The next scene to appear is not a dream, but a memory. I squeeze my right hand, confirming my presence. The smallness of my fingers tells me it’s an old memory. I’m lying on the cold shingles of a slanted roof, closing my eyes.

My left hand is being held tightly within a small, soft hand. “Now, clear your mind, Jean,” the woman’s delicate voice hums in my ear.

“Release the tension in your shoulders and relax yourself until you feel a tingle in your feet. Now, let that tingling feeling crawl all the way up to your chest, and fall into your arms and your head.”

Her voice cowers into a low whisper, sounding further and further away as her hand slowly peels away from mine.

“Now focus your mind on moving your arms. Only try to move with the tingling feeling, and forget that your arms are able to move by themselves. When you’re ready, leap as far into the sky as you can- here, I’ll go first.”

My body buzzes like a bee from the inside, and I feel as if my mind itself is forming anew and crawling out of my physical body. Through my closed eyelids the starry night comes into view. A flash of silver light ascends into the starry sky. I follow the light, climbing as if the night’s sky serves as a metaphysical staircase just for me.

For some time, I climb, until the stars surround me, bright and angelic in their form. Archaic auras swim amongst them, like a pool of silver consciousness watching me as I travel.

Far, far ahead in the distant space, I am beckoned by a light, one so ambivalent despite its monolithic stature that it incites both wonder and fright within me.

I return at the sound of a finger snapping softly in my ear, open my eyes, and survey her divine figure, shadowed by the dark. Her long brown hair flows gently with the wind, blanketing her face before revealing a warm smile underneath her beauty spot.

“How did it feel? What did you see?”

“The stars are watching us, too.”

“You think so?” she says, amused.

“They are reaching out to us, too, aren’t they?”

“I wonder why that is, Jean. Don’t you?”

At the blink of an eye, the scenery changes to the dining room of my childhood home. An exquisite breakfast lays before me, daring me to consume all four plates full of nutritious foods.

My parents sit at a table in front of me. Their smiling faces are clearer than my memory of them could ever conjure. My father, bespectacled and clean cut, wears his black hair the same way I do now. My mother’s dark brown locks and brown eyes suit her fair skin and beauty spot under her eye. A truly motherly figure, whose warmth spreads to me over the table like a cozy fireplace.

“Sweetie, it’s amazing the academic level you’ve reached, and at 7 years old,” my mother says with the same smile she showed me on the rooftop. “And we’re both so thrilled you’ve taken an interest in our work. You’re our little genius, aren’t you?”

I can’t stop myself from grinning from ear to ear, beaming affectionately at my parents as my father clears his throat.

“Which is why, Jean…” he follows, narrowing his gaze on me. “We want you to help us with our work. We’ve decided to leave the World Neuroscience Institute and are actually going to be working at home for a while, you see? So, what do you say? Would you like to help us fulfill our research?”

Compelled by the actions of my past self, I nod my head fervently.

With a heavy blink, the scene shifts once more to our home’s study. Three raggedy men are seated in arm-chairs, their sleeves rolled up as my father injects something into their arms one by one. My mother stands next to me, whispering in my ear.

“Remember, Jean- you’re following the funny-looking bearded man in the middle.”

After turning off the light, my father leads my mother and I into the living room. We each lay down on a separate sofa, and remain silent. I follow the steps as mother trained me, and leave my body before they do, gliding like a specter down the hall where I peer into the dark study.

An unnerving quiet persists for minutes before the malnourished bearded man leaves his body in the form of a silver, ghost-like figure. He passes through the ceiling, unaware of my presence. I follow close behind him, leaving the house for the newly dawned morning.

The ghostly man floats ahead of me, oblivious of my stalking. He doesn’t seem to have any destination in mind, merely wondering through the streets while dazedly watching the morning commuters.

Suddenly, a traffic incident ensues right beneath us. The shock pulls me back into my body at once.

I open my eyes, and discover my parents have already come back. “For the third time, only one of them ascended to the stars, despite our direction,” my father mutters while hurriedly jotting in his notepad.

“And not far,” my mother adds, a disappointed look on her face. “Jean did so much better on his first try. We’ll need to try different subjects, since it’s unlikely these ones will ever get as far as us, let alone Jean…”

“Reaching the singularity is the goal, JC,” my father responds in a strict tone as he places his hand on my mother’s shoulder. “However, it’s important to continue taking data, regardless. There’s always something to be gained in remaining steadfast to the process, even if you aren’t succeeding.”

He turns to me, chuckling through his nose. “Try to remember that, Jean.” I nod, mouth agape in curiosity.

“Besides,” he continues, “we have to be careful not to attract the eye of the Colonel. We cannot take the risk of exposing these men to him right now, nor can we afford to go recruiting any more mentally unstable homeless men. Also, we only took enough of that for around ten runs … if these three don’t show significant results after nine, I’ll assume the role myself.”

“And after that?” my mother whispers urgently as she glances my way, clearly reluctant to carry on in front of me. “If we fail to produce the proof that will convince the Institute to invest in our research on astral projection and cosmic exploration… what then? And when the Colonel realizes what we took from him?”

“Then we leave,” my father answers in a firm, unwavering tone. “Together.”

My mother looks at me, and nods at him. “We still have all the past data, even if we fail. We can start over In Paris, where my parents are- or anywhere else, as long as we’re together.”

The scene shifts once more, and I find myself following the scraggly man on the same path through town. We make it further this time, but another incident occurs, breaking my concentration and forcing me back.

Two tries later, the ghostly man follows the same path, and arrives at a small residential home. Through the open window, he watches as a woman and small child sit at a table, eating.

“Mama, is Papa going to come home, today?” the small child bearing short, black hair asks as she prods at her eggs with her plastic fork.

“Honey, your Papa is still fighting, so you need to be a good girl and go to school like normal,” the woman replies in a soft, yet cold tone.

“What kind of battle is Papa fighting?” the child asks, frowning at her mother.

“That’s something he’ll have to tell you someday…”

Unable to watch anymore, he slumps down from the windowsill, and floats over the uncut grass. He begins wailing loudly, while clawing at his translucent face. The sounds of his wailing echo far and wide, yet I am the only one able to hear them.

