"So," said Sander, "no training today. That's . . . different."
They sat at the kitchen table in momentary silence. Mr. Brighteyes had just announced that training will not push through for today, that he had other plans for this afternoon.
Sitting at the head of the table, Mr. Brighteyes nodded. "I've decided to give you all a short break. Besides, I said we were going to get to know each other. I haven't had much time to talk to you, save small talk, since your training began."
It's been three weeks since the first of their weekend meetings, and every Saturday and Sunday afternoon since then, Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Lyn would hike to Mr. Brighteyes's cabin, train under Mr. Bato's strict instruction, freshen up after, and gather around the kitchen table and talk things up with Mr. Brighteyes over tea and snacks. But as Mr. Brighteyes said, time constraint had limited them to mere small talk over these past three weekends, focusing more on training than conversation.
"And I have things to discuss with you," added Mr. Brighteyes, with a smile. "Important things." Then he quickly glanced at each one of them, and added, "Any objections?"
"No," they chorused, causing Mr. Bato, who had been standing next to the stove, to raise an eyebrow at their quick response.
"Very well, then," said Mr. Brighteyes, sliding his chair back and rising to his feet. He walked over to the front door.
"Mister Brighteyes," said Damien, "I thought you said we weren't going to train today."
Mr. Brighteyes picked up an ancient hand lantern that hung on the wall, and pulled the door open. With a smile, he turned to face the five youths standing around the kitchen table, and said, "But I didn't say we would stay indoors."
Gray clouds filled every inch of the sky, muting the daylight to a pale gloom. Leaves shivered in the wind.
It's been like this since mid-September, Lyn noted as they navigated through the trees, Mr. Brighteyes leading the way, his hand lantern swinging as he moved. She transferred her glance from the sky—trees reaching up to the heavens, obstructing her view of the bleak gray expanse—to Sander in front of her. Damien, Jack, and Mr. Brighteyes were a few paces ahead; Max trailed behind her. Then Lyn wondered, for the third time now, how for the past weekend afternoons it had never rained when they were outside, like the heavens had been holding back their tears until they got to The Raven's Nest or to their respective dormitories.
She brought this observation up last night, after training, during dinner with the boys in The Raven's Nest.
Damien shrugged in response. Then he said, "We're just lucky, I guess." And they all settled on that, and said nothing more about it. Just luck.
"So, Lyn," said Mr. Brighteyes, breaking her train of thought. She didn't see him smile, but she knew he had that grin on his face. "You've been wondering, haven't you?"
"Wondering about what?"
"The weather."
Lyn nodded. "Yeah."
"Don't worry," said Mr. Brighteyes, smiling. "Trust me, it won't rain this afternoon. Just like yesterday and last weekend and the weekend before that. The clouds know."
"The clouds know what?" asked Damien.
"That now isn't the time to rain," said Mr. Brigheyes. "Not when you and I are out here, that is."
Jack glanced up and chuckled. "What makes you so sure of that?"
Mr. Brighteyes shot him an amused look. He chuckled. "Because I told them not to."
Jack and Damien exchanged looks, knowing they both thought the same thing: if that was a joke, it wasn't funny. But they said nothing—no one did—and they kept walking, silence enveloping them once again, save the whistling of the wind and the rhythm of their footfalls.
The sky grew dark with each step they took deeper into the woods, trees casting their shadows down upon them, the air dropping in temperature by the minute. Sander checked his watch—a few minutes after half past two. He looked up from his watch, his eyes taking in the shadows and the scene of he and his friends walking the dimly lit path that stretched endlessly before them. But this kind of shade, this sort of darkness, like the sun was leaving their presence without a word, without warning—it wasn't the trees, Sander noticed. Odd. The night and the dark were never this early.
"Let me ask you something," said Mr. Brighteyes, breaking the silence, distracting Sander from his questions unsaid.
"Sure," said Jack, answering for them all.
Mr. Brighteyes shot them a glance. "It's been almost a month now since the first time we met," he started. "And it's about time I get an honest answer from all of you." He smiled and looked back. "Do you trust me?"
Jack's eyebrows rose. "That's the question?"
"Yes," said Mr. Brigtheyes. "That's the question."
