Atemporals [Part Four]

Part 3

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The worst birthday I ever had came the day I turned eleven. My parents pulled out all the stops. I'm talking streamers, bounce houses, and costumes to boot. My neighborhood friends skipped around with billowing red, green, yellow, or blue robes while flicking magic wands.

When all the wrapping was torn away, and I hadn't received my letter to Hogwarts, the little lightning bolt on my forehead crinkled.

I screamed bloody murder.

Through my bedroom door, I'd heard scattered words. Spoiled. Ungrateful. Selfish. I buried my face in my pillow until my father tapped at my door. He'd meant to discipline me, I'm sure, but my tears crumbled his resolve.

I remember he'd said:

"There's magic in the world. Just maybe not the kind you expect."

He roped his arms around me, pulling my head tight to his chest. His heartbeat drummed a deep bass in my ear.

"You feel it?"

It was a sappy dad move. But I squeezed tight all the same.

When cancer turned dad into a wax-paper version of himself, I felt something else die. Some candle had been blown out. A light switch flicked off. Years passed by with my chest feeling dark and empty.

Darwin sped us down I-70, but my mind was back in Keane. I had a decent job in HR. My manager liked me. Every other Friday was pretzel day, and I could drive home at night to binge watch the latest craze on Netflix. I should be jumping out of the side door; I had a life after all.

But that otherworldly light had returned to my chest, steady as dad's heartbeat so many years ago. Hell, I had been able to reach out and touch it. This was, I mean it could only be...

"Magic."

Darwin shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat. Nick giggled.

"Hmm?" asked Crick. She appeared remarkably calm after killing upwards of ten people.

"You're all...I don't know what to call you? Wizards? Fucking warlocks?"

"Magic! We're sure he's natural? Edison's not knocking around in that skull of his?" Nick said.

"I don't know," smiled Crick. "I quite like 'warlock'. We're locked in a war after all."

"We just call ourselves the Order," Darwin said. He kept flicking his eyes to the rear view mirror, fixing me with this ponderous gaze. I couldn't shake the feeling that he was assessing me, scrutinizing my every move.

I coughed.

"Ehm, the Order?"

Nick leaned in conspiratorially. "The Order of Merlin," he winked. I swallowed hard. My Adam's apple bobbed.

"Nick quit obstructing assimilation," Crick said. Then she turned to me. "We're the Order of the Atemporals. No magic here."

"Then what the hell were those colors?"

"The Threads. Altogether they comprise the Fabric of Everything," Darwin said.

"Albert let him name it," Nick said. "No imagination."

"You're all speaking as if this were fucking normal."

Darwin continued:

"Think of it like, oh let's see...I've been lagging on my pop culture references..."

"The Force?" Nick suggested.

"Sure," he nodded. "I like to picture it as the conversation taking place between every living soul."

Crick clucked beside me.

"A bit of a romanticized interpretation. The Threads are simply the tangible connection between our souls and our molecular biology. They tether us, the real us, to our bodies. But what I find particularly enthralling is that they tether us to each other. We're a species predicated on socialization after all--it's a primary human need. That's why one of the most dangerous threats of being stranded on an island is simply being alone."

"Wilson!" Nick said. "See Darwin, the invention of the television has been useful."

"This fundamental drive to communicate boils down to the cellular level. And as Albert discovered, one step further to the spiritual. All our collective Threads weave together on a massive, completely unfathomable scale. The Fabric of Everything. You following?"

"Yes," I lied.

"No, you're not," said Nick. "And I can tell because you're Thread's blushing."

Crick sighed.

"Don't worry. He's toying with you again."

"Who the fuck are you people?"

The three of them locked eyes for a split second, something unspoken passing between them. My seat belt dug into my thigh as I waited for an answer.

"You sure he's ready for all this Skip?" Nick asked.

Darwin nodded.

"He's a natural. Crick confirmed as much. He's already seeing the Threads after what? a handful of hours? Besides, he'll have to handle a whole lot more here soon."

He fixed me with that gaze of his again, and it was my turn to shift uncomfortably in my seat.

"We're transmigrated souls," he said, matter of fact.

"t-trans..."

"We're reincarnations, Scott."

My eyes shot wide. Reincarnations. I was dealing with fanatics. Lunatics. But, then again. I'd seen the colors. Felt my Thread weave between my fingers. How could I deny what they were saying? A thought struck me.

If these folks were reincarnations then...

"Reincarnations of whom?"

Crick's smile was warm, like a doting mother preparing to soften a blow.

"Francis Crick," she said. "A pleasure."

Nick followed suit, shuffling his large body across the back seat and extending his pudgy hand: "Nicola Tesla."

I shook it limply. Crick. Tesla. I'd read about these people--these souls--in my history books. My head was swimming. I wiped my sweaty palms on my pant legs. This was all too much to handle.

"And he's...he's, I mean, Darwin?"

"Just don't call me Charlie."

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Part5