A metallic tang coats his tongue. He blinks, vision clearing from a dizzying swirl of grey. The air smells of stale beer, damp concrete, and something acrid he can't quite place. He’s leaning against a dumpster, the cold, greasy metal pressing into his back. His head throbs, a dull, persistent ache behind his eyes, but it’s nothing new. This is the familiar disorientation, the tell-tale sign of a jump.
He pushes off the dumpster, his worn denim jacket scraping against its rusty surface. Alley. Always an alley, or a closet, or a backroom. Never somewhere convenient like a five-star hotel suite. He stretches, his muscles protesting the sudden movement, but the stiffness quickly gives way to a familiar spring. It’s a good feeling, the body remembering what the mind can’t. His mind is a blank slate, always has been, ever since he woke up on a park bench with nothing but a chipped watch and a nagging sense of urgency.
He checks his pockets, a habit. Wallet, empty save for a few crumpled bills in a currency he doesn’t recognize. A cracked smartphone, no signal, screen dark. A Zippo lighter, chrome-plated, strangely heavy. Nothing else. Same as always. He sighs, a puff of visible breath in the cool night air. Right. New city, new time, new problems. Probably.
A clatter from the alley mouth. His head snaps up. The sound is too loud, too deliberate for a stray cat. His breath hitches. His skin prickles. That familiar buzz, like a tuning fork vibrating in his skull, warns him a half-second before his eyes confirm it. Danger.
A figure steps into the grimy light spilling from the main street, a silhouette against the garish glow of neon signs. Tall, lean, wearing a tailored dark coat that seems out of place in this derelict space. The buzz intensifies, a high-pitched whine now. His body tenses, ready, even though his mind still struggles to catch up. He knows this feeling. He knows this kind of person.
“Found you,” a voice, flat and calm, cuts through the night. It’s a woman’s voice, sharp and precise, like a surgical instrument. She steps fully into the light, revealing a severe expression, eyes like chips of obsidian. In her hand, a sleek, black pistol, unlike any he’s ever seen, gleams faintly.
“Oh, come on,” he mutters, already moving. He dives sideways, away from the dumpster, the pistol’s muzzle flash a bright, brief starburst where his head had been. The concrete wall behind him spits chips. “Couldn’t you have just knocked? Or sent a strongly worded email?”
He scrambles, ducking behind a stack of overflowing rubbish bins. The woman fires again, the shot tearing through the plastic bin beside him, scattering rotten food and cardboard. His nose wrinkles at the sudden stench. He needs a plan. Not that he ever has one that isn’t ‘run like hell and hope for the best.’
“This isn’t a game,” she says, her voice unwavering as she advances, her footsteps unnervingly quiet on the littered ground. “Stand down, or we will be forced to employ… more persuasive methods.”
“More persuasive than shooting at me?” he calls back, peering over the top of a bin. He sees her raise the weapon again. He ducks. Another shot rips through the air. “That’s a pretty high bar already, sweetheart!”
He’s buying time. For what, he doesn’t know. For a sudden burst of genius? For a conveniently placed trampoline? His brain is usually useless in these situations, but his body, that’s another story. His body hums with an almost electric energy, seeing the trajectory of the next shot before it fires, feeling the shift in the ground that suggests an escape route.
He spots a narrow gap between two brick buildings, barely wide enough for a person. It looks like a dead end, but his gut twists, telling him otherwise. A flicker, a brief, impossible image of a fire escape ladder. He needs to move.
He kicks out the bottom of the bin he’s hiding behind, sending it toppling over with a crash, a cascade of rubbish spilling onto the alley floor. The woman flinches, momentarily distracted. That’s all he needs.
He sprints, a blur of motion, towards the gap. Behind him, he hears her curse, then a rapid succession of shots. They whiz past his ears, close enough to feel the displaced air. He doesn't look back. His lungs burn, his heart hammers against his ribs, but he pushes harder. The gap is tight, rough brick scraping his shoulders as he squeezes through. He can taste the grit of the city, the adrenaline singing in his veins.
---
He bursts out onto a brightly lit street, a cacophony of sound hitting him all at once. Horns blare, taxi tires squeal, music thumps from an open doorway. A blur of faces, a mix of concern and annoyance, turn towards him as he nearly collides with a bewildered-looking tourist clutching a map. “Sorry! Express delivery!” he barks, not stopping.
He weaves through the surging crowd, his eyes darting, searching for another escape, another alley, anything to lose her. The buzz in his head is still there, muted now, but a constant reminder. He can feel the woman, a cold, persistent pressure, still following. She’s good. They always are. And he’s always just a step ahead.
