CH 63 — Central Park, Shared Silence
Lucas stepped off West 72nd into Central Park just after eleven, the December sun a dull nickel penny-rolling behind thin cloud. His lungs stung with the city's frost-tinted wind—better than the re-circulated studio air that still tasted of fluorescent hum and adrenaline. Two hours since Maya's broadcast and the world already buzzed: hashtags multiplying like bacteria, pundits screaming deepfake, teenagers stitching slow-motion reaction vids. Somewhere in that digital riot, Curator analysts were triangulating IP hops and drone telemetry, pushing pins across corkboards toward his name.
He tightened the wool scarf Serena had forced on him and crossed the carriage road into the Sheep Meadow. Snow patches dappled the grass where early joggers creased the frost. A chessboard of shadows lay under bare plane trees, their branches skeleton-thin against concrete sky. Nothing looked different, and that was the strangest part; history might have pivoted at sunrise, yet tourists still queued for pretzels.
Serena's voice crackled over the bone-conduction earpiece. "North perimeter clear. Graves reports no tails on Fifth."
Lucas murmured, "Copy," and glanced toward the distant gap in the skyline where Graves and the van were parked, engine idling, ready to peel rubber if drones converged. But the meet-point Serena had chosen was open, crowd-laced; no easy way for hostiles to close without witnesses. Still, exposure cut both ways: if he collapsed from chrono-whiplash here, paramedics and camera phones would swarm long before allies could whisk him underground.
A lone street musician plucked an out-of-tune guitar near the bronze of Balto, notes floating brittle as spun glass. Lucas's chronal sense—a low-grade pressure behind ear drums—flickered, as if the song's tempo vibrated on a slightly skewed track. He followed the sensation toward the Bethesda Terrace.
Twenty steps later, resonance pounded, unmistakable: someone was touching the hush, that in-between membrane of stillness he'd always believed belonged only to him. Pulse spiked; he scanned the faces—dog walker, tourist couple, vendor balancing chestnuts—none pinged as extraordinary. But the resonance grew, a tuning-fork hum through marrow.
Serena: "Vitals just jumped. You see something?"
He answered with honesty. "Feel something." He slipped both hands into pockets, right palm brushing the emergency epi he'd started carrying to shock his heart if a pause back-fired. Twenty-six seconds of reserve left, maybe less. Spending it now felt reckless, but refusing the invitation felt worse.
The Ramble looked like a patch of half-tamed wilderness: winding paths, boulders glazed with ice, duckweed ponds ringed by cattails. He'd first navigated it a decade ago after a Comic Con marathon, still a tourist then. Now every twist seemed conspiratorial.
At the arch of Oak Bridge he slowed. Ahead, the pathway bent around a cluster of winter-rough shrubbery; sun-eager birds skittered across brittle leaves. The chronal pressure crescendoed—a thrumming under skin. Lucas drew a breath, braced himself, and yanked the lever.
The world inhaled and stopped.
Joggers froze mid-stride, a squirrel hung mid-leap, snowflakes paused like suspended commas. Sound vanished so completely his own blood seemed to roar. He'd meant to keep the pause to a blink, but instinct urged caution: if another walker stood inside his freeze, he wanted margin to respond.
He stepped past the shrubbery. A clearing opened around a stone bench facing the lake's glassy sheet. On the bench sat a figure, elbows on knees, head bowed as if praying.
Chrome mask? No. The visor was matte white porcelain, smooth and blank except for two almond eye-holes. The rest of the outfit looked unremarkable: charcoal pea coat, black jeans, scuffed boots—someone you might ignore on any subway car. Yet the air folded around them in subtle warps: snowflakes curved in improbable arcs, as if gravity recalibrated near their silhouette.
Lucas swallowed. "Hello?" The word, birthed in silence, felt sacrilegious.
The mask lifted. Inside the eyeholes danced violet irises—living, animate, not a doll's paint. They focused on Lucas with calm recognition, not surprise. A small gloved hand extended, palm up. A greeting? Invitation?
He edged closer, noting details: the figure's stature slight, maybe Mei's height—fifteen, sixteen? Gender ambiguous beneath coat bulk. Fingers were too slender for Graves, too small for Serena. This was someone wholly new.
Hand still out. Lucas mirrored the gesture slowly, placing his own palm inches above theirs, not touching. Sparks of cold energy skittered along fingertips where chronal fields met—two soap bubbles kissing. The resonance surged, then harmonised at a soft chime pitch. His knees wobbled with vertigo; nose threatened bleed but held.
