Are all my friends going to remain strangers?

It had been celebrated, debated, abandoned, and finally, lost. Then rumored, lied about, overblown, and forgotten again. Getting to it was a pain, but not as much of a pain as it would soon be, Matt assured him.

The Monarch (the Prince who, either through maneuvering or because there had never been any other makers of the thing, was the sole owner of the place) severed it from all access points, moved the space itself to a separate isolation, and locked the one and only door away somehow. Rumor was he had forgotten how to get to it himself for decades. Another was that he had always intended to sell it but had never been confident or experienced enough to show it to someone without risking that person either hijacking the Schema (it was rumored to be his first creation, but they always said that shit) or scanning it and copying it, which would essentially make it worthless. He needn’t of worried about the second thing anyway, Matt said. Its creation was as much a mystery to the Other as it was to its own maker.

It was also unclear whether it was this original creator or the most recent owner or some member of the succession in between who had set up its current security system, but Michael found it annoying, and doubly so once he recalled that Matt had mentioned that only a handful of people even knew the thing existed.

Essentially, the realm and the door to the realm moved through a sequence of “locations” based on a randomized schedule. Some enchantment broadcast the current “location” to the lock, which only opened if the operator entered the code of the current location. Once the door was used, the schedule would randomize again, and the person entering the door would be presented with the new schedule of locations. So essentially, only the person or persons who entered the place could get to it again, as any incorrect guesses would randomize the sequence yet again and/or lock the door for a set time period or something.

However, something had gone wrong in the schema, either because of a failed hack or some killswitch activated after too many brute force attempts, and the realm now alternated through a randomized sequence of locations at an accelerated speed, which meant that Michael had to stand at the fucking door and essentially “jimmy the handle” by entering the same location code over and over again until the stars aligned and he got in, which in his case took about fifteen minutes.

“Ironically, it’s a better security system now than the convoluted shit the first Prince thought up,” Matt mused when he landed on the fucking thing, which had taken another ten minutes.

Upon entering the realm, all Michael could see was light. Blinding light. Sunlight. A big noonday sun blazing in the black as if someone had smart-selected and removed all the blue in a cloudless Texas sky.

“Summon a big mirror, hold it in front of you, and fly into it, please,” Matt advised him.

“A mirror?”

“Anything else will melt, unfortunately.”

Michael stared at the back of a three paneled tanning mirror, the first thing that had come to mind, while Matt directed him.

“I see you. Come left. Other left. Okay, up. Up. Ok down. Ok straight on. No, wait…”

So much for a dramatic secret meeting. The place apparently had strict teleport restrictions, and though Michael felt he was going at a snail’s pace, Matt informed him he was actually moving close to light speed.

“The prince was some kind of science nut. The Schema is depressingly rigid.”

So Michael flew into the blinding sun until suddenly his feet found solid ground and the light dimmed to twilight.

He dismissed the reflector, and his jaw dropped.

The structure looked deeply alien, like a well thought out sci fi backdrop. Flares of solar bursts, like whispy strands and tufts of molten metal thrown out in zero g, outlined the high and far away edges of the structure, and the sky beyond was a deep vanta black. It was all block shapes of stone and glass, and everything was the hue of thick orange sunglasses, besides a soft blue light above the door at the far end of the ramp, which floated out like a mirage.

Inside, color was tactfully dispersed among the orange twilight hum. Bursts of green garden and rainbow flowers drooping out of square stone balconies, aqua blue water pouring down into white sand ponds, violet-hued spaces of night sky and neon fixtures. The interior space was miles in any direction. Clouds and rain and lightning flashed in upper crevices. Ceilings tessellated like a sculpted mosque ceiling.

A little transport craft whisked him through it all to the observation hall, and from there into a back office where Matt waited before another breathtaking view.

The room was wide and flat, sliced stone desk and rectangular fixtures, but the great window was tall, stretching pyramidically up to some vanishing point in the dark sky that Michael never took the chance to search for. The view ahead was too demanding.

Beyond a window that was, apparently, a mile thick crystal, the surface of the sun boiled and writhed and braided ropes and rings of plasma bled up into the darkness. Something told Michael that the depiction was extremely accurate.

Matt stood next to the window, drinking something. His obsidian skin reflected the soft golden glow in the crests of his face, and held the dark of space in the creases. His waist length salt and pepper dreadlocks had little rings of gold, agate, and emerald on the ends that mirrored the molten fire, but his ebony cane and leather 3-piece suit and overcoat radiated moonlight from some unseen night.

