WISH
I can't stop fidgeting. I've spun the hair tie around my index finger so many times, my olive skin turns white. It's been weeks since I've last dreamwalked and feels like it'll be another week before we get this show on the road. Our client today is taking forever to dish out the details: why she's here, what she's looking for, and of course the price, which always eliminates half our potential client base before we even meet them.
Today, however, this client paid in full upfront and even brought biscuits.
Steam wafts from the buttery goodness, with a dash of honey, so delicious I've been stuffing my face ever since they graced the table. To distract myself, I pluck two more off the porcelain dish Mom bought at some estate sale for a buck. It's nothing special, plain white with weaving along the edges, the kind you'd have to handwash. Everything in the room is second-hand, yet has an expensive flavor to it. Mom believes imitation of wealth attracts higher paying clients. In a way, she's right.
The woman sobs into her third Kleenex making me reach for a fifth helping of biscuits. Mom sits beside the woman and rubs a gentle hand over her back. She's always been better at dealing with the clients. "It's okay. If you need more time to process this, we can meet another day to discuss the terms—"
The woman feverously shakes her head and blows her nose, slightly rubbing her expensive red lipstick. Her hair falls all over the place and looks like it needs to be brushed, not to mention the dark circles beneath her eyes. Ten bucks says she hasn't slept in two days.
"No, this needs to be done today. I don't know how much time I have left," she says, trembling. "He could find me any minute now."
Now that catches my attention. "Who's after you?"
The woman meets my gaze; eyes fill with tears. "Arnold Croft... He's the Chief Operator for my company, Second Chances, where we manufacture AI prosthetics. He's always been such a kind man. Always giving his time to the cause and donating to charities around the world—I don't understand how this could happen."
She blows her nose again, and this time, I offer up one of her biscuits. The woman stares at it for a moment, then takes in our greeting room for the first time. She glances at the plain cream-colored walls, at the ornate rug squaring off our leather couches and walnut epoxy coffee table, at the abstract painting and absent décor. The room lacks any real substance that will point back to our family. Once the woman looks out the lone window and the expanse of forest beyond—the isolation—determination sparks in her eyes. She takes the biscuit from my hand and scarfs it down until not even a crumb is left.
Finally, we're getting somewhere.
"We've lately been receiving more international orders. I thought we were finally breaking into the market... until I was told by an associate Arnold has been eating dinner with a known trafficker.
I've accessed our database and read through his employee records: the shipping schedules and their cameras, what he's working on at his computer, his leave and vacation, everything. It all comes out clean, but I still have this nagging feeling in the back of my head..."
She takes a breath. "I need to know if he's smuggling drugs with other countries using our prosthetics. If you can bring me some kind of proof, then I'll be able to act accordingly, otherwise I'll have to confront him myself."
This woman would rather hire outside help than risk confronting her coworker. That speaks volumes for how much she doesn't trust him. Yet, this doesn't add up. Drug smuggling isn't that big of a deal, certainly shouldn't cause someone to break down in hysteria, which means this woman is also hiding something.
Doesn't matter. Rule number one when working in this kind of shady business: never get personal with a client. I hold out my palm. "Do you have the item we asked for?"
The client clears her throat and digs into her large Prada tote, a red beacon among a crowd. An obvious target she should throw away the first chance she gets. Again, I don't get involved. The client pulls out an air tight bag that squeezes the life out of a ceramic mug. Etched into its side, the words 'World's Greatest Dad' leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
"Our surveillance cameras show Arnold favored that mug at the office," the client says. "When I questioned his secretary, she confirmed this."
I take it from her, swipe the butterfly knife out from my back pocket, and cut into the bag. It pops open so easily. "Well then, let's get started."
We enter the adjoining room where a futon lays out on the cement floor. Compared to the simple greeting room, this place is bare, dark and quiet. Black padding covers the walls. There are no windows or two-way glass. This room is cut off from the rest of the world, almost like entering a new planet entirely.