Images crashed into his mind—not thoughts, not telepathic verbiage, but flashes of memory-smell: petrichor on ancient cobblestones, incense spiralling in desert dusk, a carousel of languages overheard at world airports. And over it all, a feeling: You are not alone.
Lucas breathed out, fogging the space between masks. He tried word-thoughts: Who are you? No answer, but the violet eyes softened in what might have been a smile. Then the figure tilted head toward the frozen lake where ducks hung like decoys.
Lucas followed gaze. Across the ice, near Bow Bridge, stood another paused silhouette, half-obscured by reed stalks. And beyond that, farther up the gentle slope, a third, perched in the crook of an elm like some mythic sentinel. Three walkers? Or illusions spawned by fatigue?
The white-masked stranger closed their hand into a fist. Around them, time rippled—no, side-stepped—and the paused tableau flickered. The jogger across the path jerked a centimeter, squirrel's tail twitched. The stranger was modulating the field, not Lucas.
A warning bell clamored. If they controlled the hush, they could collapse it and maroon Lucas inside like a bug in amber. He retreated one pace, hands up.
The stranger watched, then tapped two fingers to heart, two to brow, then pointed skyward. A gesture that felt simultaneously ritual and reassuring. Without further ceremony, they pivoted, took three measured steps, and vanished—no violent implosion, just an exquisite fade as if swallowed by a doorless hallway invisible to ordinary geometry.
Lucas's field shuddered, threatening to drop. He fled the hush himself, releasing the lever.
Sound slammed—a dog barking, distant car horn, winter wind rattling leaves. Lucas staggered to bench, grabbing the cold stone for balance. He'd spent maybe four subjective seconds. The resonance lingered as phantom goosebumps. Gradually it ebbed, like ocean tide receding into dark trenches.
Serena's frantic voice flooded earpiece. "Lucas! Your biometrics spiked then disappeared for five. Talk to me."
"I'm here," he panted. "Met… them."
"Describe."
"White mask. Young. Said nothing—telepathy unfamiliar. Showed me others. Multiple walkers in the park."
Static crackle, then Graves's bass: "Eyes in the sky saw nothing anomalous. Must be riding inside your blindspot."
Lucas straightened, dizzy. Tourists resumed strolling unaware of the cosmic conference one heartbeat prior. He examined the bench—no footprints in the thin frost except his own. But on the seat a small square of parchment fluttered against the armrest. He snatched it.
It wasn't paper but something like lotus-fiber, edges singed. On one side, a sigil brushed in silver: concentric circles broken by a vertical line—the same mark branded on the Zurich ledger's watermark. On the back, a single sentence handwritten in dark ink: TICK-SKIPPERS GATHER WHEN THE WORLD HOLDS ITS BREATH. Beneath, coordinates: -3.905, -76.197.
Lucas's breath ghosted white. Peru. Deep jungle territory. They were doubling down on the pivot Serena predicted.
Serena: "What did you find?"
He relayed, voice steady now. "Physical invite. Coordinates match the Amazonas lead."
Ayo cut into channel, data static behind words. "Social feeds going nuclear. Half a dozen accounts claiming they experienced 'silence glitch' in Central Park just now. You?"
Lucas scanned immediate crowd: a child blinked, rubbing ears; a jogger frowned at smartwatch, smacking it. They felt the ripple. The stranger had deliberately rattled the cage, leaving breadcrumbs he could not bury even if he wanted. Tremor of awe and dread coiled in stomach—community, or chaos.
He cleared throat. "That wasn't me. Stranger flexed the field. Public felt it."
Serena cursed softly. "Then the secret window just got narrower."
Graves: "Vehicle inbound your west. Move casual."
Lucas pocketed the sigil, wiped sweat despite the chill, and ambled toward the Bow Bridge exit. Each step pricked with aftershocks; it felt like walking across thin ice hearing it crack but forced to keep smiling at passersby.
Crossing the terrace, he brushed telepathy across the surface static of minds around him: Need coffee… where's the loo… did Instagram glitch? A cluster of college kids argued about upload lag. Evidence of the ripple scattered in micro-complaints—nothing media could package yet, but seeds present.
A yellow cab idled by the curb; Gabriela sat behind wheel, scarf pulled up, aviators hiding eyes even on this grey morning. Lucas slipped inside. Graves rode shotgun, big frame tense under bomber jacket. The cab rolled.
Serena materialised from a side street, tossed a To-Go cup through window, and climbed in behind Lucas. Columbian dark roast steamed his palms, scent anchoring him to mortality.
"Talk fast," Graves said.