“They think it might have started out as a failed Fortress world. The idea of course was that you can’t see the station through the sun, and anyone who got close without proper access would have their flesh burned forever. That failed for obvious reasons.”

The obvious reason probably had something to do with the mechanics of Otherworld combat, which Michael was far from an expert at, so he directed the conversation elsewhere.

“What’s it going to be now? Besides an inconvenient meeting place.”

“Ha. You should see what I’ve got lined up for our next pow-wow. Kidding. I’m selling this monstrosity to a Dreamlord, who I would name drop if you knew anything about that scene, hah, and he’s going to stick it on the edge of his manor and throw three or four parties at it then get bored and probably never touch it again. Then it can finally die, which I get the feeling it’s been trying to do for twenty fucking years.”

The last sentence turned Michael’s stomach, given the context, but he tried not to show it.

“Party goers gonna stand there punching the button? Should add to the suspense—”

“No, we’ve got a maker coming out to clear all that shit next week. Probably put a crypto lock on it for VIPs until the sale is final.”

“Crypto lock?”

“I hate the fucking term. You set it to some monstrous task, like making a specific craft or securing some space or some other problem these big Maker orgs have on their desk, and the VIP spends the cash to have the task completed, and then they get let in and the orgs get some labor done. Mostly a formality, but very secure.”

Michael was lost in the melting sunsurface, but his recent experience with the Savior battlefield had made him antsy.

“Is there a trap door out or am I going to have to—”

“All exits are wide open.”

Michael reached out with his Spirit and felt it was an understatement. He knew he could leave at any time, anyway. In fact, it wanted him to. One of the nuances of a space whose Schema had reduced it to a single convoluted entrance point, realms notwithstanding, was that the entire place felt unwelcome, like it was constantly trying to push you out.

“It’s sad,” Matt continued. “None of the new crowd wants anything like this anymore. No big set pieces, no cultured single experiences. Even the Resortworlds are a shell of what they used to be. I get whiplash just watching them try to draw in the kids. Everyone wants a fucking sim, to be a celebrity in the Real or to fuck one. Or just to watch. To watch anything actually. They are the most exhaustingly voyeuristic people I have ever encountered. I thought we moved past all that otherlives shit for good in the fucking nineties, but here we are.”

“The Other is impossible to predict,” Michael said. “I would feel sorry for the advertisers and marketers, if they weren’t such fucking parasites.”

Matt smiled slyly at him.

“It’s not the Other that changed. It is, as always, the outside world that moves and decides, propelled by forces I won’t begin to discuss and about which we in here are powerless to do anything anyway.”

He waved his hand at everything in a big dramatic motion.

“This is always and forever just a shadow, an echo. The Real is the Real world, and deep down we all know it.”

Michael bristled. He had often heard such “none of this matters” statements used to justify the worst atrocities of the Other, and was sure the Demons had taken it as their battle cry.

“Maybe the kids just think other people are more interesting than watching a sun shine.”

“Ha. Fair enough, but you know what these kids are doing now? Buying feeds into some other Spirit’s head. Live stream thoughts. Just watching someone else move through the Other, like—”

“Some would say that’s what the Other is about. Seeing the world through other people’s eyes.”

“Would you say that?”

Michael thought a moment.

“No. I wouldn’t presume to make great statements about what the Other is about anymore.”

“Ha, ha. Well said. I’m just pining for parties that will never return. But I know you have a lot on your plate. So ask away.”

About Matt, Michael knew very little. It was easily proven that he was once big in the Hardworlding scene, had made unimaginable money and an even better name for himself, and now used that money and influence to fund teams and enterprises that, according to Klara, all served to ensure he is kept well informed on the goings on of Hardworlding, and that his status is not diminished or forgotten. Like many great Hardworlders, his name, identity, and allegiance had changed too much to track, and some things had to be taken at his word, or dismissed outright.

But for one line of questioning, he was worth not only all the inconvenience of his meeting places, but also the pained look Lucy had when she learned that Michael had met with him, and even the massive vulnerabilities opened up by speaking with him.

But Michael didn’t lead with that line of questioning.

“Any buzz about Liquid Light reach your lofty ears?”

Matt, for once, possibly because he had been expecting the other question first, stumbled.

“Uh,”

“That bad?” Michael joked. He knew they were too low rung to get any buzz in Matt’s area of the high heavens, but still.