A flash of movement in his periphery. Another dark coat. This one, a man, broad-shouldered, with eyes that scan the crowd with predatory efficiency. He’s already spotted him. Of course he has. They never come alone. The man raises a hand, signaling to someone out of sight. They’re converging.
“Just my luck,” he mutters, dodging a street vendor’s cart laden with brightly colored scarves. The vendor yells something unintelligible. He doesn’t have time. He needs to disappear. Now. The pre-cognition, the almost physical pull, tells him. The air feels charged, heavy, like before a storm.
He spots a subway entrance, a dark maw swallowing up streams of people. Perfect. He shoves his way through the turnstiles, not bothering with a ticket. A harried attendant shouts after him, but he’s already halfway down the grime-streaked stairs, the roar of an approaching train growing louder.
He slams onto the platform, just as the train pulls in, its metallic shriek echoing through the tunnel. The doors slide open with a hiss, revealing a packed carriage. He dives in, squeezing past a man holding a briefcase and a woman with an oversized handbag, ignoring their irritated glares. He twists, pushing deeper into the crowd, trying to make himself small.
He glances back. The woman in the dark coat stands at the top of the stairs, her obsidian eyes scanning the platform. Behind her, the broad-shouldered man, blocking the entrance. They’re too late. Almost. He sees her hand lift, a subtle gesture, then she disappears, swallowed by the crowd above. He knows what that means. More of them are coming. Always more.
The doors close with a heavy sigh. The train lurches forward, then picks up speed, plunging into the darkness of the tunnel. He lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He leans against the cool metal of the train wall, surrounded by strangers, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks a temporary lullaby.
“Well,” he says to the reflection in the window, a tired, slightly smudged face looking back at him. “That was a close one.”
He pulls out his phone again, just to check. Still no signal. Still dead. He slides the Zippo out, flicks it open. The flame leaps to life, a steady, unwavering beacon in the gloom. He watches it, mesmerized by the simple physics of it. He’s had this lighter for as long as he’s had these jumps, for as long as he’s had this blank space where his past should be. It’s the one constant.
He hears a faint *click* from across the carriage. His head snaps up. The hair on his arms stands on end. That buzz, it's back, a low thrum that vibrates through his very bones. Not external. Internal. It’s him. It’s happening again.
---
The world dissolves. Not a blur this time, but a complete unraveling, like a tapestry coming undone. Colors bleed, shapes distort, sound becomes a painful static. He feels a terrible wrenching sensation, like his very atoms are being pulled apart and reassembled. This jump feels different. More violent. Less controlled. He tries to fight it, tries to ground himself, but there’s nothing to hold onto. He is falling, spinning, an astronaut adrift in a storm of pure energy.
Then, silence. And stillness. Complete and utter. The air smells of ozone and something sweet, like burnt sugar. He’s lying on cool, smooth stone. He opens his eyes. Above him, a vaulted ceiling, impossibly high, painted with intricate frescoes of swirling galaxies and mythical beasts. Golden light streams through tall, arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
He pushes himself up, his limbs heavy, his head clearer than it should be after such a chaotic jump. He’s in a vast, ornate hall, lined with towering bookshelves that reach to the ceiling. Each shelf is packed with leather-bound tomes, ancient scrolls, and strange, glowing artifacts. This isn't a library he's ever seen. This isn’t Earth. Not any Earth he knows.
He stumbles to his feet, unsteady. His clothes are the same – the denim jacket, the faded jeans, the scuffed trainers. But everything else is alien. He walks down a central aisle, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The silence here is profound, broken only by the soft, almost imperceptible hum of the glowing artifacts.
He runs a hand over a dusty tome, its title in a language he can’t read, yet feels strangely familiar. The buzz is gone, replaced by a quiet sense of awe. He’s never landed somewhere quite like this. No immediate threat. No pursuers, at least not yet. Just this overwhelming, beautiful mystery.
He wanders deeper, past astronomical instruments made of polished brass and crystal, past display cases holding what look like fragments of solidified starlight. Then he sees it. A pedestal in the center of a circular alcove. On it, a single object. A book. Not like the others. This one is bound in simple, dark leather, unadorned.
He approaches slowly, cautiously. The air around the book seems to shimmer. He reaches for it, his fingers brushing against the worn cover. A jolt, a flash of something unbidden. Not a memory, not exactly. More like a *feeling* of recognition, a deep, unsettling resonance.
He opens the book. The pages are thick parchment, yellowed with age. The script is ornate, calligraphic, impossible to decipher. But then, on the very first page, a single word stands out, etched in a different hand, a hand he somehow knows. English. His language. It’s his name. Or, the name he’s always felt was his, even without the memories.
*Jax.*
And beneath it, scrawled in the same hurried, familiar hand, a single, terrifying question that makes his blood run cold: *Where have you been? We’ve been waiting.*