Lucas handed the parchment to Serena. "Invite to a summit. Same emblem as Zurich ledger. Coordinates in Loreto, Peru."
Ayo's voice from dashboard tablet: "Already mapping sat passes. Terrain looks dense rainforest. Closest airstrip Iquitos."
Serena read the silver sigil. "They staged that ripple to confirm our broadcast authenticity—showed the world someone can bend reality inside NYC."
Graves cracked neck. "Also paints bullseye on every meta-nut with a TikTok account."
Lucas sipped coffee. It scalded, welcome pain. He pictured Mei scrolling her phone, seeing new posts hashtagged #timequake, feeling both terror and vindication. Community begins with a spark, he thought. Sometimes wildfire follows.
Serena leaned close, whispering: "How many seconds left in your tank?"
He swallowed. "Twenty-two, maybe."
"Use them well." She traced thumb over his wrist pulse—steady for the moment.
Cab sped south toward the FDR, weaving through brunch traffic. Gabriela switched radio to a news station; an anchor breathlessly replayed Maya's earlier segment, analysts already debating quantum relativistic weapon tests. Good luck spinning that into comfortable lies.
Lucas stared out window at receding park trees, noticing how wind bent them in synchronous sway like crowds bowing before unseen conductor. The white-masked stranger's parting gesture echoed: heart, brow, sky—a trinity of intent, intellect, aspiration.
He mimicked the motion against fogged glass, fingertip trailing steam-damp patterns. Beside him Serena watched, silent but understanding.
"Peru, then," Graves muttered.
Lucas nodded, pulse syncing with tires thudding expansion joints. Carlos Drum-Beat inside chest: tick-skippers gather when the world holds its breath.
In thirteen hours they'd board a flight south, carrying proof, hope, and twenty-two seconds of miracle left on the meter. Enough? Maybe not. But he was no longer alone between ticks, and that changed every equation.
Outside, a hawk wheeled above the East River, wings held rigid in winter thermals. For a heartbeat, against high-rise glare, it seemed to hover perfectly still—time's own icon hanging in the cold blue.
Lucas smiled. Even the sky was learning to pause.
CH 64 — Gate 32, Southbound Horizon
The departures concourse at JFK's Terminal 4 never slept, yet tonight it pulsed with a fever all its own—a blur of red-eye travelers lugging winter coats toward tropical getaways, TSA announcements pinging off glass walls, rolling suitcases thumping like mismatched heartbeat drums. Lucas Vale threaded the current with practiced ease, but every footfall felt as if it might fracture the tiles; twenty-one seconds of chrono-reserve clung to him like an hourglass in freefall sand.
He wore a faded Mets cap low enough to shadow his swollen eyes and a hooded sweatshirt that disguised both the IV bruises crooking his elbow and the Faraday-mesh undershirt Ayo had fashioned from gutted microwave panels. One wrong metal detector sweep, one random canine sniff, and the fragile plan combusted before wheels-up.
Beside him, Dr. Serena Kaur matched stride for stride, her backpack lobster-clawed to her chest to keep the internal medkit warm against her body. The fluorescent tubes overhead etched midnight trenches beneath her cheekbones, but when she caught Lucas stealing a glance she offered a crooked smile that said I see the cliff, but let's still dance on it.
Mason Graves flanked their six like a human riot shield—army surplus coat, mouth curved in an expression somewhere between perpetual grind and "try me." In each pocket lay carefully measured mayhem: a vape pen hollowed into a jamming spike, a plastic-cased thumb drive with the anonymized Curator map, and a wallet that doubled as EMP seed if a scanner tried to swallow their secrets.
The broader team was already scattered through the terminal in overlapping rings of vigilance. Gabriela nursed a latte two gates down, fingers flitting across her phone as she shepherded proxy servers and social feeds; her livestream monitoring dashboard now resembled a war-room mosaic of rising hashtags. Ayo camped by an out-of-service vending machine, antenna cables snaking up sleeve lengths as he scanned for drone telemetry bursts. Tenzin sat cross-legged near an emergency exit, prayer beads rolling silent Morse across her palm while Mei drowsed against her shoulder, hoodie cinched so tight the teenager resembled a bundled chrysalis.
"Boarding for LATAM flight three-oh-six to Lima will commence in thirty minutes," the intercom trilled, its saccharine lilt barely detectable above rolling suitcase thunder.
The gate number—32—hung on an LED board flickering between weather advisories: LIGHT TURBULENCE OVER ATLANTIC. Lucas wondered if the universe would ever again deliver him a smooth corridor.