The client sits down in the far corner of the room; a lamp turns on for her viewing pleasure. She takes out her tablet, ready to take notes. In some past life, this woman probably worked as a secretary for a CCO or as an intern student to an ogre professor. Maybe she's been a devoted worker her whole life and believes through hard work society will provide. If only that were true. Those who work smarter always make it out alive in the end. In this line of business, you have to be smart in order to make it out of the dark.
I take a deep breath and lay down on the futon. There are no sheets, just a soft pillow for me to rest my head upon. My dark, brunette braid falls off to the side, out of the way. The mug sits on my stomach, pressing between both hands. Mom sits crossed legged on the floor pillow next to her, shifting the air and silence.
She lightly touches my arm. "You've got this."
The room's so dark I can vaguely see her smile, but there's warmth in her words and that's all I need to know. I burrow further into the futon, getting comfortable and relaxed. My baggy shirt rides up a bit on my torso, exposing more of my sport leggings. It takes a moment to find the right spot, but once I do, I'm more than ready to dive into a dream.
When Mom touches my forehead, the darkness sucks me in whole.
The room disappears—the cement floor vanishes.
I float in nothing, in quietness, a vast sea of emptiness.
Until I open my eyes.
A door stands at the precipice, hardwood and dark, carved in a rich pattern of swirls and small details, I have to lean closer to catch the tiny print of the company's name carved all over the frame like some cheap spiritual ward. A waste of natural resources. When the door automatically slides open, I step into an office. City lights gleam like stars all around through the sky-high windows and dome ceiling. I'm up so high, the office looks down at the city, a god among the many skyscrapers of this metropolitan. As if the door wasn't bad enough.
Mom's voice appears behind me like a shadow, though it's inside my head. 'Wish, stay focused. Remember to always check your surroundings and stay on guard.'
I clench my jaw and let out a long sigh. Why can't I ever dreamwalk without hearing the same warning over and over again? Maybe when hell freezes over.
A glass desk sits in the middle, facing away from the scenery as if admiring New York's beautiful architecture is also beneath him. With the ease of an experienced thief, I survey the rest of the room. AI prosthetic legs hang off hooks and stands, displayed in various sizes and shapes like a monument of this company's achievements, and stark white furniture for the guests to sit leisurely and view them.
The rest is bare. Very clean and tidy. Very minimalistic. Stinks of bleach. It's out of the ordinary, so I cautiously approach the desk, shoes tapping lightly over the marble floor. My fingers trace the edge of the desk, over numbers scribbling on the surface as if someone's taking a quick marker to it at this very moment. When the glass lights, a screen appears on the surface, asking for a passcode. I narrow my eyes. Well, that was too easy.
Quickly, I type in the six digits written all over the desk: 062558. As the computer unlocks, a framed picture appears on the desk of a little boy with bright blue eyes and shaggy blonde hair. Of course, the passcode is his son's birthday.
'Be cautious of any traps. Remember this is not just his office, but a dream inside his head,' Mom says, another reminder I don't need. You'd think after ten years of dreamwalking, I'd know a thing or two by now about diving into someone's head.
'I get it. Just let me concentrate,' I snap. Mom tsks in response, and I am so going to regret snapping at her later.
I take another deep breath and clear my mind. Now isn't the time to fight. I need to concentrate and get this job done. With quick precision, I search through the computer, using keywords and opening files, anything that will expose this man for drug smuggling or even something illegal their client can take home with.
Nothing turns up. The computer is clean, too clean to be precise. I can almost count the number of files on my hand. Deep diving is an option, but I only have so long before his mind detects me as an intruder. Yet still, everything feels too stark—too minimal. Just like our greeting room. Bare of any familiarity.
The last alternative is looking at the memory chips. I slide my fingers along the bottom of the glass until I touch the indent of a hidden compartment. When I press up the bottom releases from its chamber and exposes the memory chips for this hi-tech computer.