Therefore, I stand witness in silence- the sole observer to his fit of anguish. Finally, after what seems like hours, the man’s cries subside. However, he does not move. Therefore, I finally turn away from him.

Just as I do, something appears from behind another house. Another silver ghostly figure, in the shape of a lanky teenage boy- not a match for either of the other men under my family’s watch. He seems somewhat familiar, as if I know him from somewhere, though I cannot put my finger on it.

As quickly as he appeared, he vanishes. Thinking I must be seeing hallucinations as a side effect of the projection, I carry on, floating back through town with an indescribable melancholy filling my head. Before returning home, I float along the boardwalk lining the coast which harbors a host of houses and festive stalls on the water. For a while, I forget my melancholy, and take in the communal joy I’d never known, watching siblings chase each other and parents hug their children.

Before long, I remember my duty- that I am expected to return, and document my observations. Therefore, I hesitantly head back into town, toward my home.

A sense of dread pervades as I recall this series of events, knowing I will be forced to relive everything. However, the moment of unrelenting despair displayed by the bearded man remains at the forefront of my mind the entire way home.

Upon returning, I report everything to my father. He silently makes notes until I finish, never noticing my sunken mood.

“Father,” I mumble while he continues to write, tapping his index finger impatiently. “Is what we’re doing okay? Will it help these men fix their problems?”

“You are young, Jean,” he responds, pausing his writing to look sternly at me. “Let your mother and I worry about those things. What’s important is the research, and that we are together.”

“But my chest feels tight…”

“You must live your life for you, Jean,” he says in a stronger tone. “You cannot save everyone you pity. We humans simply lack the strength. You can, however, use all of your strength to help those whom you hold dear, those you wish to remain in your life. Never forget that, okay?”

Compelled by his words, I answer with a short nod.

The scene shifts abruptly, bringing me back to my living room. The men are all seated, awaiting the next run. I’m rummaging through the cabinet on the west side of room, looking for a relaxant to give them. My parents are unusually late in arriving, so I’ve decided to start things out myself.

As I make for the corner to go and ask them about the relaxant I chose, my attention is inexplicably drawn to the back door behind me. I slowly pan my head over, just as something silver and flowy passes through the door.

The figure is the same ghostlike figure of a teenaged boy I had seen prior. He locks eyes with me for a moment, frozen in place, before turning his attention to the doorknob. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen a projection do, he turns the doorknob. The door opens slowly, while I’m frozen in place, watching the ghostly figure drift back through the door and out of sight.

The door bursts open. A large crowd pours in, full of professional-looking people in suits. Many of them begin snapping photos with their oversized cameras, while others make for the three men on the sofas.

An older man walks in, bearing a white coat that matches his beard and hair. An entourage of black suits follow behind him as I stagger down the hallway, wishing to let my parents know what is happening so that we can escape, together- as they had said.

However, before I reach the end of the hallway, a man’s cry compels me to turn back. The bearded man whom I’d been assigned shrieks as he’s thrown to the floor behind the couch.

The white-haired man stands over him as the crowd collects around them in a firefight of camera flashes. The white-haired man sticks something in the man’s arms while the suits hold him still.

For a moment, I hesitate, my gaze bouncing between both ends of the hallway, between the empty, soundless end, and the one where the man’s cry is coming from. I know what my choice will bring, but I feel compelled by the man’s cries.

My legs move on their own, and I push my way through the crowd of reporters. Nearly falling into the opening in the middle, I catch myself as all eyes fall upon me. In the brief moment in which their surprise renders them immobile, I snatch the clear tubes out of the man’s arms.

Just as I do, however, I realize just how foolish my action is. Before I can even decide what to do next, I’m immediately stopped in my tracks by what feels like a supernatural force. It seems like I’m in a car that’s reached the top of a steep hill and left with no gas or breaks.

The white-haired man is gripping my chest’s pressure points with near superhuman strength. It feels like my entire upper body is being constricted, my spine shocked, as I begin to lose feeling and motor skill. I’m being pushed forcibly backwards. I don’t even know if my legs are moving or if I’m being inexorably glided. Within seconds I’m pulled to the ground, and the old man is injecting something warm into both of my arms. I see the kitchen at the other end of the hallway, and nothing else. I’m beginning to lose consciousness.

“Your parents stole from me,” the man says as he kneels over me. “They stole much from me, thinking they would get away with it… thinking they would be the ones to discover the truth in the stars and take credit for publicizing the inevitability we face.”

As everything begins to fade away, I remember my desire to warn my parents. At least they should be able to escape, even if I don’t. However, as I begin screaming for help, I realize that I’m only screaming in my head. My sounds are muffled, my mouth completely numb at this point. I cannot move nor call out to them.

I’m falling somewhere, a place where everything is dark. Before the feeling of finality can finish washing over me, I decide I can’t give up, and reject this scenario. One last try, I decide. I make every last bit of my mind explode with energy and-

I open my eyes. Rather, they are not my eyes, but a pair of eyes in which I am borrowing. What I’m looking at is the vast expanse of space, from the viewpoint of a gigantic, burning star. My figure stands amid the boisterously burning light, nearly holographic in form. It’s similar to the ghostlike projections, but with more physical energy and presence.

I instantly understand that this body does not belong to me. Rather, I belong to it. It is me, but I am not it. For just a moment, I am allowed to feel its sensations. It feels every bit like the burning star it’s standing on, boisterous and powerful. I look upon my large, silver hands, and form them into fists, wishing to harness the great energy of the star beneath me.

Even if for a moment, I wish to use the celestial power. My sensations begin to fade, as I remember myself. My vision goes blank, but I am still grasping at the otherworldly source of power. Brief glimpses of the scene in my parents’ living room flash before me: my fists moving with godlike speed, tubes snapping, and blood spilling. Black suits and a white coat lay on the floor in a pool of blood, along with dozens of broken cameras.

The glimpses passing through my head change to the outside world: the morning sun shining over the city, a road sign reading “Leaving Reykjavik”, and the lush green Icelandic hillside. Bloodied feet, mangled deer and rabbits, tattered clothes, and finally, a small village, and a quaint two-story home.

The power fades away from my clenched fists as I am brought to my senses at last. I’m standing in front of a tired-looking woman with her sleeves rolled up. Four boys around my age stand behind her, suspicious of me.