Damien thought for a moment. It's been three weeks now, four weeks since they met on the night of the party at the Waltervere Town Cemetery. If Mr. Brighteyes was one of the bad guys, he had an entire month to do them harm. Hell, he could've easily poisoned the snacks they ate after training, or the iced tea he prepared for them. Or added whatever that creep had in his little vial. He had his chance—chances if you consider the three weekend afternoons that had passed. Yet he did nothing to hurt them. They were alive and well and safe.
"I do," said Max, from the back. "I trust you, Mister Brighteyes."
"I trust you," said Sander. "You've proved yourself trustworthy to me." He glanced down at the ground, ashamed at the memory of the night they met and the afternoon after that. "I should've trusted you after you healed me that night, after you saved us. I . . . I'm sorry I doubted you."
Mr. Brighteyes nodded, without a backward glance, although he kept his signature gentle smile on his face. "It's all right, Sander," he assured the bespectacled, blond boy. "Although, I'll be honest, I waited in earnest for the time you could finally say you trust me wholeheartedly. I'm glad you do now, Sander. I'm really glad." A pause. "What about you, Lyn?"
Lyn took a moment to think. "You didn't hurt us," she said, inadvertently voicing Damien's thoughts. "It's been a month now. I guess I can trust you."
Mr. Brighteyes glanced back at Lyn, and Lyn caught that knowing look in his eyes. She could tell he knew she had her hesitations—the quiet melancholy in his expression reflected that—and she wondered then if she had been too obvious.
"Jack?" asked Mr. Brighteyes. "Damien?"
Jack smiled, his usual air of confidence playing at the corners of his lips. "Yeah, sure, Mister Brighteyes. I can trust you." Walking down the shadowy path, he moved to Damien's side, draped an arm over his friend's shoulder. "Damien?" he said, eyebrows waggling in the dim light.
Jack had that look in his eyes, Damien noticed. The kind that said, "Look, if we all say yes, we might get something out of this—a prize, maybe something else. I don't know. C'mon, bruh, just say you trust him. Say yes."
Damien waggled his eyebrows back. Then he turned to Mr. Brighteyes, and said, "Lyn's got a point. We'd be dead by now if you were one of those Slender Men guys. I trust you, Mister Brighteyes." He chuckled. "You said it yourself. No one's going to hurt us with you around. What's the worst that can happen?"
Just then, the sky turned dark, a starless, moonless night. They saw nothing in the shadows—no friend, no tree, no path. Nothing.
"Mister Brighteyes?" Sander's disembodied voice called out. "Mister Brighteyes? Mister Brighteyes, where are we?"
"Sander? Sander, where are you?"
"Max?"
"Sander, I'm—Dude, something's touching me! There's a huge spider on my arm!"
"Ow!"
"Lyn, that you?"
"Damien? Yeah." Lyn hissed in pain, massaging her hand in the dark. "Something hit me. Hard."
"Lyn, that was you? You should've said something. You could've warned me."
"Max?" Lyn reached her hand forward, touching then grasping something long and fleshy.
"That's my arm, all right."
"Yeah. Uh. Sorry." Lyn withdrew her hand, feeling her cheeks flush in embarrassment.
Jack edged forward in the darkness. It took him only a few slow, careful steps before he collided into something solid. He took a step back, then reached into the shadows, his fingers feeling something huge, soft, and warm. Whatever it was was covered in some kind of fabric, he presumed. He then felt hands on his shoulders, and felt them travel down to his biceps. Jack heard a low chuckle, then a high-pitched giggle, then—
"My beautiful mocha man."
"Damien! Cut it out with the White Chicks puns. And get your hands off me!"
"Guys, now's not the time to joke around," said Sander. "We've got to find Mister Brighteyes."
"Bruh, you expect us to look for him when we can't even see each other?" said Jack, his tone serious now.
"Jack's got a point," said Damien.
"All right. If we can't find him, let's just stick together, and make our way back to the cabin, or to the dorms if we could. Everyone, get your phones out. We'll use the flashlights."
"Should've thought of that earlier," said Jack, feeling for his pants pocket, sliding his phone out. He chuckled. "Man, did we hella panic."
"Dudes, my phone's dead," announced Max.
"Mine, too," said Sander.