Load and behold, it's missing one chip.
A bell goes off in the hallway outside the office door. The elevator doors slide open and at least a couple of footsteps walk out, voices accompanying them. Shit.
'You need to hide. We can't leave this room yet,' Mom says.
I turn the computer off, shove the chip holder back, and hurry over to the AI prosthetics to hide behind them, the only thing in this room that has coverage, and really that isn't enough. So I conjure the only thing I can think as a last ditch resort—an camouflaging cloak. Thank you to the inventors of libraries and books.
Arnold Croft strolls in first, followed by a woman secretary dressed so scantily there's no way this isn't a dream. She taps away on her tablet, the light glowing over her exposed cleavage. "Yes, sir, the shipment is arriving on time as expected. I've called ahead to make sure the movers are ready."
"Excellent." Arnold loosens his tie and yanks the secretary closer. "Now strip."
She purses her juicy lips, licking them suggestively. "Yes, sir."
Oh, god. I cringe. This isn't the first time I've walked in on a wet dream, and it won't be the last. The desk screeches against the floor as he shoves the secretary up against it. Moans and grunts fill the room, along with a whip that comes out of nowhere. I internally sigh. How long is this going to take?
I stare at a prosthetic leg out of pure boredom, tracing every optical fiber visible behind the plexiglass. They're like veins, connecting circuits along a given path until they disappear within the ankle's fake skin. It's smooth on my fingertips, rubbery and soft when I press in. Something clicks. A sliver of skin pops out and inside is a memory chip. My eyes go wide. Ha. No freakin' way!
'Grab the leg,' Mom says. 'There may be more information stored inside.'
'That's going to make leaving difficult,' I say but still slip the memory chip back inside the ankle, and unfortunately, the stand falls over.
The prosthetic crashes on the marble floor, ringing through the hollow room. Mr. Croft and his secretary freeze. Their clothes are ripped in various places, naked and exposed, burning a revolting image in my mind. For a moment there's only silence, my breath filling in the air around me.
Red lights drop across the office: from the ceiling, on the walls, and even on the floor—I'm an intruder in his mind and they've found me.
The office glitches at once.
Their naked bodies shift to them fully clothed, standing side by side, staring, wide-eyed. They scream, gut retching loud, mouths opened so wide it tears the skin on their cheeks.
The room glitches again.
Dark shadows reap across the office, searching for the virus that's infecting it. This is it, make it or break it. I grab the leg and run towards the wall of windows. Shots fire, cutting the cloak's hood just over my head and it crumbles to pieces at the touch. Too close for comfort.
Arnold holds a handgun with both hands, smoke dwindling from the chamber. No hesitation, perfect stance and form. He's someone who clearly practices at the shooting range. He pulls the trigger again. I dive to the floor, dodging the next set of bullets. They pierce into the walls and glass windows up ahead. With nowhere to go, I conjure a hole in the floor and fall through it.
I land with grunt on a freight train. Wind slaps me in the face, palm trees and bushes litter the ground. The train speeds across the tracks towards the open sea, unguarded and surrounded by a tropical forest. Trees block me from jumping, erecting a wall as they fly down the track, nature's way of giving me the middle finger.
A palm leaf smacks my shoulder. I slip on the metal exterior and slide towards the edge. I barely catch hold of the safety guard rail in time, the prosthetic dangles from my other hand, and all at once I'm smiling wide.
This is more like it! Finally, the exhilaration I've been search for!
Unfortunately, my arm grows tired the longer I dangle over the edge. With all my strength left, I place one shoe on an open vent and steady my balance. Just like rock climbing. Metal scratches against metal; the prosthetic threatens to remove my arm. A narrow tunnel appears at the engine, quickly closing in, diving further into the depths of darkness and unknown.
I conjure another hole, shove the prosthetic in, and fall through just in time.