“You’ll be living here now, unless the police decide to do something else with you,” she says without a hint of emotion. “You’ll have your own room, so be happy. They said you were under severe distress when they found you, after all. Finn, you’ll move to Edmond’s room, understand?”

The shortest of the boys jumps out in front of her, protesting. However, I am lost in a daze, as if I had not yet fully woken up yet. I find myself staring at my arms as I move my hands slowly, realizing my arms have grown longer.

I take up residence in the small room, though I don’t have any belongings. Finn had moved everything with him to Edmond’s room, even the bed frame, leaving only an old, worn-down mattress and blanket. Having been told to rest despite the sun pouring through my dusty, ineffective blinds, I curl up under the blanket.

I continue staring at my hands while clenching them repeatedly. Finally, the sun passes beyond my window, so I close my eyes and attempt to sleep. However, my body won’t relax as easily as it used to. My hands continue pumping in and out of fists, and my brain feels as though it doesn’t need sleep.

I give up on sleeping, and walk quietly down the stairs and approach the cramped kitchen, where the foster mother is cooking eggs and potatoes. I look in a mirror in the hall, noting how much longer my hair is. It’s reaching my ribs, and its thinness matches my face and body.

“Excuse me,” I call to the homely woman in a hoarse voice I’ve never heard. “Is there a newspaper?”

“Huh?” she responds, looking me over with a curious expression. “You aren’t sleeping like I told you. Hmph, oh well. Look on the counter over there.”

“Thank you,” I respond quietly, retrieving the morning paper from the nook on the other side of the small dining table. I look immediately for the date in the corner, and drop the paper upon finding it.

“Three years…” I whisper under my breath, staring at my trembling hands. “Where was I… what happened?”

“What’s that?” the foster mother grunts, looking my way. “Speak up, boy- oh right, what’s your name?”

“My name…” I mutter, looking at her with a blank expression. “JC.”

“Right, that’s what you told the police, too,” she responds, turning back to the stovetop. “No last name, no background, no identity. How did you end up in a small village like Vik, without any family or memory?”

“I’m sorry,” I respond, looking down.

“Don’t apologize, foolish boy,” she barks, glancing sideways at me. “What are you looking for in the paper, anyway?”

“Work,” I respond with a slightly enthusiastic expression.

“Work?” she asks, shocked. “You’re only ten or eleven, boy.”

“I need money,” I answer calmly. “So, I can have more than a bed.”

The memory fades away as the scene changes, new memories flashing by wherein I’m hunting, fishing, and doing countless odd jobs and manual labor.

Finally, the scene shifts to my new room, decorated with a desk and an old computer, along with a chair and several other additions.

My hand operates the mouse smoothly as I browse the web via the search function. I’m scrolling through search results that include headlines like “Neuroscientist family missing” and “Horrific scene at the home of famed neuroscientists leaves ten dead”.

All of them are dated three years prior, and outline the same general story. “The married neuroscientists, Jeanne-Claude and Vladimir Christo, were being investigated by their former employers, the World Neuroscience Institute’s Iceland headquarters led by the esteemed Colonel Ivanov, for allegedly stealing research on astral projection. Having gained evidence of the stolen research and drugs, Colonel Ivanov conducted an unlawful raid of the Christo household, taking several reporters for the sake of documentation. There it was found that the Christo couple had taken in three drug-addicted homeless men to be used in conjunction with the stolen research and drugs.

“The Colonel and his security team secured the three victimized men, one reporter said, but were met with hostility by the 7- year-old son of the Christo couple, Jean. Described as inhabiting an otherworldly presence due likely to the drugs, the boy killed the Colonel and his men, destroyed the reporters’ equipment, and escaped on his own. As police arrived on the scene, it was discovered that Jeanne-Claude and Vladimir Christo had fled the scene as well, some personal belongings gone with them.

The police have asked that civilians report any sightings of the couple, as well as the young boy believed to be by himself. The World Neuroscience Institute has not made any comment, other than confirming the stolen research belonged to the deceased Colonel Ivanov.”

Every article reads similar, with no new updates regarding the whereabouts of my parents, or myself- of course.

My thin visage, warped facial construction, and overgrown hair do not match the pictures posted of my 7-year-old self. It’s no wonder the police never made the connection. I’m lucky I ended up at this small village, rather than a town with better equipped police.

I continue my search, looking at various articles about astral projection. The WNSI had not come out with any new findings regarding it, so the latest archives are papers published by my parents while they were still employed by them. They speak of celestial communication via projection, and a new enlightenment that can be found by reaching a certain singularity- an enlightenment that will impact the future of our environment, and the concerns revolving around it.

My mother wrote a piece specifically focusing on the astral state- a spiritual state one enters while projecting outside their body. Dated after my parents left the Institute, it details the mindset you must be in to achieve an astral state, and the benefits of reaching it, as well as the possibility of communicating with otherworldly, even godlike entities that you would never be able to communicate with otherwise. It cites previously rumored testimony of several men who claim to have reached a certain ‘singularity’ that warned them of an impending disaster, but have since gone missing.

These are all things my parents had told me three years ago. Only now can I connect the dots that the testimony of the missing men must have been part of the research data that my parents stole- the reason they were able to teach me how to project.

Bringing up a new tab, I search for calming music and close my eyes as it plays. I haven’t tried this in over three years, so even the act of easing my breathing proves difficult. I think about my parents, and the sacrifices they made to try and prove what they believed in. I picture their faces, relaxed yet focused as they attempt to project.

Next, I picture their anguished faces, regretful at having to run away and give up on their dream. Focusing on the hopes of finding them through projection, I steady my mind and relax my limbs, just as my mother taught me. However, the sensation never comes to me, and I am stuck with the image of their anguished faces.

Are they disappointed in me, I wonder? Did I fail them when I jumped to the rescue of the unfortunate man? Are they able to continue their research, wherever they are? Are they able to project? If not, then that duty should be mine.

However, my nails are bitten to their limit before I finally decide to give up, unable to reach the astral state in which I had so easily achieved three years prior. As I stand and make for the bathroom in the hall, my door swings open. The other foster boys pile in and tackle me to the floor. Having grown used to their beatings, I simply take it in silence, assuming that they will leave my computer unharmed if I don’t fight back. Of course, I wonder if the foster mother would do anything if they did damage my things. Surely, she hears them kicking me relentlessly, but she won’t call out for them to stop for at least another minute or two, as if hoping they’ll stop on their own.