Serena leaned close enough that her breath tickled his ear. "We've got a choice window before final call. You need glucose."
"I'm fine," he lied. The nasal sting of imminent bleed told the truth.
She steered him toward a Hudson News kiosk regardless. Under the harsh LED racks, their reflections looked like ghosts cosplaying civilians. Serena plucked a sports drink and an oversized chocolate bar, slapped crumpled bills on the counter. The bored cashier barely glanced up, lost in headphone trance.
"Sugar crash later," Lucas protested.
"Better than chrono-crash now." She twisted the cap, holding bottle like a communion chalice until he drank. The liquid was neon orange, tasting of artificial sunrise. He swallowed half, feeling it spike into his bloodstream with mercenary efficiency.
Across the concourse, Graves had stopped before a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the tarmac. Lucas joined him, shoulder to shoulder. Outside, their Airbus A350 crouched beneath sodium halos, wings slick with drizzle. Beyond its tail, a convoy of luggage carts traced lazy eights across painted lines; to Lucas's still-sensitive chronal sense, each turning wheel seemed a potential metronome waiting to skip.
"Bird looks clean," Graves muttered, eyes scanning for too-symmetrical maintenance crews or antenna dishes aimed the wrong way. He'd once told Lucas that paranoia was just situational awareness with caffeine—and he'd absorbed more than enough tonight.
Lucas shivered despite the thermostat. "Any chatter?"
"Gabriela says mainstream cable previewed Maya's full segment for the breakfast hour." A pause; Graves's voice shifted to a lower register. "Interpol red-notices updated your profile from 'person of interest' to 'probable meta-threat.' Stamped at zero-three-hundred Zulu."
Lucas chewed the inside of his cheek. "That was predictable."
"Predictable doesn't make boarding easier." Graves nodded toward an arriving pair of TSA officers gliding the periphery. "They're not here for random bag checks."
Ayo's voice popped in Lucas's earpiece like static-dusted whisper: "Thermal cam flagged two suits in Concourse D, vectoring this way. They've got the posture."
"Shadow-company?" Serena asked over comm.
"Hard to tag sigils, but frequency sniff suggests Curator short-range bands."
Lucas's pulse quickened; he felt the chrono-lever in his mind vibrate like a blade wanting to unsheathe. Twenty-one seconds. Spend them now and you land in a body bag before Peru.
Serena tapped Graves on the forearm. "Plan Delta?"
Graves's grin was all broken glass. "Plan Delta."
Delta, Lucas recalled, meant divide and overlay—they'd built it on the Staten Island ferry during an insomnia stretch: if a hot pursuit threatened, the group would scatter into plausible clusters, each carrying partial mission assets, so that losing one cluster wouldn't gut the entire objective.
Serena tugged Lucas's sleeve, steering him toward the children's play area where floor tiles formed oversized puzzle pieces. "We're Couple A," she whispered. "Graves and Gabriela are Random Seatmates. Ayo escorts Mei through wheelchair queue."
"What about Tenzin?"
"Shadow haloes. If things go loud, she's the cut-out."
Lucas exhaled slowly, grateful and terrified by the choreography. They passed a wall-mounted television streaming sports highlights; beneath ticker crawl, a secondary banner scrolled: "Alleged 'time-anomaly' video gains traction." A freeze-frame of Lucas's blank face in the podcast studio flashed for half a second before advertisement break.
He tugged the brim lower. "World moves fast."
Serena's phone vibrated. One text from Gabriela: TAGGER AT MAGNOLIA BAKERY followed by grainy camera still—one of the suits, short hair, earpiece, posture like a coiled watch spring. He held a coffee cup but his eyes scanned arcs not menus.
Serena pocket-palmed the phone and signaled Graves with a knuckle tap across nose. Without acknowledging, Graves drifted toward a duty-free Dior display, as if comparing perfumes. His mirrored reflection watched the suit's reflection.
Lucas opened telepathy just a sliver—enough to taste surface currents. Chocolate for Molly? No, get her the mint-sprinkle. That was a father near the gate desk. Where's my charger, idiot?—teenager. Another voice, faint but glinting like steel: Target visual confirmed, standby for latch. Cold, professional. He locked onto the mental signature—definitely the Magnolia Bakery suit. Another presence echoed same rhythm, east side of concourse. They hunted in pairs.
Lucas's stomach knotted. Serena felt him stiffen. "Count?"
"At least two." He didn't mention a third signature flickering behind a bathroom corridor door; ambiguous.
An overhead chime: "Pre-boarding now for families with small children and passengers requiring extra assistance for LATAM three-oh-six."
