Chapter 13: Connections
1166 Words
Compared to the sheer panic before his first Return, Elian Thorne felt unnervingly calm this time.
He waited for the world to fracture and reassemble itself, like surfacing from a deep dream.
The cramped bedroom swallowed him once more. Elian Thorne found himself perched on the edge of his bed in the exact posture he’d held before vanishing. Night pressed against the grimy windowpane. And the boning knife... it was still clutched tight in his fist.
As if absolutely nothing had happened.
Elian Thorne frowned, fishing his phone from his pocket. The screen glared its confirmation:
2024, September 28, 12:00:01 AM.
Zero point zero one seconds.
Vivid memories flooded back: His Return had also kicked off on September 28th, dead on midnight.
He’d lived two packed days in that other world of steel and strange powers. Here? Barely a heartbeat had ticked by.
By that same twisted logic, when he eventually zipped back there, only a second would have passed for them. Had to be the rule for all Travelers. Weirdly, the thought loosened a knot in his chest. No frantic explanations needed for mysterious vanishing acts.
A profound, unsettling dislocation settled over him. This world, his real world, felt thin. Less substantial.
He looked down at his arm. The angry purple bruise he’d deliberately inflicted stood out stark against his skin – a self-inflicted badge of proof. On his other forearm, the ghostly white chronometer pulsed relentlessly:
47:59:45.
47:59:44.
A 48-hour countdown. Two days. Correct.
Only these anchors held him fast: the bruise, the ticking chrono. They screamed the undeniable truth of his experiences.
He had been there. A world humming with machines and hidden currents. He’d met the enigmatic Lucian Reed, endured Silas Locke’s mind-bending Nightmare Gauntlet, and encountered the relentless, fawning shadow that was Luther Ward. There was Evander Vale, a pillar of calm strength, and the utterly bizarre entity known simply as Felis.
BRRRRIIING!
The jarring ringtone shattered the heavy silence. An unknown landline number flashed on the screen.
“Yeah?” Elian Thorne answered, his voice flat.
“Hello, this is the Kingston Street Precinct. We have your father in custody for running an illegal gambling ring. We need you to come down and handle this,” a woman’s voice stated with bureaucratic crispness.
Elian Thorne’s mind raced. His gambler father must have gotten busted just before the Return kicked in. Efficient precinct, he’d give them that. Annoying, but efficient.
“What exactly do you need me to do?” Elian Thorne asked, ice coating his words.
“Per County Code 12.8.4, he requires processing, mandatory detention, and payment of associated fines. A family member needs to handle the paperwork,” the officer replied mechanically.
“Hard pass. Please prosecute him to the absolute fullest extent of the law. Under County Code 12.8.4, aggravated offenses mandate 10-15 days detention and fines between 100and500. Apply the Maximum Penalty. Thanks.” Elian Thorne’s voice could have flash-frozen lava.
A stunned pause crackled down the line. “Excuse me? Aren’t you his son?”
“I’m the concerned citizen, Mr. Thorne, who reported him. I’m categorically not his son. Just doing my civic duty.” Click. Elian Thorne ended the call with satisfying finality.
Minimum ten days locked up. His father would be safely behind bars before his next Return. Perfect.
An unexpected wave of lightness washed over him. Yet, beneath it, an old, familiar ache bubbled up. Most kids spent their youth idolizing their dads. Finding out yours was a spineless, dishonorable addict? It felt like a load-bearing wall collapsing right inside your chest.
Elian Thorne sucked in a slow, deliberate breath, collapsing back onto the thin mattress. He thumbed through his phone – calls, messages. Radio silence from his mother. Nothing.
For a fleeting, bizarre moment, he actually wished he could zap back early to Penitentiary-18. Even with its dangers and the looming presence of Silas Locke. Strangely, that place felt… more real.
Past 1 AM, sleep was a lost cause. In the oppressive gloom, his phone screen cast a sickly pallor on his face, illuminating the sheet music for Canon he’d just pulled up online.
To Lucian, this was a lifelong regret, a stolen treasure echoing through decades. To Elian Thorne? It was just a few taps away. The sheer, ridiculous chasm between their worlds yawned wide. Lucian possessed things Elian Thorne craved just as fiercely – power, secrets, belonging.
Should he give Lucian the music? The thought nagged. How could he possibly explain having it? “Oh, found it on the internet back home”? Yeah, right.
Still no call. No message. Mom remained a ghost.
Return Countdown: Day 1. 7:30 AM.
Elian Thorne yanked on the worn blue-and-white tracksuit and shoved himself out the door. Breakfast was a plain bagel, savaged in quick, efficient bites. Westhaven Preparatory loomed just five minutes away – a quick hop across a narrow, grubby side street.
He’d have grabbed something hot, maybe eggs, but his meager savings had evaporated – swallowed whole by his frantic “prepping for the apocalypse” shopping spree before the Return.
Grade 11, Homeroom 3. The sharp, chemical tang of industrial cleaner hung thick in the air; the linoleum floor still gleamed wetly. Elian Thorne slid into his usual seat in the back row. His lab partner, Nathan Grey, practically skidded in moments later, face pale, eyes darting around like a cornered mouse.
“Hey,” Elian Thorne murmured, leaning slightly. “Mrs. Davies notice I skipped yesterday? She say anything?”
Nathan jumped a foot, startled. “Huh? Wha—? Sorry, what?”
“Never mind,” Elian Thorne shook his head, studying his friend’s twitchiness. “You look like you just saw a ghost. What’s eating you?”
“Ghost? Me? Nah, I’m fine. Peachy.” Nathan tried for a weak smile. It looked painful.
Elian Thorne just raised an eyebrow and stayed silent. The quiet stretched, thick and awkward.
After a tense minute, Nathan suddenly leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Elian Thorne... what would you do? Like, seriously... if something totally insane, something impossible, happened to you?”
“Call the cops?” Elian Thorne’s gaze locked onto Nathan, sharp and assessing.
Nathan’s eyes lit up like someone flipped a switch. “YES! The cops! Elian Thorne... dude... you know anyone? At the precinct? Like, got connections there?”
Elian Thorne considered for a beat, a dry, humorless twist touching his lips. “Actually, funny you should ask. Yeah. My dad just got himself locked up last night at the Kingston Street Precinct. Running an illegal card game.”
Nathan: “???” (His expression perfectly captured the sound of a mental record scratch).
- Writer