The scene shifts to the lobby of the small police station, the place I was first taken to when I was discovered. The officer who found me is sitting at a desk, greeting me with a smile. I briefly thank him for his help those three years ago. He smiles, noting “I see how hard you’ve been working in this town. Thank you, too. I hope you’ll continue to do well here, for my sake and the sake of your foster mother. She may be a bit rough around the edges, but she gives a lot to take care of you boys who aren’t her own.” I nod at him, promising to work hard for their sake.

The scene shifts once more as I find myself back at my computer with no light in the room aside from the screen. I’m searching a popular video sharing website for tips on astral projecting. Among the results, I find a video that had just been uploaded today, titled “Shiburei debut recital, performing new song: Astral”.

I play the video, and the girl’s song rings in my head like something out of a dream. The sweet melody makes me feel at home, reminding me of the boardwalk in my hometown. While I listen, entranced by her piano, my foster brothers break into my room and begin their assault.

I grip the headphones tight, drowning myself in the song as my consciousness fades to black. The black then fades to the place in the stars, on the surface of one great big star. The boisterous entity thrusts itself through space, pulling in and devouring smaller stars and leaving only shining fragments in its wake. The more it devours, the faster it becomes, and the more power I feel within my silver hands. However, instead of holding onto the power as I had before, I open my hands, letting it go.

The scene shifts, once again, to the police station. The foster mother ushers me inside the lobby with an impatient demeanor, and the officer waves at me with a big grin, holding something behind his back.

“Do you know what today is?” he asks, excited. I shake my head, peering at him blankly.

“Well, today marks six years since you came to this town,” he says in a more subdued voice. “Since we don’t know your birthday, I figured this would do. So, anyways, this is for you.”

He reveals a small envelope with “JC” scrawled on it.

“I remember you expressing a desire to sail when you visited once. This license will allow you to do so- which makes your horizons even broader than before. Now you can work as a fisherman, among other things.”

“Isn’t that great?” the foster mother urges, smirking slightly while crossing her arms.

That night, I sit at my computer, listening intently to another one of Shiburei’s songs. The door of my room threatens to burst open, but a small sofa wedged underneath the handle keeps it safely shut.

Since I didn’t come down for dinner, the boys have been relentlessly attempting to come in my room. For the first time, I’ve decided to refuse their abuse. I’ve decided I do not want to be pummeled anymore. Because I now have something that gives my life value. My gaze shifts to the small sailing license that lists my age as 17- a lie, and uses the foster mother’s last name.

I place the license within my oversized wallet, alongside the cheap compact music player I just bought, and a thick wad of cash- everything I’ve earned up till now. I fold the wallet before sliding it in my pocket, and shift my gaze to my backpack.

Ensuring it’s properly zipped, I turn my attention back to Shiburei’s new song. The melody fills me with me hope, optimistic for a new start. The comment I type reflects my sentiment, garnering plenty of interaction from other commenters.

Finally, the hunger pangs take over, and I lose consciousness. Taken back to the great devouring star once more, I watch as a new silver, humanoid being points far out into space- in the direction we are headed, where a new star system awaits. The system of large, colored stars contains one in particular, covered in a vast blue and green hue, which strikes me.

I clench my blurred fists, overcome with a feeling of longing, a feeling that I can never truly hold anything within such blurred hands. Yet I clench them harder, trying to grasp the power that flows through me from the burning star.

I open my eyes again, to find myself still staring into the stars. Rather, I am viewing them from the other side. I cannot see the great burning star from here, only the countless small stars.

Looking down, I find my fists clinched, covered in blood. I’m standing in the street in front of my foster home, my upstairs window and the front door left open. The four boys lie motionless on the wet pavement, their bloodied bodies illuminated by the yellow hue of the street lights.

Repositioning my worn-down headphones, I take one last look at the place I’ve called home for the last six years, before turning my back on it- compelled by the melody playing in my ears.

“I must protect this beautiful sound.”

The dimly lit streets, fogged over and uninhabited, lead me on a downhill run, toward the beach. I reach the docks before dawn, and spot a small commercial boat in the middle of boarding. Presenting my license along with some cash, I board without issue.

As the boat pulls away from the dock, I stand on the deck, watching as the small town of Vik grows smaller and smaller, until it’s out of sight.

The scene shifts to another dock, where I’ve disembarked before anyone else had awaken. The early morning sky matches the quaintness of the dock, complete with several old boathouses. I’m greeted by a sign reading “Welcome to Ireland”, as well as a man in black garb making his way to the boat I just left.

The man, tall in stature and intimidating in demeanor, stops in his tracks when he sees me. His black beret casts a shadow over his face as he eyes me suspiciously.

“What are you doing in a place like this by yourself, kid?” he asks in a gruff voice.

“Traveling,” I mutter, avoiding eye contact.

“Run away, then?” he fires back with a coarse chuckle. I silently take a step forward, attempting to hide my shaking hands.

“None of my business, right?” he says, coughing as he laughs. “Say, you look like you’re hurting for money. Should I help you find your parents?”

Unable to ignore this, I whip my head back, glaring at the tall man with something akin to violent hunger in my eyes.

“Ah, now those are the eyes I was hoping to see,” he says in a low, threatening voice. “As I thought, you’ve got potential, kid.”

“Potential for what?” I ask, baring my teeth like an animal attempting to fend off a larger predator.

“For doing the dirty work that needs to be done for this world to continue sleeping peacefully in ignorance.”

The man walks toward the docked boat, before casually tossing something across the deck into the ship’s small lodgings. He walks back toward me, carelessly lighting a cigarette. After a moment of eerie silence, the ship’s lodgings implode, bursting into flames.

“There was a political extremist on that boat,” he mutters, closing the distance between us while I stand, frozen in place. “He intended to enter the country and spearhead a movement that would lead to a great banking crisis- one that has already befallen Iceland.”

“But how did you...?” I mutter as the man turns my shoulder and ushers me alongside him as he walks to the other side of the wharf.

“My employer, has a vast information network,” he responds in a low voice, keeping his head down as several staffers run from within their buildings toward the burning ship. “They’re known as the Shibutani Group.”