“No. But listen, I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell you this. As you know, I’m not the most tactful speaker. This relationship of ours is a new one for me, and I have to say it—”

“Out with it.”

A pause.

“You’ve stepped in something. That’s all I’ll say.”

It was Michael’s turn to stumble. He had been thinking of ten different ways to prod Matt about their most recent job, and here he was coming right out with it.

“Bullshit that’s all you’ll say. Stepped in something how?”

Matt glared at him.

“Our agreement was that you take what I give, and never ask for more than I can say. You must trust that I do not hold out unless I have thoroughly analyzed the risks—”

“Fucking whatever!” Michael rolled his eyes up to the dark ceiling. He had heard this spiel before. “You can at least give me—”

“Certain departments of Constellation have been exceptionally busy as of late, and their discussions should have made your ears burn.

That

is all I’ll say.”

Matt actually turned and stared out at the sun with his hands crossed behind his back. He was right. He wasn’t good at the whole “noir contact in a back alley” thing. And Michael, for all his conflicted feelings about being kept in the dark about things that might have real effects on his team, still found himself liking Matt. So,

“All right. Thanks. You know I’m only concerned that my team—”

“You don’t have to thank me. You do that with your check. And I understand your frustration. I’ve helmed teams myself you know.”

Michael did

not

know that, or much of anything, nor did he believe the fee per meeting was anything more to Matt than a formality or possibly a smoke screen. His real reason for giving Michael the time of day remained one of those mysteries Michael had decided not to prod, like a sore in the mouth.

“Shall we continue to the real question—”

Michael wasn’t quite ready for that one, so,

“Have you ever heard of someone being born in a Hardworld?”

Another pause.

“Not physical birth of course—”

Michael laughed. “No, like a Spirit who instead of being born on the ball, like,”

Matt nodded away and pressed his lips.

“Oh. Yes. In theory.”

“Theory?”

“Yes. The theory goes that a Spirit’s germinating archetypical space is either close enough to the Real to cause a gestation in the Hardworlds, or that the Spirit manifests into the Other normally, but then immediately slips down into the Hardworlds due to the so called “density” of their Spirit.”

Michael almost buckled over at hearing one of the twin's pet new age theories come out of Matt’s mouth, but kept it together.

“Why?” Matt asked.

“Oh, uh. Someone told me about it, but they seemed like they were bullshitting.”

Matt stared at him, so he continued.

“You know, I’m trying to learn as much about Hardworlding as I can, I thought this might be some new—”

“I don’t believe you.”

Michael laughed and tried to think of something believable to say that didn’t involve Gradie.

“Uh, I just was thinking, theoretically, if someone could be born in the Hardworlds, then anyone we see in them, you know, might be—”

That did the trick. Matt had absolutely no tolerance for Michael’s “realist” interpretation that every living soul in the Hardworlds might be a real and living person.

“Oh,” Matt interrupted, disgusted.

Another pause.

“Shall we finally get to it? Or are you having some emotional difficulties? I know the anniversary—”

“No. I’m fine. Not sure why I have to ask every time if you know what I’m going to fucking ask anyway.”

“Indulge me,” Matt said, unsympathetically.

Michael had asked it so many times that the question now had its own regular format.

“Have you seen or heard any sign of him, anywhere?”

“No. It’s still as if he stepped out of that cell and vanished.”

For some reason Michael couldn’t explain, the answer hurt every time. And as always, the tone of Matt’s voice annoyed him, like he too was looking for him, like he too was agonized by coming up empty.

“Well, that’s it then. Give the dreamworld my regards,” Michael said, but made no move to leave. A decision was coming to a head in his mind, but he hadn’t quite found the words.

Matt, however, wasn’t done with him anyway.

“Do you mind, I must ask, why do you never ask me about any of the others?”

Michael’s thoughts were instantly derailed. Others. The rest of them. His team. The memory incisions had cut out their voices, their faces, their sex, their words, even their names, though of course he knew them from the records. But it had left some things behind. Memories of himself, alone, his reflections, his fears, his pride, even remnants of some of their jobs. And it had also left the outline of a betrayal, like a synopsis, like, again, a video seen by only one corner, or one recorded with the lens pointed at the ground. But it was enough, along with the archives and the rumors and the press releases. Enough to know they probably had good reason for not contacting him in well over ten years.

“When you have an answer for me besides, “He just vanished”, then you can ask me that.”

“Fair enough.”

