One City: Uncanny Realm, #1

By P.S. Power

Tommy didn't step thought the looking glass...

He failed to step off the bridge. It saved his life.

Maybe.

 

That was due to the flying man, who suggested that, instead of dying that night, he might try coming to see his band play at a club, instead. That one, rather strange, event, starts a chain reaction that Tom would have never figured could happen, much less would.

 

Ending up in a place that both does, and doesn't, exist. Embroiled in intrigue that even he isn't certain is real.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Orange Cat Publishing
• Release date: Nov 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798224442485

Book preview

Chapter one

Mind moving back a step there? Tommy waved his hands at the man who was, as it turned out, standing directly in his way.

At least he assumed that the tall figure, dressed in flowing black robes, or some kind of weird cape, of all things, was a male. He wasn’t the kind to judge people based on looks over behavior of course, so wiped the idea from his thoughts. The concept of not being a jerk to people, no matter how he felt at the moment, came to him then, so he shrugged.

It was a bit sullen. More than a little. Then, he was there for a reason and being happy wasn’t actually part of the equation that day.

"Please, I mean. I’m not trying to be an asshole here or anything. It’s just that I’m trying to jump, so, you get the idea, it would be a bit hard to do from here." He was, in some small portion, kidding, of course.

Throwing himself into the water was the goal, but seriously, he was in good enough shape to do it from where he stood. Being lazy about it made no real sense, in the moment. He shook his brown hair covered head over the idea, as the tall, skinny, form in front of him on top of the bridge, turned to look directly at him. That showed a face, at least.

So Tommy had an idea who he was dealing with. A skinny white guy. One with a fuzzy chin beard that was way too wispy to be allowed in polite society, and of all things, blue and green hair. At least it seemed like that, where the top of the hood allowed anything to show. The pale face had several piercings on it as well. Bits of gleaming silver metal that stuck out in odd places, from the upper lip on the right and the edge of the nose on the left. Both of those were light colored hoops. There were probably other places, but it wasn’t his job to be the fashion police. If a man wanted to wear some face bling like that, it wasn’t Tom’s business to have an opinion about it.

The other man, sounding young when he spoke, his voice higher in pitch than Tommy would have suspected from a guy who was probably at least six-four if not taller, smiled at him.

"Sorry. I was just landing here for a bit. To build up speed again, for my glide, across the rest of the river. I had enough energy to make it. Maybe. You know how it is, right? You have to make sure you don’t over-reach on things like this, or you can end up having to swim home, which is going to be cold and annoying. So, I’m up here, instead of taking a chance and ending up below the black water." The voice was relaxed, and even if the man looked like a fantasy cosplaying punk rocker, there was no real sense of insanity in the voice.

As if it were normal to speak about flying around like that. It wasn’t. The man didn’t have a jet pack or a hang glider with him as far as could be seen. Even if he had, landing on top of the green metal bridge supports wouldn’t have worked with that kind of gear. At least Tommy didn't think so. Not that he couldn’t have been wrong. That kind of situation, expensive and useless hobbies, had never been his thing. Not because it wasn’t cool, just because he was poor and always had been. Too much so to bother with flying.

At least more than once. He glanced at the water, which really did look like it was black, so far below him. Shiny from the Moon above, as it peeked through the fast-moving clouds, as well.

Instead of admitting he didn’t get the real idea about gliding using some unknown skill or power, he simply nodded and pretended not to be feeling like every second of life was too much to bear. It was kind of hard to do, at the moment. Even being distracted by the odd, black clad, figure on top of the I-5 bridge.

The Columbia is about a quarter mile across here. That’s a pretty good glide, isn’t it? There’s no place that high to start from, either. Plus, the wind is a little stiff right now. Coming almost directly from the south today. That has to make it harder.

For some reason the other man turned to look at him more closely then, and smiled. It was a big and genuine seeming thing, glittering just a little in the light of the nearly full moon.

"I know, right? It’s faster than walking to get back into Portland from Vancouver, but I keep having to land and tack, running into the wind. That doesn’t work too well. My normal glide is nearly a hundred and twenty to one, you know? If there was no wind I’d be back home by now. Oh, I’m Sinical. That’s my name. I’m in a band. Limited Causality? You’ve heard of us, of course. My regular name is Dylan, but that’s not as cool, so... Yeah. Sinical."

Tommy grinned at the man, since weird talk about gliding or not while on top of a big metal structure, he understood the sound of self-promotion when it came at him.

No? I’m sure you’re great, but I don’t get out a lot. If it isn’t played on the radio, I probably haven’t heard it. Even then, that doesn’t sound like the name of what they play after Justin Bieber on the top forty station... Not that he listened to that kind of thing, either.

He had eclectic tastes, but was willing to take a hit to the ego, looking lame, instead of insulting the man over not being famous enough for him to have heard of. The fellow still in his way, on the top of a bridge, as the cold, biting wind threatened to blow them off. Cars passed below, though there really weren’t a lot of them. Tommy looked down again, and shook his head, feeling relaxed about the whole thing. After all, the worst that could happen would be him falling at the wrong time and dying.