Ayo pushed Mei in a borrowed wheelchair up the queue, her arm in a casual sling to justify assistance. She looked more excited than injured; eyes darting between LED signs with a secret grin. Lucas hoped that grin survived the days to come.
One of the suits peeled from the bakery line, zeroed on the wheelchair lane. Graves intercepted, "accidentally" dropping a bag of duty-free chocolates to distract the flow. Box burst open, truffles rolling across tile. Passengers laughed, stooped to help. Suit's line-of-sight broke.
Graves winked through comm: "Oops."
The second suit now changed course toward Serena and Lucas, hand ghosting jacket pocket. Serena pivoted, stepped into Lucas, lips brushing his—an improvised kiss that swallowed his next breath. To onlookers, a goofy couple saying goodbye before vacation. Suit hesitated, not wanting cameo in romance photo meltdown.
Lucas felt Serena's whisper against lips: "Step left, drop jacket."
He obeyed as she transferred her backpack to his shoulder. They split—Serena veering a hair's breadth past the suit, murmuring an apology. Her elbow clipped his forearm; the disguised jamming spike in her bracelet pulsed, frying whatever comms buzzed there. The suit twitched, confusion rippling across stoic mask. By the time he regained orientation, Serena disappeared into a line at Starbucks.
Lucas angled toward gate desk alone, backpack heavy with medkit and drive clones. Behind him, Yasgur from duty-free announced final call for a Heathrow run; waves of luggage-draggers filled the concourse, smothering vantage points.
Inside the backpack, the anonymized Curator map pinged new activity: nodes blossoming yellow where sleepers self-reported. Lucas resisted urge to look; data could wait.
Pre-board ended; they called rows forty-five through fifty. Ayo wheeled Mei onto the jetway first, scanning for hidden metal strips. Mei fist-bumped the agent who tore their stubs—too sweet, too ordinary. Graves followed two passengers behind, arms loaded with replacement chocolate for the flight.
Suit number one remained in crowd, disguised fury under neat haircut. Suit two stood flustered outside Starbucks as Serena sipped a latte she'd never paid for.
Lucas's row—forty-eight—was next. He approached the podium, heartbeat drumming in collarbones. The agent took his passport. Would scanners flag the Interpol notice? Would the Faraday mesh trip detectors?
The kiosk screen blinked yellow, then green. "Enjoy your flight, Mr. Marquez," she chirped. A fake name Ayo had sown into Panamanian databases twelve hours prior.
Lucas stepped onto jetway steel. The tunnel smelled of Jet-A exhaust and stale carpets. Halfway down, he glanced out oval porthole cut into sheath wall. A service truck reversed beneath wingtip. On its roof, a man in grey coveralls tightened something—ordinary. But next to him, perched on the wing root, crouched a porcelain-masked figure, legs dangling as if sitting on a park bench.
Lucas's lungs froze. Passengers behind him grumbled at halt. He blinked; the figure remained, violet gaze meeting his through layers of glass and distance. Two fingers to heart, brow, sky—same tri-gesture. Then a single tap on wrist, as if pointing to watch: tick.
A gate agent's voice floated down the pipe: "Sir, please keep moving."
Lucas stumbled forward, pulse roaring. The figure did not vanish so much as evaporate, melting into a thin shimmer that swirled with jetwash.
He reached the cabin hatch, handing backpack to flight attendant for overhead stow. Inside, the plane smelled of citrus disinfectant and anticipation. Business flyers already scrolled spreadsheets; a toddler kicked seatback chanting Peru, Peru.
Graves slotted into seat 48B, passed Lucas a foil-wrapped chocolate. "You okay, man?"
"White mask on the wing," Lucas whispered.
Graves's eyebrows hit hairline before settling. "Shapeshifter or hallucination?"
"Neither." Lucas sank into seat. "They're hitching a ride."
Graves sucked air between teeth. "Then we'd better hope turbulence is the worst the Atlantic throws."
Cabin lights dimmed to pre-flight amber. Serena slipped into 48A, fingers threading Lucas's beneath armrest. She smelled of burnt espresso and adrenaline.
"Witnessed our friend," Graves murmured to her.
Serena's jaw tightened, but she only said, "Then community's realer than ever."
The safety video rolled, cartoon icons demonstrating oxygen masks—irony not lost on Lucas. He cataloged seconds of power left: nineteen now, by his estimate. Enough to traverse an aisle mid-freeze, maybe relocate a bomb if one materialised. Not enough to duel a masked savant in full hush.
