The Swift Anomaly

Fourth Pulse: Crash Course

Death's Backyard, Miles Away from the Kitchen

June 1st, 2030

5:00 A.M.

The gravel thickens with moisture and geysers shoot up from the depths below. Yes, despite the weather, this is a magnificent day to wreak havoc reckons Theresa distractedly. Drops trickle upward with the mist, leaving a film over the tangerine morning sky. She removes a pack of gum from her dress pocket (a different dress than she would typically don- this one a ruby red with assorted buttons sewn over the bodice and a tight knitted corset) and thrusts it into Typhon's large, scarred paw.

He does not expect the sudden contact, and tosses the gum onto the pavement. It sticks, mashes in with the gravel, then manifests as...a sports-car red, gleaming, spit-shined, tricycle-complete with training wheels. Couldn't have conjured a more perfect match, myself Theresa giggles, unaware of Typhon's death glares. Child of death or not, he would be thankful for those training wheels. Crashing and steering at the same time is not an easy task. Theresa has made such a mistake more than once, but will never admit to such a thing. Instead, she motions for Typhon to hop onto the tricycle.

Typhon reluctantly complies, hops hastily into the leather seat, and kicks out his lanky legs until they smash onto the pedals and grips the handlebars. Then, Theresa morphs into teacher-giving-a-droning-lecture mode.

"The common fallacy in thinking is that there is only one correct way to crash a car without harming yourself or the surrounding areas. It is true that we must consider the terrain and avoid a rollover crash, but it is far more complicated than that...you have to consider the size and weight of your vehicle, how much room you have, whether there are other vehicles present..." Her voice dies out as Typhon snores, his feet sliding off the pedals.

Theresa removes a pack of gum from her pocket and slaps it onto the gravel. It steams, then reveals a shiny cobalt SUV. If Typhon won't listen, she'll have to illustrate the textbook concepts for him. She slowly shifts the car into drive, straightens it out, then accelerates. Theresa quickly constructs the dashed lines in her memory: that spot, yes, it is hazy and weak. The dashes curve and fade there. She lines up the hood of the car with that sweet spot, puts up a barrier with her mind, then steers the SUV straight into the spot.

Shards of glass spray the vehicle, but cannot break the vehicle's windows. Instead, they bounce off and impale the mirror-like glass of surrounding barriers, leaving behind a ten-foot tall, four-foot wide passage. The edges of the passage are ragged and sharp, but the opening is so large that they can easily be avoided.

Yet, Theresa has to continue showing off, so she takes a pair of silver scissors from one of the three wide pockets on her ruby button dress and snips off a flat, pale orange button. The button falls with a thud onto the cement and morphs into a scaly lizard with a three-pronged tail and ridges protruding from its spine. It slithers into the glass, which gives off a warm glow. Then, the lizard hastily smashes its large molars into the glass, shaving it down.

Typhon stares, now engrossed in the tiny girl before him-the spitfire. The smoldering harpy. Harpy, why did that word come to mind? A kidnapping bird of prey? She can't be...? Typhon recoils as the musings wind through his skull, and he stumbles off the tricycle seat. He refuses to be whisked away by her, but cannot help but recall that shuttering image of the disembodied head from the meadow. Was that helpless man carried away, brought to the Phantasmal Lands against his will? He pushes the thoughts away and reseats himself on the tricycle with a thud. Typhon's trembling fingers barely manage to grasp the handlebars, but they eventually steady. He startles as one shaking hand knocks into the little silver bell on the tricycle, resulting in an unpleasant clang. Typhon quickly recovers, pedals the tricycle lopsidedly after Theresa, and drops into the jagged portal below.