"I swear I charged mine to full before we left for Mister Brighteyes's cabin," said Lyn. "Mine doesn't work, either."
"There's definitely something freaky about this place, man," said Jack. "And it's cold," he added, shoving his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, arms sticking close to his sides.
Damien shivered. "Tell me about it."
"So what do we do now?" asked Sander, his voice barely above a whisper, yet his words loud enough to be heard in the cold, dark quiet.
"Trust me," said a voice, the words echoing in the vast blackness.
Jack glanced around futilely in the darkness. He knit his brows, recognizing his voice anywhere. "Yo. Mister Bri—"
And with that, the ground vanished beneath their feet, sending them into a free fall . . .
Down.
The uncomfortable feeling of one's heart rising in one's chest. The pressure pushing back against one's ribcage. A song of heartbeats, its rhythm loud and fast and horrible.
Down.
Limbs flailed in the dark. Arms reached out into nothingness.
Down.
Screams resonated in the shadows, identities to the voices lost in the fall.
Down.
Although the deep darkness blinded him, Damien was sure he could make out Jack's voice next to him, cursing and praying and screaming.
Down.
Pitch-black everywhere. Cold air whipped their faces. Max saw nothing, shut his eyes.
Down.
A wild, endless plunge into the darkness, deeper, deeper, deeper . . .
Down.
Down.
Down.
Stop.
Max slowly opened his eyes, then. He should be awake by now, he thought. He expected to find himself in his and Jack's dorm room, on his bed with his blanket spread over him awkwardly, far away from this strange dream. Yet he still saw nothing, and there was no blanket to shield him from the cold.
He felt no pain, he realized. No strike against solid ground. He patted himself down, his palms feeling the fabric of his shirt and his hoodie and his joggers, the tangible existence of limbs and a torso underneath. He wasn't dead.
He wasn't dead.
So, where was he?
A moment's silence, a moment's stillness.
Something glowed in the far distance, something that had not been there since the cease of their fall—a flickering blue dot that appeared out of the deep darkness. Max squinted his eyes to get a better look. It was growing larger by the second, he noticed. Once a mere dot, like a star in the night sky, to a glowing blue orb. No, it wasn't growing in size—it was moving toward them, floating forward in the shadows. And there was someone next to the light, and that someone held the light, a hand clenched below the blue luminous shape, and that someone was walking upside down.
Mr. Brighteyes now stood before them, holding up an antique hand lantern, a mesmerizing ocean blue fire burning within. The fire was bright enough to shed light on each of the youths, finally making them visible to each other. All five of them floated a little more than a meter above the ground (if there was even a floor beneath Mr. Brighteyes's feet, to start). Damien looked as if he took an abrupt pause mid-flight. Jack almost looked like a mummy put upright, arms crossed over his chest, hands grasping his biceps, legs close together. Sander's limbs were splayed out awkwardly, his body shifting backward in slow motion. Lyn was hugging her legs to her chest, rotating gradually in the air. Max found himself suspended upside down.
A smile made its way to Mr. Brighteyes's lips, the smile one smiled at the sight of something comical. Then, looking up at them, he said, "What's up? How's it hanging?"
"Ha-ha, Mister Brighteyes," said Jack, his tone sarcastic. "Real funny."
Sander looked around, then grabbed hold of Mr. Brighteyes's outstretched hand. "What is this place?"
Mr. Brighteyes pulled him down to his level, slowly and gently, helping the blond bespectacled boy to an upright position. Damien and Jack stood still waiting; Max and Lyn were waiting for Mr. Brighteyes to assist them down, as they had been told to do.
"We are somewhere between the beginning and the end," replied Mr. Brighteyes, gently pulling Lyn down by the arms.
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Jack, perplexed.
Mr. Brighteyes glanced in Jack's direction, then resumed to helping Max turn himself right-side up.
"We are in a dead world," explained Mr. Brighteyes. He pulled Max down to the nonexistent ground they stood on, and picked up his hand lantern. "We are nowhere," he went on, with a smile. "And this." He raised his left arm skyward (if there was even a sky above them), and lifted the lantern up with his right hand. "This is nothing."