Door thumped; fuselage pressurised with a hiss that rattled overhead bins. Engines spooled, a deep visceral growl vibrating seat frames. Lucas's fingers drummed uneven tempo on thigh—no, on time—tick, tick.
The captain's voice: "Good evening, folks. Estimated flight to Lima eight hours thirty-two minutes. We're expecting light chop over the Mid-Atlantic due to a winter jet stream."
Ayo's voice in Lucas's ear: "I'm in 52C. Mei's buckled. Gab in exit row."
Tenzin—unseen—replied via Graves's handset: "Rear galley, aisle attendant buddy."
All pieces on board. The exit row sign extinguished; plane pushed back from gate. Through oval glass, New York's sodium galaxy retreated. Snow began feathery descent, swirling like static against dark.
Lucas closed eyes, let cabin rumble lull the migraine edges. In his mind he replayed the porcelain stranger's watch tap—countdown to harvest. Peru's rainforest awaited, coordinates etched into blood memory. He pictured vines curling over ancient ziggurats, humidity thick enough to press sound itself into silence. When the world holds its breath., the card had warned.
The plane angled toward runway 4L, engines roaring in crescendo. Lucas squeezed Serena's hand until knuckles paled. She leaned, lips brushing ear: "Whatever happens up there, you're not alone anymore."
Wheels screamed, then lifted. G-force pressed them into seats; city lights smeared rivers of gold. Somewhere outside, perhaps atop the vertical stabiliser, a white mask rode slipstream, unblinking.
Lucas felt chrono-lever pulse, hungry for use. He whispered to the darkness outside the pane, a promise and a dare: "Seven seconds I'm saving for the fall."
The Atlantic yawned below, black and infinite. Cabin lights dimmed to stars. And inside his chest, the countdown began.
CH 65 — Mid-Turbulence Horizon
The cabin lights had been dialed down to starlight for three hours, but Lucas still hadn't closed his eyes. He sat in 48C now—Serena had insisted on the window for herself to watch the horizon and Graves had negotiated the aisle by claiming his knees needed the freedom of civilization. Lucas didn't object; truth was he preferred the middle tonight, surrounded by the pulse of people he cared about, cocooned by the brush of their coats and the steady mechanical lull of the Airbus A 350. It felt almost ordinary.
Almost.
He thumbed the stopwatch app on Maya's producer's phone—on loan after his burner died in a splash of Hudson coffee—and watched the seconds since takeoff tick past: 13,101 … 13,102 … 13,103. Time behaving, for once, as it should. But beneath the small glow of numbers, he felt another drumbeat—the dwindling twenty-second reserve he guarded like an ember in a snowstorm. Nineteen, a voice kept reminding him. Eighteen. Every heartbeat shaved fractions invisible to mortal clocks.
Outside, black went on forever; somewhere below that darkness flowed the Pacific's moon-glossed ripples, though from eleven thousand meters water and cloud blurred into the same ink. The aircraft had crossed the equator an hour ago; the flight tracker on the seat-back screen showed a tiny silver jet cresting a pixelated Andes spine and gliding toward Lima. One more connection and they'd hit the Amazon jump to Iquitos, then hire some last-mile bush plane or river skiff to the exact coordinates. If the Curators or the porcelain-masked walkers—or whatever label fit them—didn't yank the pieces off the board first.
Serena shifted beside him, chin tucked in the hood of her sweatshirt, eyes watching not the tracking map but the window reflection: her own face, Lucas's dim silhouette, Graves's stoic profile past the aisle. She mouthed, Drink, and nudged the half-empty bottle of coconut water into his hand. He obeyed—cool sweetness cutting the metallic taste of cabin air.
Graves, earbuds in but eyes half-lidded, caught the exchange and smirked. "Mother hens," he murmured, low enough only the three of them heard. "Relax. We're five hours and twenty minutes from landing. Curator ops over the eastern Pacific would have to violate at least twelve sovereignties. Let 'em."
Lucas didn't mention the porcelain mask on the wing or the thrum still dancing somewhere in his skull. He just nodded, tucking the bottle into seat pocket.
A chime pinged; the captain's voice arrived, calm and faintly Australian: "Ladies and gentlemen, we've been advised of a pocket of clear-air turbulence approaching cruising level in about ten minutes. It should be short, but as always we recommend seatbelts fastened."
Seat-belt lights winked on. Flight attendants appeared like gentle wraiths, coaxing half-sleeping passengers to click metal buckles. The lullaby hush of the cabin soured, replaced by restless coughs and rustling blankets.