“Shibu…tani?” I mutter, narrowing my eyes.

“They’re a massive Japanese company with influence over world politics, economy, and the entertainment industry. They have an uncanny ability to predetermine large-scale events before they happen, and can prepare accordingly. Jobs come in almost every day, asking me to kill, escort, or simply watch people that threaten their interests. It’s good money, and there’s meaning in doing it. Sound like something you’d be interested in?”

“Me?” I blurt out, staring wide-eyed at the man. “Why?”

“I said you had potential, didn’t I?” he grunts, raising his brow at me.

“Wait… you’re not giving me a choice, are you?” I mumble, looking down at the boards our feet tread swiftly over. “Telling me all that… you’ll just kill me if I say no, won’t you?”

“Nah,” he replies, yawning after taking a drag from his cigarette. “You’re not a threat, so there’s no real downside to telling you. You’re just some runaway- you’ll either die on your own or work for me, and gain some valuable life experience. So, what d’ya say?”

“Sure, if it pays,” I mutter, giving in despite my suspicion.

“Great,” he grunts, smiling as he pats me on the back. “Name’s Killian. What about you?”

“JC.”

“JC?” he asks curiously. “What’s that stand for?”

“It’s just JC.”

“Hah!” he chortles, “that’s boring. Let’s make it Jean.”

“Wha-” I stammer, looking with wide eyes at the man.

“Jean-Cathal!” he remarks, cutting me off. “You look half-French, so Jean! But you’re in Ireland now, so Cathal! It means ‘battle rule’, so it suits your new job.”

I give a hesitant nod as Killian exhales smoke satisfactorily, unconcerned with the rising panic on the enflamed dock.

The scene shifts to an unassuming hostel. I’m lying in a raggedy bed, tending to wounds all over my torso. The door of the small room is knocked on five times, before it opens.

“Got the next job from the Shibutani Group,” Killian says, tossing an unopened beer bottle on my battered stomach. Rather than grunt in pain, I apply the cold bottle to my bruised ribs, sighing with relief as the cold spreads through my upper body.

“Will you let me take part in this one?” I ask, sure of the answer I’ll get.

“Nah,” he says, lighting a cigarette as he sits on his own bed. “You still can’t hold your own against me, so you’d only get in my way. If you work hard enough, four more months should be enough.”

“It’s already been six…” I mutter, clicking my tongue before popping the cap of the beer bottle with my teeth.

“And it’s impressive that you’re on track to being a professional in six months, especially at your age,” he responds, smirking underneath his black beret. “And with that scrawny build, to boot.”

Placing the bottle cap between my thumb and middle finger, I flick it at Killian. Despite its speed and the close distance, he catches it with ease. Copying me, he flicks it at my injured rib faster than I can react. Grunting in pain, I snatch the cap angrily and take a swig from my bottle.

Six months later, I’m following Killian down a dark alleyway. The man we’re tailing had noticed us and dove into the alley. He’s desperately trying to lose us, but our speed is no match for him. As we close the distance, the man fires a haphazard shot at us from a pistol. We both swerve out of the way, and Killian grabs a hold of me.

“You get him, kid!” he grunts as he throws me forcefully ahead. My trajectory takes me into the man’s back, where I swiftly disarm him before he can fire another shot. As we collide, our momentum sends us toppling over. As I roll, I secure his gun, careful not to let it fire. Before I can rise to my knees, Killian is already on top of the man, holding a knife to his throat.

“Please, let me go!” he cries, “I’ll give you as much money as you want!”

“Excuse me,” Killian grunts as he presses the knife down, drawing blood. “Are you implying we are poor and in need of money?”

“No!” the man cries in a panic. “I just thought that I-”

“We have plenty of money, pal,” Killian seethes, pressing the knife down further. “So, I’ll ask you this: will you stop supplying dirty money to gangsters here in Hong Kong? It’s hurting a legitimate business relationship between them and the Shibutani Group.”

“I-I don’t know anything-”

The man’s pleas are cut short. I stand over him, having fired a round from my suppressed pistol into his heart.

“Jean-Cathal! I was having fun!” Killian cries, like a child having its toy taken away.

“The orders were to off him from the beginning, Kill” I grunt in response, walking away. “I’ll never understand your sadistic tendency to toy with your prey.”

“When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you need to retain some of the thrill somehow,” Killian answers, springing up and following me. “Oh, speaking of! That was your first kill, wasn’t it? This calls for a drink, Cathal! Let’s go to the pub, eh?”

“It’s JC,” I respond in a monotone voice. “And that’s not my first kill…” my voice trails off as I look down, before perking up, brow raised mischievously. “But I will still go to the pub.”

“What?” he asks, dumbfounded. “You’ve been holding out on me? Alright, you’re doing some damn talking when we get to the pub, ye hear?”

Later that night, Killian sits next to me at the pub, tears in his eyes.

“You had such a tough time!” Killian cries, pounding his empty mug on the bar top.

“Keep it down, Kill,” I groan, glancing around us. “It’s not that big a deal, really. But that’s why I can’t use my real name. The police and the World Neuroscience Institute already made the connection between Reykjavik and Vik. They jailed the police officer and foster mother that took me in, and are probably looking for me in Ireland. It’s why I was keen on traveling from country to country with you. Frankly, I’m not looking forward to returning to Ireland for the next job.”

“Then let’s skip it,” Killian responds with certainty, despite his drunkenness. Let’s go to France, to Paris, and look for your parents.”

“…I’m not really interested in that, though,” I respond, hiding my face from him.

“Well, we can just kill them if that’ll make you feel better,” he says with a hearty laugh, waving down the bartender for a refill. “Let’s just do it and see what happens. Besides, I really don’t want to do this next job. We’ll decline this one, and return to Ireland as if we had done it, so that we keep our schedule for them.”

“What’s the deal with the next job?” I inquire, calmly swigging my mug.

“Eh, it’s not like we haven’t done some morally reprehensible jobs,” he says with a grimace as his drink is refilled. “But this one is a little much for me, and probably you. They want us to… well… kidnap a young girl, and haul her all the way to Japan.”

“That’s a leap from killing money launderers and drug smugglers,” I respond, unable to hide the surprise in my expression.