Jack could have groaned out loud, if only Mr. Brighteyes wasn't a man to be respected. Sander fought the urge to smack a palm against his forehead, and found it surprising, upon realization, that his glasses were still intact and still sat on the bridge of his nose. The other three remained quiet, yet just as lost and frustrated as Jack and Sander were.
To put it briefly, whatever Mr. Brighteyes said did nothing to make anything better.
"And I must tell you," added Mr. Brighteyes, remembering, "that this is not real. This we are in is a simulation of some sort. It's to help you all see things a little more clearly, envisage things better than me merely reading from a history book."
"So," said Max, "you're telling us this is some sort of walkthrough, 4-D presentation?"
"You can call it that."
Max found himself smiling, despite their current situation. He looked around, eyes wandering over the nothing around him. "Cool."
Damien turned to Jack, and smiled a mischievous smile. Then he whispered, "So the old man took us out to a wack field trip we didn't ask for. Nice."
"Precisely, Damien," said Mr. Brighteyes, startling both of them. "A field trip." Damien felt his face flush, embarrassed. "Now," Mr. Brighteyes went on, raising a finger up. "Stay here."
"Mr. Brighteyes," Sander called out, taking a step forward. He then felt a strange sensation on his left foot, the foot he had put out. Any step farther, he thought, and he would lose his balance, end up floating midair as he did a few minutes ago. So he drew his foot back and down, and stood still.
Mr. Brighteyes glanced back at them. "I will not be far," he said. A pause, a smile. "You trust me, don't you?"
They all nodded, wordlessly.
With that, Mr. Brighteyes turned his sights to face forward and walked on a few paces. Then he stopped. He stood close enough for them to see him, close enough for the blue light of his lantern to touch the edges of their figures.
See, not far.
"Oh, by the way," said Mr. Brighteyes, back turned to them, face hidden from view. "Make sure not to look at my face as I do my little performance, until I tell you it's safe."
Jack's eyebrows drew together. "Why?"
Mr. Brighteyes shrugged. "It'll be too much for any of you." A pause. "You'll fall dead in a second of a heartbeat."
The youths exchanged glances, eyes wide. The looks on their faces read, What the actual—? Then, This is Mr. Brighteyes we're talking about. You'd have to be an idiot to risk going against his instruction. They all understood, without saying a word, and none of them were willing to risk it: after what they'd been through, what once made no sense was now real and completely sensible.
Mr. Brighteyes began to glow—a lone white star in the deep shadows of oblivion—brighter and brighter and brighter. The wind picked up, particles blowing against their direction, swirling around them. The last thing Damien, Jack, Sander, Max, and Lyn saw was the raise of a lucid hand, a wave in the air. They shut their eyes, then, hands flying over their faces.
There was an explosion, a deafening silence as light burst forth.
Everything seemed to have gone still, no sound, no movement.
Max felt something wet lap his feet, drenching his shoes and the hem of his pants. Hands still over his face, he opened his eyes, slowly and cautiously, and looked down.
Someone had turn the light on—its radiance slipping past the cracks between his fingers, spilling out everywhere around him. Warmth dispelled the earlier chill, or rather neutralized it to produce a temperature that was just right—not too warm to make one sweat, nor too cold to make one shiver. Water, blue and clear, sloshed around his feet, quickly rising all the way up to his calves.
He dropped his hands down, looked around him. The sky above was the clearest blue he had ever seen, the sun bathing them in daylight. His friends stood unmoving around him, eyes shut.
"Hey, guys," said Max. "I think we can open our eyes now."
Hands lowered down, slowly, away from their faces; eyes opened, cautiously.
Jack looked up and around. "Bruh," he said, "where are we?"
"A beach, I think," said Sander, eyes down, watching water splash against his legs. He turned his sights up, and gazed across the sea to the thin line that set apart two expanses, both deep and endless and blue. "I don't know what beach this is, though."
"Guess none of us do," said Damien. "We're in some simulation, remember? I've got a feeling this might be the world Mister Brighteyes came from."
Lyn's eyes, however, were trained on something floating high above them. "Do . . ." A deep breath in, the expression on her face a cross between captivated and terrified. "Do you see that?" she whispered.
Sander and Max heard her, then followed her line of sight. Damien and Jack noticed, and did the same.
Jack's jaw dropped. "You've got to freakin' be kidding me."