Now Michael did turn to leave, but Matt loved to save whatever was on his mind for the last moment, cheesy motherfucker.

“You know, your memories aren’t gone. No power in the Other can take them from you. They have simply—”

“They might as well be.” He wanted to tell him he had heard it all before, that Lucy had Matt beat by years, that his tone, like telling a kid something you can’t believe needs to be said, was pretty condescending for some has-been fuck who pays to play Hardworlder, but he just exhaled and waited for Matt to get the rest of it out so he could get to what he had almost forgotten to tell the son of a bitch.

“The paradox is,” Matt continued, of course. “That in order to remember, you have to find what you forgot. In your case, who you—”

“Maybe I don’t want to fucking remember them. Ever consider that? Maybe I just want to make sure whatever happened doesn’t happen again.”

Matt looked at Michael like he had just admitted he had his suicide all planned out, and Michael had to admit, it kind of felt that way.

Then, after a sad sigh, Matt looked out at the sun, and his voice shook.

“Nothing ever happens again. Not exactly.”

Michael waited a moment to see if that was it, and tried not to let the slithering chill that the words had, for some reason, set loose on his spine get too deep into his brain. This mother fucker knew something, and all the money in the world wouldn’t be enough to get it out of him until he felt like it.

That helped sinch it.

“Look, I’m going to alter our deal.”

That got Matt’s attention.

“How so?”

“Don’t contact me again until you have something on him.”

Matt looked at him, considering his words, a slight smile on his lips.

“I believe it’s apparent that my fee is a technicality, that I have other reasons for our discussions, but I would advise that the issue we discussed previously is not something you want to go into blind.”

Michael realized shamefully that he had forgotten about the team, their last jobs, and even Constellation. He really had been, for a moment, transported back fifteen fucking years.

But that just strengthened his decision. This was too much of a distraction. Too much moping and self-flagellation. He had responsibilities now. And Matt was becoming one friend too many.

“I’m already going in blind. If you had some clarity to give, you would have given it ten minutes ago.

“I told you---”

“I had already figured out that something was fucked, and you telling me that Constellation is involved is about as helpful as telling me I’m gonna die on a day ending in y.”

“I am protecting you as much as myself. There are limits to what I can say, and as of now, limits to what I can be sure of.”

“Good, so you can protect us by fucking off until you have something to tell me about the only thing I ever wanted to know about.”

“But not the only thing you’ve ever asked me about,” Matt said with a smile.

“Because I’m trying to get my god damned money’s worth. Not something you would understand. Two demon wars and you came out on top, right?”

“You begrudge me my success? I would have thought such childish—”

“Fuck begrudge, you slimy fuck! I hate you and the rest of the so called elites, but for some reason I’m risking my sanity to save you from something you’re too stupid to avoid.”

“And what would that be?” Matt looked, suddenly, almost scared, and totally engaged.

“Unfortunately, I can’t remember,” Michael hissed sarcastically. “But I’ll be sure to keep you posted. Don’t contact me again unless you have something on him.”

Michael turned and stared at the sun, and let the pull of the place start to throw him out, when just before the hammer slipped,

“If I get more clarity on the situation with your team, may I contact you?”

Michael stopped the catch on his teleport. There was urgency in Matt’s voice, and when he looked, it was all over his face as well. Was asking permission a power play? Or was it a way to wash his hands of Michael's fate? So be it. He would let him off the hook, if that’s what he was after.

“No. And the situation with my team is, as far as I can tell, that we got some fucked clients who keep their cards close to their chest. So fucking what. That’s the game, though you may have forgotten it sitting in your fucking office. Give the Dreamlord my regards.”

And with that, he let slip the catch, and the structure and sunlight smeared across his vision, reminding him of something.

What he hadn’t told Matt, what he hadn't even spoken to Lucy, because he could hardly put it into words himself, was that he knew the memories weren’t gone. He could feel them. They were right there. They reflected off everything he saw. Glared off his feelings. Shined on the polished bare moments of his day. Illuminated his loves and hates and everything in between. Though he couldn’t look at them, he could feel their warmth. See their auras. Like the fire of an eclipse. Like a sun obscured. Despite their hateful spirit scalpels, they could never block it out, never keep it in. It flared on the edges of their calculated wounds in ways they could never imagine. Bleeding entropy across their black sky. Flushing photons and radiation into all their precise machines.

And one day, he knew, the wounds would heal, the darkness would vanish, the sun would return, and there would be a reckoning.

It was the waiting that was killing him.