“It just leaves a bad taste in my mouth,” he says, taking a gulp from his mug and immediately taking a drag from his cigarette. “I probably would have done it a year ago, though… you must have softened me up, kid.”

“Your drunken ramblings are hard to listen to, Kill,” I mutter, wincing at him. “Go to bed already, ye old fart.”

To my surprise, a snoring sound reaches my ear. I look over to find Killian sleeping in a completely upright position, cigarette in mouth and mug in hand.

With a sigh, I mutter to myself, “what a weird guy to get stuck with…” The beer beginning to get to me, I put out his cigarette and lay my head in my hands. “Going to Paris is something I’ve always thought about… though I have no idea if they’re even there. But Japan, huh… I’d get to see where the Shibutani Group operates. I might even get to meet… Shibu…rei…”

As my consciousness fades out, a memory comes to me. It’s one I have no recollection of, though the place is familiar. The long boardwalk on the coast of Reykjavik, and the many houses and restaurants lining it. A place I only ever experienced while projecting.

Since I don’t know this memory, it must be a dream I’ve forgotten. I’m floating, like a projection, across the boardwalk, like I’m being propelled. Someone is calling my name behind me, but I can only continue forward. The festival music roars from ahead, drawing me in. However, I come to a fork in the pier, as a path splits off to the right where two houses lie adjacent. The two houses feel oddly familiar, drawing me in with their smoking chimneys and colorful décor.

However, the chords of a piano strike from the festival tent up ahead, as if reaching for my heart itself. Before I can move in one direction, though, the dream fades away.

The scene shifts once more, to the luminous streets of Paris. Killian walks alongside me, wearing a loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt that goes poorly with his black beret.

“Alright, Cathal, it’s vacation time,” he declares eagerly. I’ll be seeing the Eiffel Tower and various other tourist attractions, so you do your searching on your own.”

Perhaps noticing my anxiousness, he leaves me alone to find my own leads. Of course, I’ve done plenty of research, never finding any information on my parents’ whereabouts. They certainly would be careful, just as I have. However, I know the place they always talked about returning to.

Taking a taxi, I arrive at the home of my mother’s parents, my grandparents whom I’ve never met. The meeting ends as quickly as it begins, without any information. They wanted nothing to do with me, probably assuming I was a journalist. Even when I risked myself by telling them my real name, they merely grew angry and insisted that they had never heard from my mother since the incident ten years prior.

Dejected and frustrated at myself for wasting the opportunity Killian gave me, I walk aimlessly around town. A rain shower begins suddenly, compelling me to take shelter underneath a parasol at the café I was passing by.

I sit at the small table under the parasol, and retrieve my new compact laptop from my briefcase.

I browse various news articles related to astral projection, as well as news regarding the World Neuroscience Institute. One piece tells of the new branch recently built in Japan’s Shibuya District, a quasi-independent company called “Worldbeaters Inc.” The company has made significant headway in the neuroscience world already, boasting discoveries in the exploration of consciousness.

They say that they’ve made the human consciousness quantifiable, that it’s only a matter of time before consciousness is made extractable, therefore making the concept of human cyborgs, free of the threat of cancers and other illness, a thing of reality. Much of the article’s wordy pontification is based largely on theory, though there is some empirical evidence included to back up their claims.

Apparently, researchers have located the nerve impulses that are responsible for the different ‘measurables’ of the human ego, or consciousness. Through these nerve impulses, certain ‘measurables’ such as memories and personality are accessible, and with the right processing machinery, these measurables can be extracted and quantified via electrical signals. The researcher’s credited for these findings are listed as Mathias Frankfurt, as well as the unnamed “Director” of Worldbeaters.

A stark melancholy overcomes me as I read about their accomplishments, and their hopes for future revolutionary work. My parents’ dream, and my duty inherited from them, feels so far away. Here in the place I always hoped, in the back of my mind, that I would find them, I’m faced with the realization that those dreams were doomed to die within my empty heart.

The vague dream I gained from my otherworldly vision, to protect the beautiful song of the one who saved me when I was lost, is all that I have. Yet, if I or my parents cannot be allowed to realize our original dream, to reach the singularity in the stars and find the enlightenment that was supposed to save the world- how can I possibly protect that beautiful melody?

Suddenly, a notification pops up on my browser- a new video from Shiburei. I eagerly retrieve my raggedy pair of headphones, and listen to the new song. As the striking chords reverberate from my ears to my chest, I sweep my long, well-kept hair out of my bespectacled eyes and gaze upon the scenery. The midday sun-shower leaves glimpses of sunlight through the parasol, fading in and out with the falling raindrops that gently assault my black formal shoes.

Finally, I spot Killian trotting down the street unassumingly, holding his black beret over his head as if it were an umbrella.

A genuine smile breaks across my face as I write a comment, thanking Shiburei for lifting me up once again. After submitting my comment, I replay the video performance of the new song, a content smile on my face. “It’s been over a year. Not once have I had to escape to that place since I left. You might have really saved me.”

I mutter to myself, wincing as I look past the parasol toward the emerging sun. “Maybe I don’t have a full grasp on it yet, but one day, I will fulfill my purpose- my dream, because you helped me understand what it feels like to have something you want to protect.”

Killian appears alongside me underneath the parasol. He seems to be holding something within his jacket pocket. However, after seeing my content visage, his expression changes a bit, and he never withdraws his hand from within his jacket.

The scene shifts back to the same Irish hostel we stayed at before. Killian paces around the room with a cigarette in his mouth, staring at his phone. I calmly watch him from my bed as I tinker with my own phone. Bringing up Shiburei’s profile, I check her uploads, only to find nothing new in the last three weeks- an unusually long gap for her.

“It’s been three weeks, and still nothing,” he says with a gruff, frustrated tone. “My local contact just up and disappears, and I can’t get through to anybody from the Shibutani Group. This stinks of something horrid.”

“You’ve never been ignored by them before?” I ask coolly, crossing my legs as I lay comfortably, hiding the anxiousness floating around my head as I stare at the inactive profile on the screen.

“Never like this,” he responds, his coarse voice cracking with panic. “It can’t be because we didn’t take the job… could it?”

“Is it unlike them to make a decision like that?” I ask, furrowing my brow. “I don’t see how you didn’t think of tha-”

“No, they wouldn’t cut me off just because of that,” he interjects, stopping in his tracks with wide eyes. It must be something else… it must be their strange ability to predict future events.”

