- Chapter 077 -

  His Secrets

  The world was grey.

  It wasn't the clean, silent grey of his void, nor the sand of his beach. This was a thick, clinging fog, damp and smelling of wet wool and pine needles. He was walking on grass, soft and yielding underfoot. It felt like a garden, or perhaps a park, vast and boundless in the mist.

  Mark stopped. He frowned. He wasn't walking. He was... drifting.

  Dreaming.

  The realization clicked into place. But this was different. Usually, he built the dream. This felt... strange. The transition wasn't there, he didn’t remember falling to sleep…

  Then he heard it.

  It started as a faint, tinny sound, drifting through the fog. Bells. A synthesized melody that clawed at the back of his throat with instant, painful recognition. Jingle Bells. But not a grand orchestral version. It sounded like it was coming from a cheap speaker, distorted and cheerful.

  Voices joined the music. A low murmur at first, then swelling. Laughter. The clink of glasses. The indistinct chatter of a crowd. It sounded like a party.

  "Hello?" Mark called out. His voice was muffled, swallowed by the mist.

  He squinted, trying to pierce the gloom. There were shapes moving in the distance. Shadows. Thirty of them, maybe more. They were just out of reach, silhouettes dancing on the edge of visibility.

  He reached out, visualizing the fog as a curtain, intending to sweep it aside with a thought. It was his mind. He was always in control.

  Nothing happened. The fog swirled around his fingers. It resisted him.

  The shadows moved closer. He could almost make out features now. A flash of a red jumper. The gleam of a pair of glasses. The familiar slouch of a colleague from... accounting?

  He took a step forward, his heart hammering.

  "Who's there?"

  But they were still out of reach.

  He tried to run. But the ground felt spongy, absorbing his momentum. He moved, the shadows moved with him, maintaining a maddening distance. Always just out of focus. Always hidden.

  Panic began to rise, a cold tide in his chest. This wasn't Clyde again, or an attack by another. This felt... broken.

  Then, a new shape emerged from the swirling grey.

  It was low to the ground. Four-legged. Large. It moved with a stalking, predatory grace that was unmistakable.

  Mark stopped. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

  "Taz?"

  He assumed it was the first version. The nightmare creature from the forest, not Dawn's sleek companion. But in this shifting, wrong world, even a monster was a comfort. It was familiar. It was a known variable.

  The shadow-beast circled him, a dark blur in the fog. It didn't attack. It paced, keeping its distance, a silent sentinel patrolling the boundary of his confusion. Mark watched it, feeling the panic recede slightly. If his fear was here, then he was still himself.

  "Okay," Mark whispered. "Okay."

  The growl started low, a vibration that rattled Mark's bones. Then it erupted into a roar.

  It wasn't a snarl. It was a thunderclap. A sound of raw, primal dominance that tore through the fog.

  Mark froze. Snow leopards didn't roar. They chuffed, purred, they growled, they screamed. But they couldn't roar.

  The fog thinned around the beast. The shadow sharpened. It was still feline, but it was wrong. Too heavy. Too broad. The muscles bunched under the mist like steel cables. It wasn't a hunter. It was a king.

  And Mark knew, from a strange and instinctual place with chilling certainty, that the roar wasn't meant for him. It was a warning… To something else..

  He turned to run. Dream logic or not, he wasn't in control and he wasn't sticking around to find out what scared a monster.

  He slammed into someone.

  Solid. Real.

  Mark stumbled back, his breath catching.

  She stood there, clear as day in the swirling grey. Jeans. A checked shirt. Glasses perched on her nose.

  Everything stopped. The music died. The roar faded.

  "Careful," she said, her voice warm, amused. "You'll cause an accident running like that."

  Mark looked up at her. He felt small. Like a child looking at an adult.

  It was Alice. The ghost from the tomb, some relation to him that he could not place.

  Then he asked the question. “Who are you?”

  "Alice..."

  He woke up.

  He jolted forward in the armchair, his heart hammering against his ribs. The morning light of Enceladus streamed through the window, cold and real.

  He sat there, gasping, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. He reached up to his face.

  His cheek was wet. A single tear.

  He wiped it away, staring at his hand. Alice. She had been there.

