her as she delves deeper into the bowels of the train station, the sure sign that a train has arrived. Danielle fumbles in her pocket for a pass. She pulls out a flimsy card with a magnetic strip on the back and she swipes it against the cold metal of the turnstile. With a “click,” she is able to pass, two small glass doors that stand as tall as she does slide open as well letting her pass before clamping shut on the back of her blazer. She is jerked back and catches herself against the doors.
“Are you kidding me?”
She mutters. Sliding the jacket off, she turns and faces the barrier. At least this time, the doors didn’t close on her as they so often liked to do. She grabs each of the glass doors; in the distance, she can hear the screeching of her train beginning to apply its brakes. She leans into the doors and exerts all her strength into them. They eventually give way enough for her to snatch her jacket from their grasp before turning and sprinting down the long escalators. She sees the train
come to a stop and the conductor’s inaudible voice echoes through the underground station. The doors open as she approaches the bottom of the moving staircase. People unload from the train and a buzzing sound rings throughout the terminal. Danielle picks up the pace and goes into a light jog as the doors begin to close. Leaping at the last second, she squeezes between the doors and into the car just as the doors shut behind her.
She glances around briefly; no one seemed to care. It happens to everyone almost on a daily basis. She lets her fingers coil around a cold silver pole and leans into it as the train begins to move down the tracks, causing her to sway ever so slightly with the rocking movement of the train. The train comes to a stop at the first station after hers. The same thing happens: the doors open, people exit, and some come on. One even gets caught in the doors and his friends have to pull the doors open enough for him to get through. The train starts up again, and again it stops with the same routine that it does all day, every day. As the third stop begins to approach, Danielle moves from the pole in the middle of the car to the door. She grasps on to one of the handles to steady herself as the train comes to a stop and the doors slide open.
Stepping from the train, her shoes click with each step on the tile surface as she makes her way up the escalators and through the small labyrinth that is the underground train station, only to surface in a circular “pit” with buildings rising up on either side of her. She passes a sign that reads “Sergels Torg” before climbing the steps to street level, coming up behind a glass elevator. The main street to her right is strangely quiet with only a few cars, bikes, and busses traversing the city streets. The buildings around her are a mix of 18th century with modern-day structures built up around them. Coffee shops litter the street level of the surrounding buildings; most of them are just opening up for the day. Danielle pulls a 180 and looks down into the sunken pedestrian plaza that is furnished with triangular patterned flooring in black and white. Her mind drifts back to the day when she took part in a commemorative dance for Michael Jackson in this square with a large flash-mob; she was just a kid then. The fond memory brings a smile to her face. She raises her head to see a large glass obelisk standing erect in the center of a massive roundabout.
After a moment reminiscing, she faces south and begins to walk towards the cultural center with large print plastered on the glass that reads “Kulturhuset.” Approaching the building, each exhale of breath produces a cloud of condensation that brushes past her golden hair. The front doors slide open as she approaches and enters the building. It is warmer inside but not by much; the chilled air does not bother her in the slightest. The interior of the building has a modern twist to it with the steel “I” beams visible and cold concrete walls that are decorated with paintings of a beloved children’s book character. Danielle walks across the acrylic covered concrete floor to the escalators to her left. Taking them up a floor, she continues until she is on the fourth floor. The ground is covered in light-colored hardwood with minimalistic offices that have a desk, a plant, and little else within their glass walls.
Danielle enters her office overlooking Sergels Torg, which has begun to grow busier with foot traffic and vehicular traffic. She takes a seat at her desk, opening her briefcase and pulling out paperwork for an annual culture festival that she was asked to consult on. She begins to research performers, vendors, and artists that would be present, and after about two hours, her co-workers show up to begin their day of work. Printing off papers and sending emails, she attempts to get everything in order for a big meeting that is taking place this afternoon. She works through her morning; she does not take a break even when her friends break for “fika.” She continues to work, stopping only to get herself a cup of coffee every so often.
As the deadline for the meeting closes in, she begins to staple stacks of paper together; they are all the same pages, just multiple copies. Her boss, a tall blond man in a light grey suit that is unbuttoned, leans into her office. He flashes her a bright smile before glancing around for a second.
