The Great Mall Mirage

Carnage in the Atrium

"Worthy?" You echo Miles Dane's words. The thought rattles inside your head. Worthy? Sure, you're bold, rash, even clever if you stretch the definition of the word. But worthy of something like this?

Part of you wants to be, wants to claim this crazy fortune for yourself and bask in the wealth and admiration. But you know the other part of you, most of you, will keep nagging and nagging because you won't always be sure.

This isn't yours. This is someone else's. You'll never feel secure.

Miles Dane sees the confusion in your eyes and the way you're looking at Jack. "I'll let the two of you discuss what you'd like to do now," he says. He clasps his hands behind his back and strides to the picture windows, surveying the city skyline.

Jack has one eyebrow raised when you meet his eye.

"It's bull," he whispers. "I don't believe this guy. I've seen enough. We should get out of here."

"But fake his own disappearance? There's got to be some truth in what he's saying. He wouldn't go to these lengths for nothing."

"Even if it were true, I don't want to be here to find out. People are dying. Do you want to be the heir to that?"

He has a point. But despite the part of you that can't believe, there's the part of you that wants to take the chance. The part of you that's been waiting for something like this to happen, the moment when you'd be able to shine. When people would see you for who you're meant to be.

Everyone respects Jack. Everyone admires his quick wit and sharp tongue. You haven't been blessed like that. Even when you think faster, act faster than he does, your words always stumble out like drunken partygoers. You fumble your way through life when he talks his way out of everything with ease. And while you admire him and his heart and the fire that he brings to every fight, you know that if you tried to do half of what he did, you'd get out of the trouble.

You don't want to admit it, but you're jealous of him sometimes.

Miles Dane saw something in you. Something special.

"It's like he knows us," you say.

"He's just trying to flatter us. It's all part of his lie."

You press your lips together and feel something shrivel up deep inside you. "Fine. Let's get out of here."

Jack clears his throat and Miles Dane walks back towards you. "I'll return the two of you to the warehouse floor," he says.

"Actually," Jack says, "where are Mr. Aspen and Mr. Roots?"

Miles Dane raises an eyebrow, but walks to the coffee table and gives it a tap. His body blocks most of the surface, but you can see the edges of dozens of security camera feeds projected onto the table's glass top.

He flicks the table off. "They're in the atrium."

"Can you take us there?"

"If you wish."

He doesn't look at you as he walks out of the penthouse suite. You're buffeted by the still-dancing crowds of the food court, struggling to keep up with his steady march. He slips through the mob like an arrow through air, while you're disoriented by the pounding beat and the spinning lights. He's already inside the silver elevator when you get there, holding the door open.

The elevator descends. You watch the numbers count down, slowly at first, then faster and faster until you feel your stomach in your throat and your heart pounding as if you're in free fall. You and Jack fumble for something to hold onto, but the elevator walls are perfectly smooth.

Then the falling stops. The ground rushes up towards you with a jerk, and you find yourself sprawled on the floor, your legs bent and your hip smashed into the corner of the elevator.

The doors hiss open.

Carnage. Complete and utter carnage. The glass gardens, the crystal birds, the rejoicing crowds — all are gone. What's left are shards, dull under coatings of rust, and the heaps of blood-soaked cloth that cover what you know are human bodies. Metal twists into unnatural shapes, and ash snows from the floors above.

There's no one in sight.

Miles Dane stands behind you, his hands folded in front of him, his lips pressed together, betraying no emotion. You and Jack take a step forward, out of the elevator.

Every drop of blood spilled feels like your own. Every body sprawled on the ground is another blow to your heart that threatens to bring you down. Jack's jaw is clenched and you can hear the fire in his breathing but you know that rage is not for you. You're weak and your eyes swim and soon all you see is red, rusty ruby red. A sea to drown you, to quench the fiercest flame.

Somehow, you're on the ground and the drumbeat of your heart is all you can hear. There is no breath, no thought, just the pulse to remind you that you are alive, to remind you of every drop of blood still in your veins. And the beat of life becomes the thud of boots and you feel the rumble resonate through you. There's a hand on your forehead and a voice that echoes in your mind but you can't quite hear the words. You listen to the music and the quiet, and the music makes your heart lift but the words tie you, bind you to the you that's sprawled on the ground, and they become a little more clear.

They call your name. They remind you that you need to keep breathing. They tell you that you'll be ok, that you need to stay with them even if all you want to do is fly away.

When you open your eyes the world is not a sea of red but three pale smudges. A trio of faces. Six and six hands turned towards you. Mr. Aspen closes his eyes in gratitude. Jack lets go of the hand he's been squeezing, and you see that he's left white marks. Mr. Roots pulls you to your feet.

You turn around and feel the world spin twice as fast, but you catch a glimpse of the silver elevator doors slide shut. Behind them, the richest man alive mouths, "This is where I leave you."

Then he grins a shark-like grin, and the grin stretches across his face, and then more, until he's all grin and shark's teeth and even the elevator can barely contain the hungry void inside of him.

You stumble backwards. Jack catches you. "Easy," he whispers. He puts you back on your feet and in his wide-eyed stare you see your own mirrored paleness.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"That — that wasn't Miles Dane. Either that, or he isn't human."