  "Are you alright?"

  Tori was sitting in the chair opposite him, a mug of tea cradled in her hands. She set it down on the table with a soft click, her expression one of concern.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Mark wiped his face again, feeling the rough fabric of his sleeve against his skin. "Probably not," he rasped.

  Tori nodded. "Okay. We’re doing this the old-fashioned way. No magic. Just talk."

  Mark pulled himself upright. He reached for his own mug, taking a long drink. The tea was strong, bitter. His memories caught up with him, of Tori helping him and…

  "The meditation went wrong," he admitted. "I tried to build the wall. To focus." He rubbed his temples. "I ended up at a party. A garden party. There were people... I assume they were family. But I couldn't see them. Fog. Just shadows. Then a beast, then a roar."

  He looked at her.

  "I saw one person clearly. A woman. Alice. But I... I don't know who she is. I know the face, but the memory is blank."

  Tori leaned forward. "Seeing a face is good, Mark. It means your mind is trying to bridge the gaps. It's healing. The fog represents the trauma, the missing paths to the memories, but the face... that's the connection reasserting itself."

  She paused. "But the beast? You mentioned a roar."

  "It wasn't Taz," Mark said quietly. "That nightmare is stalking elsewhere, this was something else. Bigger. And it wasn't roaring at me. It was warning something off."

  Tori frowned. "That's... complicated. This exercise was meant to help you build a Guardian. A protector. If your mind conjured a monster you don't recognize... well, it might be trying to fill the role itself. But a Guardian you fear is a dangerous thing."

  "Then, what are the next steps?"

  Tori sighed. "Without magic? Time. And repetition. You have to keep trying. But you have to be careful. Fear is a building force, Mark. If you pour fear into that construct, you'll build a monster, not a Guardian. It has to stand with you, not over you."

  Mark nodded. "I'll try again, but... I need a distraction." He glanced at her bag. "Have you used the mirror? The projector we made?"

  Tori's expression shifted instantly. She glared at him. "It's amazing. And I hate it."

  Mark blinked, taken aback. "Sorry?"

  "It works too well," she complained. "I can make it display anything. Memories. Imagination. And it has sound, Mark. I didn't know it would do sound." She ran a hand through her hair, looking exhausted. "I lost hours last night. Literally hours. Just... watching things. Playing with shapes. It's a trap."

  Mark laughed. "Welcome to the screen addiction club. We used to carry those traps in our pockets."

  "It's insidious," she muttered. "But... useful." She looked at him. "Carl is going to want that notebook back. He's itching to refine the design."

  Tori walked to the window, watching the snow fall. "Let's refocus. Building the safe space didn't work as planned. So, do you have a clear picture of what this Guardian will be yet?"

  Mark gestured to the table. "Pink notebook."

  Tori picked it up, flipping through the pages. She saw knights, robots, abstract shapes, and detailed schematics. "Indecision is an enemy, Mark," she said, tapping a particularly complex drawing of a geometric shield. "You're trying to engineer a feeling. Pick something simple. Something that resonates."

  "I'm working on it," Mark said. "But resonance is hard to manufacture."

  "Narrow it down," she advised, closing the book. "Pick three. Focus on them. Let your mind choose."

  "I want to try again," Mark said. "If you have time."

  Tori nodded. She sat back down, her demeanor shifting to professional calm. "Alright. Let's do this. Center yourself. Breathe." She smiled wryly. "This is a learning experience for me, too. Doing this without magic is... refreshing. In a frustrating way."

  Mark closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing. In. Out.

  This time was smoother this time, holding the memory of the transition.

  The fog was still there, but the ground was hard. Tarmac. He was walking along a path. Around him, the air was filled with animal noises, hoots, growls, the rustle of leaves. A zoo?

  He stepped off the path. The fog thickened instantly, a wall of grey that swallowed the world. He couldn't see.

  "Stay on the path," he muttered to himself.

  He listened. No voices. No shadows. Just footsteps, heavy and rhythmic, somewhere in the distance.

  "What are you hiding?" Mark asked the fog.

  Silence.

  "Where am I?"

  Silence.

  "I'm looking for my Guardian," he said, raising his voice. "Is it here?"