Lucas's palms prickled. Clear-air turbulence was the sky reminding humanity who owned the playground, but it was also perfect cover for sabotage—nobody questioned a stray jolt, a cart crash, a gasping passenger. Or an impossible stillness.
Serena must have sensed his spiraling calculus. She squeezed his fingers, pulse steady against his. "We've trained for worse," she whispered.
"Training's not the issue." He tapped his temple. "Battery is."
Graves leaned across him with the false casualness of someone retrieving a magazine. "If a masked stowaway ghosts through the hull you give me the signal," he said. "I'll handle the art direction; you handle the impossible physics."
Lucas grinned despite the dread. "Deal."
The cabin lights cut another notch. Ambient engine rumble blended with white-noise hush piped through speakers. Somewhere forward a baby fussed; a tired parent shushed sleepy nonsense. Lucas thumbed the stopwatch again. Thirteen thousand three-hundred seconds since takeoff. One more push.
The first jolt hit with zero warning—a downward lurch that yanked trays, rattled teeth and popped overhead bins. Screams flickered up and died as quickly, throttled by seatbelts and shock.
Lucas's stomach somersaulted, inner ear dizzy. Then the plane bucked left. Luggage spilled in the aisles; coffee cups skated. A flight attendant lost footing, slammed shoulder-first into row fifty, but the belts held passengers in place.
That should have been the worst of it, but mid-roll Lucas felt something stranger: a hummingbird shiver in the air, like the moment before he triggered a freeze—pressure folding in invisible origami.
He shot a glance at Serena. Her eyes were wide, reflective; she felt it too. Graves half-rose but inertia slammed him back.
The aircraft dropped again and the lights went out. Blackness swallowed every shape—only exit signs glowed demonic red. In the dark, Lucas heard metal squeal beyond bulkheads, a sound like stretched cello strings fraying.
People screamed now in earnest.
Captain's voice crackled mid-yelp: "Seatbelts, everyone—this is—" static, then nothing.
Lucas closed his eyes. He counted the seconds in his head—not of the stopwatch, but of his life's weirdest internal metronome. Nineteen left. Eighteen.
Could he fix a jet in freefall? Probably not. Could he salvage passengers tumbling inside a frozen tin can? Maybe a handful. But this felt off. The vibrations weren't random; rhythm pulsed, purposeful—like an outside hand shaking the toy hoping pieces would break. Curator interference? Another walker testing him?
A child's scream knifed through dark. Something deep inside Lucas answered—a memory of drowning years earlier when time first ripped and sea water froze around him. He'd sworn never to let terror root unchecked while he still breathed.
He thumbed the lever in his mind.
The world stopped.
Black remained black—the emergency lights hadn't time to flicker. But the violent shudder ceased. In the hush, he heard his own breath, ragged. He tested limbs: everything mobile. A bead of blood hovered before his nose—he'd bitten tongue in the last jolt.
He had no flashlight, but chrono-freeze stole no photons that already existed. Far up the aisle, an attendant's phone cast weak glow; in that ghost light he saw bodies suspended like marionettes mid-jerk: a man half-levitated out of seat, hair trailing gravity; coffee droplets halted mid-arc reflecting screen-glimmer; an oxygen mask dangled four inches from a mother's reaching hand.
Lucas unbuckled—belt clack sounding like thunder in the total quiet—and floated up, muscles light as thought. He braced on seat-backs, gliding over frozen knuckles and petrified looks. Each step cost energy; the chrono-lever trembled, reminding him of its fuse.
Graves hung in aisleway, half-stand, veins bulged, eyes wide and aware—Lucas realized Graves was moving, albeit syrup-slow. Serena too: eyelids fluttering unstuck from freeze faster than any normal human. Proximity effect? Or their months of exposure acclimatizing their neurons?
Serena mouthed—silent but visible—How long?
Lucas signed back: Seven seconds. He didn't know if that was generous or fatal.
He reached the galley bulkhead where turbulence had felt strongest. Here, the cabin skin wavered—literal waves, as though hull had turned to liquid glass, ridges rippling outward like pond rings. Through those waves he saw nothing—not sky, but a grey void.
A hand emerged, pale and delicate, fingers spider-stretching. The porcelain mask followed—same violet eyes, unreadable. Except now Lucas saw behind the mask: glints of hair the color of raw copper, freckles across nose bridge, youth etched in smooth skin. Sixteen maybe.
The walker was halfway phased through the fuselage—matter ignoring matter. They looked annoyed more than malevolent, as if Lucas delaying their experiment. Their left hand held a brass object: a watch with gears exposed, wound tight, second hand pinned between ticks.
