I wasn’t lyin’ when I told Corva about seeing the shadows of anyone who’s been hit with the Touch. Mostly not lyin’. Thing is, it ain’t usually this intense.

A sea of faces fills Jack’s field of view. Only, they aren’t exactly faces. It’s more like a bright fog filled with vague shadows. But each shadow belongs—or, at least, belonged—to someone; Jack somehow knows this much. They’re impressions of the folks they used to be, like handprints hastily forced into mud. Upset, unhappy handprints.

They crowd his vision, insistent. Each one vies for his attention like he’s supposed to do something for them. This is new. In the past, he could see into the fog, silently observing the shadows mill about. He always felt like he was looking at them through a window. That window seemed to grow each time he’d train with Old Man V, but he always had the feeling of someone from the outside looking in.

One time he thought one of them had looked at him, but at the time Jack had dismissed that as a fluke, a trick of his mind. He never even mentioned that particular event to the old man or to Lyia. The old man used to say that “fixins have a price” and that people don’t always know what the specific price is until they learn a particular soulmantic technique. Jack and the old man figured that if the price of learning the Touch was seeing a bunch of wandering souls every now and again, that was something he could handle.

But Jack’s training of the Touch never got far enough along to him actually performing it on anything, or anyone. It was always about opening channels, visualizing targets, and connecting. They never got to the whole bit about forcing a soul out of its living host.

Just Jack’s luck that the first time he tries the Touch, it’s on Death himself.

And now? Now there’s no window. Now the not-really-faces in this bright foggy emptiness are aware of him. They know he’s there. And there’s more of them. So many more. That sick smell of souls that he’d described to Corva nearly overwhelms his senses.

“What do you want?” Jack feels himself say the words, but he doesn’t hear his own voice.

They seem to hear it, though. The reaction is instantaneous and frantic. Desperate. They press in on him harder, faster. There’s still no sound, but he can feel their urgency. It’s too much, though. They’re all coming at the same time. If he could just get them one at a time, he might be able to understand. It’s like trying to take a drink order during a busy night at the bar where everyone is so loud he can hardly even hear the music that’s supposed to be blaring.

Out of habit, he makes to reach behind his ear and tune his audio filter kneak. It sometimes helps focus on the sound coming from a specific person during one of those busy nights at the bar. The thing is, he can’t reach up. He doesn’t have arms. In fact, as far as he can tell, there’s not much “him” at all.

He can see and sense all the not-faces around him, but for himself, there’s nothing. He’s got a presence, that much is obvious by the fact that the not-faces see him. But he’s got no substance. He’s a void in the fog. A space where a person ought to be. But he can’t move like a person. He can’t talk like a person. He’s just there.

Normally something like this would throw Jack into a panic. He’d be fighting back waves of nausea and thinking of places to hide. Not now, though. Although he’s not calm, he’s got this feeling of being where he’s supposed to be. There’s just a kind of mild anxiety from not quite knowing what he’s supposed to do. An itch under his not-skin as he’s surrounded by not-faces.

In some ways, it’s even more like those nights in the bar. Everyone pressing him. Everyone wanting something from him. Everyone doing their own thing around him. And he’s stuck there behind the bar all alone.

At least on those nights I get paid for my trouble.

The moment the thought forms in his mind, the not-faces react. If their behavior was insistent before, they’ve boiled to a frenzy. Their desperation increases, their shapes stretch. They push in on him, each one imploring him for his focus. Some even look like they’re trying to offer him … something. It’s so difficult to tell. If they would all just—

There’s a voice behind him. A whisper where Jack’s ear would be, but it’s there. Actual sound. Raspy. Old. Powerful. “None of your people knew what to do here either. It’s why they failed.”

The not-faces all around Jack recoil at the sound. Their frenzy ebbs and is replaced with something else. Not fear. Disdain.

The whispering voice lets out a laugh that could be a cough. “Don’t mind them. They’re just pissed off because they ain’t got voices.”

If Jack were able to move he’d spin around, wide-eyed with surprise to check that his not-ears aren’t playing tricks on him. But he can’t. He can’t even make sound on his own.

Old Man V? That you?

“How’ve you been, kiddo?”