1400 Cornelius Graham: Paynt sent. GJ.
Dan checked his bank account, noting his fee's sudden appearance. Not bad for ten minutes worth of work. He clicked his phone shut, and clapped his hands together, satisfied. It was a beautiful day outside. The large shopping center that he'd teleported outside of after leaving the FBI field office was as packed as one would expect on a Friday afternoon. The birds were singing, and people were going about their day. Sun shined down on Dan's face, warmth flooding his chest.
He was seized by the sudden urge to buy sothing for Abby. Sothing cute and lovey-dovey. Engraved jewelry, or heart-shaped chocolate, or a personalized stuffed animal. Was Build-A-Bear a thing in this dinsion? He had no idea, but he wanted to see his girlfriend's expression when he plopped a teddy bear in her lap.
God, he was such a sap.
The mall, unlike just about everything else in this dinsion, had no overarching the. Its construction was simple and economic. Clean. Not sothing out of science fiction, so much as a dinsionally displaced Arica; one where cleanliness was actually enforced, and every surface was scrubbed daily to a bright shine. There were tile floors and marble planters holding small trees. Escalators led to the upper floors, three in total. Steel railings and iron bars kept random toddlers from falling to their death. The mall's design was the largest display of pure practicality that Dan had co across thus far.
All of this was spoiled by the truly outrageous and often disturbing shops cramd into the building. He passed a dimly lit store, filled with a writhing layer of mist. The light fog moved as if it were alive, crawling across the floor like a millipede. Dan could make out shapes within it, thousands of shadowy tenterhooks clicking and clacking against the floor, propelling the collective in slow, predatory circles.
He could see clothing on display inside, black leather and spikes. Heavy boots, chains, gloves. Pictures of won's faces, with makeup so dark and thick that their eyeballs had receded into their skulls and their lips were sars of black. Next to the counter was a sign advertising tattoos and piercings. The display pieces were macabre drawings of skulls and sharp teeth.
Gothic architecture hung upside down from the ceiling of the shop, and sothing fluttered from spire to spire— Bats! Those were literal bats! Dan scuttled away from the store before sothing decided to sip on him.
Western thed shops were too nurous to count. This was Texas after all, and so things transcended dinsions. When they went Western décor, they committed, hard. Most places had at least one cactus. The shelves were usually hand-carved, sanded smooth, and adorned with a wide variety of animal bits. Dan counted five chandeliers made of antlers, fourteen cowhide rugs, eight gas of horseshoes, and more boots and hats than he could shake a stick at.
He made a ntal note to co back later to take a look.
The food court was a mind lting collage of hyper-specialized eateries. Seafood restaurants like the one he'd first t Abby in, what felt like years ago. Recycled surfboard seats, and clamshell nus. A river of waist deep water ran a circuit through the restaurant, inside which rmaid waitresses cruised along, plates of food in hand.
Dan passed what he assud was an Asian restaurant, though it seed like a confusing mish-mash of cultures. Japanese ofuda hung on the walls, and custors kneeled on tatami mats. The kitchen was open to viewing, and half a dozen chefs cooked up orders on a massive grill. The food was delivered in decorated bowls, upon which animated Chinese dragons flew lazy circles among white clouds. The waiters were dressed in traditional cheongsam and changshan, though dyed bright red.
The food was served with forks and knives.
It was pretty weird, though nothing more so than Dan had seen before. What finally gave him pause was the blacksmith. Right across from the food court, in plain sight of everyone seated, was a tool store done in the dieval style. Heat billowed out of the front, from the clearly visible forge. Assistants worked the bellows, pumping air into the roaring fire, while others hamred tal into shape on top of massive anvils.
So part of Dan knew that this was all for show. There was a visual trick here, probably so kind of upgrade that made it all possible. More than one of the workers must have had heat resistance, as they were literally handling cherry red steel. The rest of Dan, the majority of him, bounced up to the store with a wide grin on his face.
"How much for a sword?" he asked the first worker whose attention he could catch. It was a burly man in a charred tank top. His thick beard covered his cheeks, chin and neck, jutting out like a lion's mane. He had been sitting on a stool, examining a piece of tal, when Dan had approached. The man placed it to the side.
"Depends on the quality and shape," he replied. "You're looking at several hundred dollars, minimum. Upwards of two or three grand."
The answer ca imdiately, without pausing to think or comnt on the stupidity of Dan's request. This was a mall after all. What idiot would co to a mall for a sword? Yet the smith didn't bat an eye. He simply quoted a price.
Dan decided that this was his new favorite store.
They began going over details imdiately. Dan wanted a cane sword. Not for any particular reason, nor to use in every day life. He simply knew they existed, and thought they were cool. More importantly, he thought he'd look rather dashing, wearing a shiny new cowboy hat and spinning his cane sword.
He chose not to think too hard on that image, so as to not dispel the illusion.
The two n managed to get as far as discussing the dinsions of Dan's order, when the day went to shit. It happened slowly, as awareness crept in. Second by second, person by person, a quiet pall swept across the food court. The rhythmic hamring of the blacksmith slowed, then stopped. The crackling of the furnace and the furious pumping of the bellows ca to an abrupt end.
Dan glanced around, as a sound cut through the silence. It was a news report, brought up on every screen in the building. An ethereally attractive woman stood against a backdrop of broken buildings, bullet holes, and cop cars. She stood at the edge of a police checkpoint, cara zooming past a crowd of officers swarming a parking lot. Smoke rose in the distance, and car alarms rang out in a clamorous symphony. Yellow police tape hung off loosely off doors and windows, crisscrossing the shattered store fronts. It was a strip center that had been hit, no less than twenty businesses on a busy Friday afternoon.
Gang violence, the reporter explained. Rival factions eting in what appeared to be sheer coincidence. A minor firefight, followed by a brief and brutal battle between mutates. The culprits remain unidentified. Civilians caught in the cross fire. At least twenty dead. Countless injured. The numbers were rising as police and rescue sifted through what was left of a once thriving shopping center.
"I have to go," Dan said somberly.
The blacksmith barely acknowledged him, still fixed on the television screen. Dan vanished into the Gap.
His crisis bag was exactly where he'd left it, the large duffel bag tucked in his closet next to a pair of thick boots. He shed his casual clothes, throwing on heavy jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. He unzipped the duffel, quickly double checking the contents. He pulled out the pair of leather gloves, tucking them into his back pocket. He strapped his compass to his belt, drumming his fingers against the rough plastic.
rrill arrived from downstairs, sohow sensing his distress. She scampered up his leg, along his back, onto his shoulder. She bumped her tiny head against his cheek, and he spared her a brief smile. He pet her for a ti, breathing slowly. His mind sank into a deep calm.
The text ca within minutes. His ergency alert app sent him an address, and a brief. Dan scanned it, grimaced, then plucked rrill off his shoulder. The mouse squeaked comfortingly as he placed her on his bed. Then, he zipped up his duffel, tossed it over his back, and vanished.
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