“That thing you mentioned on the pier when we met?” I inquire, narrowing my gaze on the frigid-looking man who I had always known to be composed.

“’Laplace’s Demon’ is what they call it,” he mutters, sitting on his bed, a hollow expression on his face. “Some sort of ability to compute factors of human nature and reality, predicting future events based solely off of past events. Also known as ‘determinism’. I have no idea how they do it, but it’s been spot on all these years. I’ve followed its guidance and taken these jobs because I believed in its accuracy.”

He pauses, holding his head in his hands as if experiencing some sort of existential crisis. “I found meaning in the work I did for them all this time,” Killian continues in a shaky voice. “If they cut me out now… that must mean they’ve seen a future in which I’m no longer needed to do this work… in order to maintain harmony in the world.”

“You’ve really lost it, Kill,” I grunt, putting my phone in my pocket as I sit up. “If it meant so much to you, why didn’t you just take the damn job in the first place? We wouldn’t be stuck in this situation, then.”

“Did you want to kidnap a young girl?” he asks, peering at me through the fingers covering his face. “To remove a child from their parents, like what you went through?”

“What the hell are you saying?” I blurt out angrily. “I’m sure we’ve separated many families by killing the fathers of many children, right?”

“It’s different, Jean,” he mutters, staring deep into my eyes, which forces me to avert my gaze. “You haven’t actually imagined carrying that sort of thing out… dealing with a crying child, suppressing their voice as they scream for their mother and father to save them… just what kind of trauma would you be forced to relive?”

“So then…!” I exclaim, leaping to my feet with a furious glare, unable to contain my emotions. “You acted for my sake? You risked throwing away the life you valued and believed in, for my sake? I never asked you to do any of that!”

“That may be,” he whispers, covering his face with his hands. “But I couldn’t bring myself to put you through it. Rather, I don’t think I could have gone through with it, even if I acted without you.”

“Why?” I demand, desperation seeping from my lips.

“Because…” he mutters in a low, coarse voice, removing his hands to reveal a pitiful face. “You taught me what it feels like… to want to protect something…”

“You…” I stammer, my lips trembling with shock at his words.

“It’s okay, even if I don’t get any jobs. If they’ve seen a future in which I’m not necessary, that means my job is done, right? I can rest easy, knowing that.”

“What about me?” I shout, ripping the raggedy pair of headphones off my neck and throwing them onto the ground, breaking them into several pieces. “What’s left for me? You said I had potential to perform these jobs that had to be done, so where do I go from here?”

“You have do have an exceptional amount of potential for that,” he replies with a weak smile, pulling his black beret over his forehead. “And you have the potential for much more…”

Unable to hear anymore or face the sudden onslaught of emotions, I storm out of the room, slamming the door before he can say more.

Sitting at the hostel’s pub, I watch the mounted television as it displays the news.

“An eleven-year-old girl was abducted from her house outside of Dublin yesterday, police say,” the newscaster reads. Drawn in by the headline, I fix my eyes on the picture of the girl shown on screen.

“I’ve seen her somewhere,” I mutter underneath my breath as I set my mug down.

“That’s the girl that was taken by “Ireland’s Finest”, a man several barstools down whispers to his neighbor.

“That legendary gang took a job like that?” the other man replies, even louder than the first.

“Must be lots of money involved,” the first man replies. “Though I wonder why it was that girl?”

Another image rips my attention solely onto the screen, drowning out their conversation.

“This is Kaspar Reid, the father of the abducted Mary Reid,” the reporter says in a solemn tone, standing next to a burly, bearded man.

“That’s….” I mutter, completely shocked by what I’m seeing- that he bearded man on the screen is none other than the man whose ghostly figure I had watched for over a month as an astral projection.

I had never learned his name, but his face was undoubtedly that of the man on the screen. The man who, despite his tearful face, had clearly been taking much better care of himself in the last seven years.

“I just want my daughter back,” he says to the reporter amidst a fit of sobbing. “Whoever took her, for whatever reason, I just hope that they can find it in their heart to return her to her pitiful father, who knows nothing left in this world besides his love for her. She lives with a rare heart condition, and I’m so worried that she’s suffering, so, please…”

His emotional speech brings me back to the memory of his ghostly figure, wailing in despair at the sight of his family living without him.

My heart is wrought with something inexplicable, watching his weeping figure on screen. There is no logic to explain what I feel, how to process the surge of guilt weighing my heart down like an anchor.

“What have I….” I mumble, placing my head in my hand.

Having returned to our vacant room, I pack my things in minutes. As I throw my briefcase over my shoulder and turn for the door, something compels me to turn around.

I find a pen and notepad, and jot down a short, simple message: “I will continue to do the dirty work that must be done, in your place… so that you and the rest of the world can sleep peacefully – Cathal”

Stopping my hands from shaking, I gently lay the note on the nightstand next to Killian’s bed, placing a bottle cap on top of it before making for the door. With a short exhalation, I open the door, and without looking back, shut it behind me.

The scene shifts to the inside of a pub known as Brandy’s. I’m sitting next to the burly man I’d seen on the news, whom I’d watched for hours as a child.

“You’re quite young for a mercenary,” the weary man grunts quietly.

“I’m more a private investigator than a merc,” I reply in a mumble.

“Well, I won’t ask how you got into this line of work, but you know about these vicious bandits, don’t you?”

“Ireland’s Finest…” I reply. “They control the underground, and have political influence as well. They’re likely even watching the people in this pub. They certainly must be keeping tabs on the father of the kidnapped girl. You’re risking your neck and mine, you know?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” the man whispers sharply. “You’re too young to understand what it means… to have something to protect.”

“I’ve been seeking just that,” I answer in a soft voice. “A beautiful melody worth protecting with my life. Sadly, the melody stopped playing a month ago, after a bleak refrain. I took this job in the hopes that I might find meaning again.”

“A month… it’s been about that long since I lost her,” the man whispers, his hoarse voice breaking with grief.

“A girl with a rare heart condition, taken inexplicably from her home while her single father was at work, and gone without a trace. I’ll look into this, and follow wherever the tracks lead me- you have my word on that.”