Lucas planted feet, palms outward. Not here, he willed, hoping telepathic pathways would carry meaning. Too many innocents.
Their eyes softened, an apology perhaps, but they shook head: Trial necessary. Harvest chooses stress points.
Lucas saw it then: they weren't sabotaging; they were measuring—how a plane of sleepers handled temporal fracture. Scientific cruelty. Something Curators had planned?
He stepped closer, feeling chrono-field strain like overstretched elastic. Choose me instead, he broadcast. Not them.
The walker's brow creased. They rotated the frozen watch toward him. On its cracked glass, the second hand jiggled, wanting release. They whispered—soundless yet roaring in Lucas's skull—Prove capacity.
A dare. Another test. How many more before his heart blew?
Lucas felt seconds draining—five now? Four. He couldn't hold field long enough for debate. If they resumed turbulence with void ripples, hull might tear.
He did the only move left: merged impulses of telepathy and chrono-push into a single beam and slammed it into the frozen watch.
Brass gears exploded into prompts of light; the mask flickered like a bad hologram; the walker recoiled, startled. Around them, ripple void snapped shut, fuselage inertia returning solid.
Lucas felt the field collapse—not gracefully but like scaffolding shattering. Sound thundered back: screams, engine roar, overhead bins slamming. But the turbulence was gone, replaced by normal vibration of jet thrust.
The walker, half in hull, blinked confusion—then smiled, small and rueful. They tapped two fingers to brow, then heart, then pointed out the window toward moonlit clouds. Without malice, they let gravitational rules yank them backward; grey void soaked them up and sealed like water.
Lucas sagged, dizziness collapsing him to floor. He tasted copper—nose again. Serena's arms closed around him, belting belt that wasn't there.
Time flowed; minutes maybe, until crew regained order, lights warmed amber, captain apologized for "unexpected downdraft" and assured passengers turbulence had passed. Lucas sat against galley wall breathing through tremors while Serena dabbed blood, Graves blocked view from curious passengers.
"Battery?" Serena asked.
He swallowed. "Seven seconds burned," he croaked. "Leaves…"
"Twelve," she finished, squeezing his knee. "Plenty for a landing finale."
Graves chuckled, low and amazed. "You two talk about time like loose change."
Lucas laughed too, delirious relief venting. Every passenger alive, plane intact. Battle won, war pending.
Hours later, cabin settled into hushed dark again. Lucas couldn't sleep; adrenaline etched wires under skin. He unbuckled when attendants dozed and Serena's head slid onto his shoulder in unconscious trust. He slid down aisle toward rear lavatories—half to stretch, half to sense resonance.
Mid-cabin, he paused. He could freeze again, but instead he simply listened. Beyond sealed windows, engines painted contrails across stars. And there—he felt it—four distinct pulses echoing his own: one violet note from the masked youth; another subtler hum from somewhere behind tail, maybe Tenzin's monk-quiet mind brushing edge of hush; and two more distant as horizon, yet strobing in sympathetic rhythm.
He eased toward exit bulkhead window by the galley, stared out. Clouds glowed silver where moonlight kissed top decks. For one breath the world looked motionless—time painting a photograph. Then movement: silhouettes on the cloud bank, three human shapes strolling the ether. One turned, raised a hand in greeting that caught lunar sheen. Lucas raised his in reply, palm pressed to double-paned plastic.
A whisper skipped across his mind like pebble across pond: Peru awaits.
He exhaled, fog blurring vision. Boredom, once his nemesis, was dead for good. Purpose had replaced it, vaste and terrifying.
He retraced steps to seat 48C, slid in. Serena stirred. "All well?"
He kissed her hair. "Better than."
She drowsed again. Graves muttered something about outdated airplane coffee and resumed snoring.
Lucas reclined, closed eyes, and for the first time in months let consciousness drift. Twelve seconds of miracle remained, but entire lifetimes ahead would not require miracle—just courage, creativity, and the growing choir of tick-skippers arriving when the world held its breath.
Outside, dawn's first bruising rose on eastern rim, painting wing with promise. Lucas dreamed of stepping onto Peruvian soil, jungle humidity tasting like possibility. He dreamed of walkers shaking hands instead of testing edges, of Curators losing hold on fearful secrecy. He dreamed of boredom tugging at him one quiet day in the far future—and him laughing, refusing, walking into frozen lightning storms simply to sketch wonderlines in the air.
Above the dreams, contrails etched white declarations across thinning night: paths for any who dared follow. And far below, the Pacific rolled steady, indifferent, yet for seven eternal seconds in the hush, it too might hold its breath.