  A low roar answered him. It vibrated in his chest, deep and resonant. It wasn't hostile. It was... acknowledging.

  He walked toward the sound. The path curved, leading him deeper into the mist.

  The path was familiar. He knew the curve of the tarmac, the feel of the railing under his hand. Cold metal, layered with paint. He closed his eyes in the dream, focusing on the sensory details. The smell of wet grass. The distant bark of sea lions. The chitter of primates.

  Blackpool Zoo. He had walked this path a dozen times, memories of his childhood, years ago.

  He pushed his will against the fog. This time it didn’t recede, it shattered. Like a pane of frosted glass struck by a hammer, the fog cracked and fell away.

  Color flooded in. Green leaves. Grey path. The enclosures.

  He was standing near the big cats. The roar came again, closer now. Louder.

  He turned toward the enclosure. The heavy mesh fence was there, solid and real. And behind it…

  The world shattered.

  It wasn't a gentle fading. It was a violent, jarring rupture. The green of the leaves, the grey of the path, the roar, it all collapsed into a vortex of pain.

  Images flashed behind his eyes. Circles of light. The taste of pride, then bitter failure. The smell of dust and regret.

  He was standing in a library. Not the Oracle's. This was stone and shadow, the shelves half-empty, the books in disarray. He tried to focus on a single detail, a title on a spine, and a spike of agony drove through his skull.

  He coughed.

  The dream dissolved.

  He was back in his chair, gasping. Tori was leaning over him in a state of alerm. He felt a trickle of warmth on his upper lip. Blood.

  He reached for his glass, his hand shaking. The tea was cold. He drank it anyway.

  "What happened?" Tori demanded. "Your breathing stopped. You just... went blank."

  Mark coughed again, wiping his nose. "I think I found a Guardian," he rasped, his throat raw.

  He looked at her, his eyes wide with a new, horrifying realization.

  "Clyde's. It's a bloody library."

  "What are you talking about?" Tori shouted, her voice rising an octave, cracking with a mix of panic and frustration. She grabbed a napkin and shoved it into his hand, gesturing at his bloody nose. "Clyde is dead, Mark! I saw the body! How can he have a Guardian in your head?"

  Mark pressed the napkin to his face, wincing as the rough paper soaked up the blood. He took a shallow breath, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

  "Not him," Mark managed to say,. "His... architecture."

  He leaned back, closing his eyes for a second to steady the vertigo.

  "I told you I inadvertently stole his memories. His knowledge." He opened his eyes, fixing Tori with a hard look. "Where do you think that goes? It doesn't just sit in a pile. It had a structure."

  He tapped his temple.

  "Clyde was a Memory specialist. A Jade. He organized his mind like a library. Stone shelves. Darkness. Incomplete sections." Mark grimaced, the image of the gloomy, half-broken room still searing behind his eyelids. "What I grabbed wasn’t just his raw knowledge... I didn't just take the books. I took the shelves."

  He looked at the notebook on the table, the one filled with stolen schematics.

  "That roar... the zoo... that was me. I think that was my mind trying to build something." He paused, the realization settling like a stone in his gut. "But his library? That's the obstacle. It's not guarding me. It's guarding his secrets from me."

  "That makes no sense," Tori argued, her frustration overriding her concern. She gestured sharply to the stack of notebooks on the dining table. "You’ve been writing these for a week. Notebooks of his high-tier ritual theory. If his mind is guarding it, how are you getting it out?"

  Mark wiped the last of the blood from his lip, checking the napkin. It was stopping.

  "It's broken," his voice was flat. "It's a wreck made of the stolen memories of mine, and his own work."

  He picked up the top notebook, feeling the weight of the paper.

  "The writing... that's just debris," he explained. "It's the stuff leaking out of the wreckage. I get the spillover."

  He tapped his temple, wincing as the movement triggered a fresh throb of pain behind his eyes.

  "But when I tried to drag back a memory, one of the zoo I saw. The fog hiding it broke.”

  He dropped the notebook back onto the table.

  "That's when the walls push back," Mark said. "It hurts because I'm forcing its door, one that's badly welded. And… it doesn't want visitors."