“Thank you, JC,” the man grumbles as his demeanor begins to fall apart. “I promise to take care of any expenses… and I will be in your debt forevermore. But, to think, I would meet you again, after all these years…”

“So, you did recognize me?” I mutter, careful not to look his way.

“Of course,” he whispers with conviction. “Aside from the name ‘JC’, I could never forget your face, no matter how much you’ve grown. After all, you saved me from being kept as a lab rat by the World Neuroscience Institute.”

“I only acted on impulse,” I respond, keeping my head down. “What happened after that, anyway? I was… asleep for a long time.”

“Mhmm,” he grunts, regarding me with a solemn nod. “I understand you entered a completely different state from the projection that we took part in under your parents’ supervision. I won’t ask about that because it isn’t any of my concern… anyway, I was able to live free after that incident thanks to your killing of the Colonel and his men. Though, because of it, I was made into a media spectacle. It was made public that I had fallen to hard times financially and turned to drugs, and because of that, my wife finally refused to let me back into the house.”

“That woman that I saw that day, with your daughter,” I mumble slowly.

“Yes, the woman I once loved more than anything,” he answered, hiding his face with his hand. “Even though the incident brought me to my senses, and drove me to return to my family in a sober and apologetic state, she wouldn’t have anything to do with me. Even after a year of proving myself responsible, she turned me away. But, Mary…”

“The kid was always waiting for you…” I mutter softly, taking a drink.

“She took me back with open arms,” he responds, his voice shaking. “Admittedly, I used that, along with my legal rights, to earn my way back into my home. Her mother couldn’t handle this, and left us, returning to her hometown.”

“So, you got your family back, but only after completely destroying it,” I say, finally glancing in his direction.

“I suppose that’s true,” he replies. “But after I took Mary overseas, to my hometown outside of Dublin, we lived a very happy life together.” He pauses, sniffing as he rubs his nose, trying his best to hold back the tears. “We were both very happy to have each other, and lived as a family, until a month ago.”

“I truly am sorry,” I respond in a solemn tone. “Not only could I have prevented this if I had taken the job as I was supposed to, but it’s because of me, because of that incident seven years ago-that your name was made public. I don’t know what their reason for taking her is, but they probably found her because of that incident.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jean,” he responds in a soft, pitiful voice. “Like I said, it’s thanks to your actions that I was given a second chance, given all these years with Mary… it’s so much more than I ever deserved. And you, you lost your parents, and your childhood…”

“I did not lose my parents,” I respond firmly. “We simply went our separate ways.”

“Is that how you honestly feel about it?” Kaspar asks in a nearly desperate tone. “Are you really okay with their decision to flea on their own? Leaving you… for their own sake?”

“I…” My words falter as I stare at my empty hands, gathering my thoughts. “I don’t hold anything against them,” I continue, not a trace of emotion in my voice. “Maybe I should. Maybe somewhere in my heart, I do resent them for leaving me to protect themselves and their dream. But in my head, I understand their decision. It was only natural that they chose their dreams, which were still unfulfilled.”

“And what about their son?” Kaspar whispers, the empathy seeping from his tone.

“By deciding to help you, I made a choice that hindered their plan of staying together as a family,” I respond with a certain degree of apathy. “I failed them, and so they left without me.” My words come out undeterred as I reach for a cigarette- the same brand Killian always used. I light it and take a drag for the first time. Having watched him do it countless times, it comes second nature to me.

“And what about the reports that they had packed their things, and had already left?” Kaspar mutters with some hesitance.

“It doesn’t matter,” I answer calmly, exhaling. “What matters is that I chose to help you, and that they left. That’s all.”

“Don’t you want to see them again?” he asks, trying his best not to look at me.

“I don’t,” I respond shortly. “At least, not right now, I think. It’s hard to say- I don’t blame them, but I also don’t have any desire to reunite with them. I think it’s enough that I’ve taken their teachings to heart, and have taken on their dreams, in my own way. It’s been eight years, but I guess I just haven’t had enough time to figure out how I really feel about it. That’s probably why I couldn’t be honest with my recent mentor… why I’ve let him and others down, all this time.”

“I see…” he responds curtly, nodding his head. “It must have been hard for you…”

“No, I’ve become stronger,” I respond with conviction. “Just like you did. That’s why I’m going to use my strength to find your daughter.”

“Thank you, Jean…”

The scene shifts to a small bed in a hostel I’ve never been in before. I am typing up notes about my findings, noting that a number of members of “Ireland’s Finest” had recently boarded a ship in route to Japan. I had always assumed this, but waited for confirmation before making any travel plans.

I decide to browse my library of notes I’ve made on different countries over the last two years, thanks largely to Killian’s teaching. I search for ‘Japan’, and before any notes, a picture I don’t recognize appears.

I click to enlarge the picture, and my hands freeze as if paralyzed. Killian, dressed in his awful Hawaiian shirt, is at the right of the picture, holding the camera as he poses, grinning dumbly and tipping his black beret. Next to him are the smiling figures of the grandparents I briefly spoke with in Paris. In the bottom left-hand corner of the picture, a line of computer-scribbled text reads, “Your parents are in Japan”.

Unable to process my emotions, I exhale into a choppy laugh, grinning dumbly at his awkward pose.

“Thank you, Kill…”

The chain of memories ceases its playback as I return to my lost dream on the boardwalk, where the enticing music that had boomed loudly has now completely disappeared. I follow the other path, leading to the two houses.

Gazing into the houses, I discover one inhabiting my parents and a ten-year-old version of myself, sitting near a fireplace and exchanging gifts. In the other house, Kaspar Reid sits with his wife and daughter at a large dining table overflowing with gourmet foods, laughing as they eat.

I look back into the first house, which has changed to a luxury hotel. Killian sits at the fireplace, flinging bottlecaps at my teenaged self, who smirks as he deflects them.

I try to force my attention back toward the other house, but my eyes are blurred by something foreign. I can’t see past the blur welling in my eyes and rendering me immobile. Seeking a reprieve, I attempt to turn back to the festival that had been taking place down the other path of the boardwalk. I listen for the music, but nothing comes. Only the sound of my short, choppy breaths resounds with the splashing of waves underneath the boardwalk.

I press my glassy hands to my face just as the blurriness overflows from my eyes, waking me from my dream.