“Du bra?”
Danielle nods as she grabs the stacks of paper.
“Ja jag kommer.”
With a nod, he pushes off of the doorjamb and heads into a conference room with three walls made of glass and the fourth, adorned with a large plasma TV, is exposed brick. Scooping up her papers, she enters the room, where there are two of her co-workers, including her recent visitor and three men in suits, and unlike her co-workers, they have ties as well. All three have dark hair and are a few inches shorter than the others in the room. They are by no means short; she and her co-workers are just tall.
“If you do not mind, we will be doing this in English,”
her boss proclaims with a thick Skåne accent. The men on the other side of the room nod in approval.
“Thank you for being so accommodating. We have spoken via e-mail. I am Jackson, and these are my co-workers Austin and Matt. We would like to discuss our company’s contribution to your country’s culture festival in a few months.”
Danielle steps forward and slides Jackson, Austin, and Matt the information packets she has made. As she moves to sit down, she gives one to her boss and the other to her co-worker, who does not seem happy to have their guests here.
“These are the specs of the festival, a list of vendors, musicians, and events we will have available for those in attendance. If you have any questions, please relay them to me,”
Danielle says in a confident tone. She has been working on the festival for months now and knows more about it than anyone. She takes a seat across from her co-worker, Arvid, as her boss, Gustav, sits at the head of the table.
“Thank you… I am assuming you are Danielle?”
Jackson asks. She nods.
“Good, we look forward to going through this thoroughly. If your breakdowns of previous years are any indication of the quality of your work, we will certainly need this.”
Jackson turns on the TV and a power point presentation comes up. Arvid rolls his eyes, crosses his arms, and sighs as Jackson begins to talk about the culture festival and what his company found in their own research. After about twenty minutes, Jackson turns the TV off and leans against the muted metal table.
“Which brings us to why we are here; our C.E.O. wishes to donate one hundred thousand dollars, or if my memory is correct, eight hundred and sixty-six thousand Krona to help expand the festival to bring in more people.”
Arvid laughs, running his hands through his long slicked-back hair that hangs halfway down the back of his neck.
“And what do you want in return? With that much money, I’m assuming your boss wants to take over and push us out of our own cultural day?”
Jackson smiles and shakes his head as Gustav shoots an angry look at Arvid.
“On the contrary, he has set up legal tax shelters for the money so that you have access to the entire amount. His only condition is that you let him send as many Americans over to experience the festival as he can get. He wants to share your culture with the world. You are known for furniture you put together yourself and animal-shaped candies to Americans, half of which confuse you with Switzerland. This is something that media and film have ingrained, much like you, Arvid, thinking that we want to take over because we are donating money… How many Americans have you ever done business with?”
Arvid remains silent, not wanting to respond with “none.” Jackson smiles and taps the table. He speaks with such passion and zeal for the project that Danielle cannot help but lean forward in her seat.
“Exactly; you have that pre-conceived notion because of what you see in movies. We are not all like that. Our boss knows about your culture. He knows how rich and beautiful it is and he wants to share it with as many people as he can. So what do you say, you want to take our money?”
He ends with a smile before sitting down, Gustav nods, contemplating the offer before him. After a few moments of silence, he leans forward in his seat. Danielle’s heart races in anticipation.
“There has to be more than he just wants to “share our culture.” What made him want to give us almost a million Krona for our event?”
Jackson points at Danielle. Her heart almost stops. She can feel her face turn bright red in embarrassment and having been singled out.
“It’s because of her.”
Gustav flashes her a look of confusion. She shakes her head.
“I… I haven’t spoken with anyone about donations.”
“You didn’t have to,”
Jackson interjects.
“You two went to school together in Sigtuna. He was the international kid. You two did not interact much, but when you did, he says you were one of the only Swedes that was kind to him throughout his entire time there. When he saw your posts about your work on social media and the cultural festivals page about having to cut portions of the festival this year due to funding, he decided that this would be his thank you to you. He fell in love with this country and he wants to do everything he can to share it with the world.”