The room is dark, still and damp. Chains line the walls, rusted and broken, they trail to the center of the room and wrap around a husk of a boy. An old antique computer sits on a card table. The longer he types, the tighter the chains squeeze his body, and when some break, more slither out of the walls to capture hold of what little freedom he has left. It stinks of rot and sweat—of fear and death.
A prisoner of his own mind.
'I'm pulling you out now. Hold on. Let me find a door.'
God, what an adrenaline rush. This guy knows how to live on the edge. I hold the prosthetic closer, my whole body shaking with excitement. It's very rare to come across a thrilling dream. Most people aren't committing international crimes. This is new, bold—adventurous. What other risky dreams could this person have? What other secrets does he hold?
Maybe after this session, the client will refer us to her friends or business partners. It could open more doors, more possibilities of diving into criminal minds, because let's face it, those are the only reasons people come to us. They want to find and expose their dark secrets, if not exploit for further gains. As long as I get to keep dreamwalking, I don't care how many minds have to enter to feel that rush I so painstakingly crave.
The chains rattle from the boy again. Suffocating him further, tying him down to his own dark sins. His type, type, typing slowing down, getting further, distant...until I can only hear my own heartbeat, so loud, it takes over the room. My breath comes out cold. Something's changing. The room seems to shift with an odd feeling that it's no longer just the two of us.
I look back. My smile instantly drops.
Charred black, a door stands dead still in the middle of the room. Vines creep past its threshold, suffocating the wood, reaching out towards me. It draws me in inch by inch, and for a second, I imagine turning the doorknob.
'Wish.' Mom's voice breaks through the fog.
I blink once, twice and look at my surroundings. I'm suddenly closer to the door now, halfway, my hand stretching out toward the handle.
Immediately, I take a step back. 'Mom, why is the door to Akane here?'
'Just ignore it.' Mom rushes. 'Go to your left, down the short hallway there's a door you can take back home. Hurry.'
She wants me to turn my back on the door? That's the very opposite of my teachings. Never turn your back on the enemy, especially when that doors leads to a planet full of monsters and nightmares. A place that will eat me alive if given the chance, and yet, the prospect of going to Akane doesn't frighten me. If anything, it thrills me being this close. More than this dream or hovering on the edge of death. Three more steps and I'd be right in front of the door; slight turn of the knob and I'd be inside.
No, it's a death trap... what am I think?
Shaking my head, I slowly turn my back on it and walk away. Yet no matter how far I walk, the vibrations and pull edge at the back of my mind, calling me towards Akane and its undeniable horrors. But like all dreams, it'll come to an end soon. It has to. I just need to keep walking, pushing through. The door can't reach me on the outside.
A new plain wooden door appears just down the short hallway. The handle is worn from years of use and the white trim matches our greeting room's walls back home. A perfect replica. Without looking back, I walk over and turn the knob.
My eyes fly open. I wake back up instantly. The darkness still surrounds me, but it has a warm glow to it, resting in the corner as a small reading nook. Mom shifts beside me and pries the AI prosthetic from my tight grip. I can't move, I'm frozen stiff, caught between sleep and wake—sleep paralysis. While it slowly wears off, I listen in on the conversation.
The client stands from the chair, her red eyes swollen from crying further. "Is your daughter going to be alright, Lilian?"
"Yes, dreamwalking is second nature to her. You don't need to worry. More importantly, I hope this prosthetic will give you all the information you've been looking for." Mom hands it to the client. The woman first uses her tablet to scan the leg, then tinkers with it until the chip pops out into her palm. She quickly zips it into a small bag and drops it into her red Prada.
"Thank you." The client bows her head slightly. "The leg is no use to me. I trust you can dispose of it and the mug?"
Mom wears her best business smile. "For a fee, we certainly can."
After grabbing a tissue, the client nods and exits the room without another word. So quick to leave. Most do after they witness an object just materializing out of thin air.
Most don't believe in their abilities until they witness it first-hand. When they do, it freaks people out, their brains can't handle the unexplained and supernatural. Only a small percentage are intrigued, even try to persuade Mom into leaving our current employer. Money talks and usually works, but this is one agreement we can never accept because our family works for The Andreatte Estate. And we owe them a life debt.
As the lights come on overhead, I have to blink for a minute until the dots disappear. My fingers start twitching by my sides, and soon I'm able to move my hands and feet. With the client gone, I asks the question once more. "Why do you think the door to Akane popped up?"
"I don't know. Sometimes the door just appears... I'll look into it, but I'm sure it's nothing." Mom gently runs her fingers through my wind-blown hair, picking a leaf out here and there. "You did great today. I'm so proud of you, mija."
I slowly sit up. My legs are taking a bit longer to stop feeling numb and I try pinching at my thighs to get them moving quicker. Two minutes pass before I'm able to stand up. Mom helps me off the futon, holding on to part of my weight until I can stand just fine on my own, but she doesn't let go. Instead, Mom pokes at a hole in my shirt and I groan.
"I wish you wouldn't take so many risks while dreamwalking. You know how worried I get watching you." Mom finally releases me. "I'm going to talk to Kusanagi Sensei about working more on your offense. You can't run away forever."
I sigh. "Mom. Come on. Are you seriously not trying to kill me? You know how hard Kusanagi Sensei is already."
"That's exactly what we pay her for." Mom brushes past me and dumps the water from her black bowl onto the bushes outside the window. "Every year there are fewer dreamwalkers in this world. We're a dying race. You need to cherish your life the best you can."
We walk out of the Studio and lock up. Our client's car is long gone, no one nearby in sight. Woods spread throughout the entire Andreatte Estate. Birds chirp high into the tree tops, cicadas sing and lighting bugs flash their little lights on and off, drifting through the branches and bushes like dandelions, signaling the end of Spring.
I begin walking back home, following a gravel sidewalk winding through the woods. It isn't too far from the Studio, but Mom feels it's safer to keep our business at a distance. Just in case, as she always says. I don't mind. It gives me time to clear my head.
As we walk side by side, we fall into old habits. Mom checks her phone. She scrolls through her emails, deleting one after another, the client contracts pile up otherwise. She has to keep on top of it every day to weed them out until she comes across a gem. One thing I don't look forward to when I finally take over the family business.
After I turn my watch back on, a notification pops up. I tap the watch surface once and the voice message plays. "Hey, girl! We should have lunch at Esquina tomorrow. 3:30 p.m. I'm inviting Aiya, too. You better come and not be hiding out in your room all Friday. I've got some exciting news to tell you!" Kenna squeals. "I'll see you soon!"
Damn you, Kenna Andreatte. I have such a bad habit of playing voice messages without a second thought. One I really need to break—asap. For whatever happens next, I have no one to blame but myself. Sigh... why does it have to be Friday?
Fridays are for relaxing, a spa day that consists of staying in bed all day, pigging out on snacks, and binging my favorite show of the week. Now, I have no choice but to go on this lunch date or I'll never hear the end of it from Mom. We can never say no to an Andreatte.
Mom hums. "I haven't seen Kenna in a while. I wonder if she started working full-time at her job yet? What was it? An interior design company?"
"I guess I'll find out tomorrow," I murmur.
Laughing, Mom puts her phone away and takes my arm, walking side by side down the gravel path. She knows how precious my spa Fridays are, but also knows how hard it is living under the Andreatte umbrella. "We should celebrate. How does sushi for dinner sound?"
I hate the lectures and giving up my spa Fridays, but they're worth it in the end. Life is too short to be upset all the time, so I shrug off my annoyance and squeeze closer. It's not that I hate the Andreatte's, I just wish we could live without worrying about repercussions.
Mom's flowery perfume mingles with the distant rain and brings a warm smile to my face. These quiet moments are the best, and after losing Dad so suddenly, I will always cherish what time we have left. "Now you're speaking my language."