Oh, I’m Tommy. Tom Glen.

The other man shifted, seeming to size him up.

Nice to meet you, Tommy. So, um, you’re not jumping. Not tonight. I mean, I’ll feel bad if you do that, when I could have talked you out of it. Why jump, anyway? Depression? Girl troubles? I hear that one, myself. I have to get married soon. It’s an arranged thing, and the woman is... Yeah. Anyway, this isn’t about me. Sorry. So, depression? The way he spoke seemed to speak of that as a silly idea. As if no one in the world could actually just feel bad like that. They have medicine for that, right?

Tommy felt a flash of anger, but suppressed it, since the flying guy wasn’t trying to be a dick. He was just saying what almost anyone would have, really.

"I can’t afford things like that. Besides, when I tried it, a couple of years ago, I ended up going kind of crazy. Like just a constant, brutal rage. This is not the body of a man who needs to get into constant fights. It’s..." He paused, and finally sighed, about half a minute later, as the cold wind tried to knock him off the bridge again, even if his nerves were going to fail him, having been confronted with someone else standing there.

Talking like a crazy man.

The tall guy nodded, making parts of his face flash in a lively fashion.

Yeah? It was a prompt, asking him to go on. To stall him, so that jumping wouldn’t be taking place.

Shrugging, he shook his head.

"It’s more of a lack of purpose, I guess. I mean... I’ve given up on pretty much everything. Women aren’t a thing for me, and never have been, being so ugly, so you know, I went my own way? I have a job, but it’s kind of crap. I make sure that soup cans have the labels on the right way, and pack them in boxes. So, this... Things aren’t going to change. Not for me. There’s no magic in the world, and if there was anything good or worth having, it’s missed me, for some reason."

He nearly threw himself off the bridge to punctuate the idea, but Sinical Dylan was nodding, for some reason. He waited for the wind to gust again, before speaking.

"Life is shit, sometimes. At least if you let it be that way. Still, that there’s no magic is pure bull crap. I mean, you’re standing on top of a magnificent structure, over flowing water, talking to an incredible musician. That’s pretty impressive, isn’t it? Magic is all around you. Well, I mean, not here, really, on the bridge, but if you head to the Light District in Portland and look around, it’s there. Tell you what..."

The man gave Tommy a hard look then. It lingered for a bit.

I’m going to take off, now. If you don’t throw your life away, come see my band, this Friday, at The Depot, in Portland. Dress better than that? There was a grin. "I don’t have time to talk to ghosts, but you actually seem like a cool enough guy. A person of promise. I mean, you’re up here to kill yourself, but stopped to talk about glide ratios and wind directions? That’s freaking incredible. Plus, you can actually see me up here. That’s not exactly normal, is it? You say there’s no magic, but I’m pretty sure you’re doing it, even as we speak. Just a bit. I can introduce you to some people? Sure, that doesn’t get you laid instantly, or provide a wife, but you should at least learn what the world actually is before you dash it all against the rocks."

Tommy blinked, slowly.

"There are no rocks below us here. Well, under the water. I’d never get that deep."

That got a chuckle. It sounded a bit nervous, truth be told.

"That would be my guess, too. So, Friday? At about nine or so. At night. I don’t do days, really. My people don’t. The Depot. Tell them Sinical sent you. Bring some of that soup? Do that and I’ll show you some magic that you never knew could happen with it, I bet."

Then, as if it made any sense, the man turned and started running toward Oregon, his loping stride looking a little goofy. After fifteen or twenty steps on the narrow strip of metal, avoiding the regular holes in it, the man stepped to the right, and instead of falling, seemed to tuck the flowing black robe thing around himself and pull his feet up. Making him look like a ball or balloon, flying off into the night.

After a moment, wondering if he was already in the water, drowning, Tom nodded.

Huh. Okay. That was different. People can fly. Go figure.

Tommy watched the black robed man, Sinical, float away. He realized that it might actually have been a special kind of cloak. A voluminous one, if that was the case. After a scant few seconds, there was nothing left to prove that the man had ever been there, at all. It felt odd, suddenly. The whole world did. Like a dream had taken place, really. As if he hadn’t actually seen anything, but was asleep, and now the memory of the event was fading. He fought to hold it in place, concentrating on it. Repeating what he’d seen and heard in his mind. It helped, if only a little. Slowly, being careful, without hesitating too much, he turned, walked along the top of the bridge, unnoticed, and unimportant to the world below until he could climb down at the end of the metal structure.

Then he walked, slowly, to where his yellow Volkswagen Bug had been parked. It was a newer version of the tiny round seeming vehicle, not a classic, but the space inside of it was, of course, rather desperately lacking. It was enough for four people, if they weren’t big and didn't mind being close to one another. It worked, and had been gotten third hand, for very little money on his end of things. Tommy had taken care of it, so it was nice enough looking. Clean at least. Polished on the outside, with wax.

Spending money on his ride, as it was, had been part of why he couldn’t afford to pay for drugs in an attempt to hide from the fact that his life was shit. That he’d been born wrong, in some indefinable way, which meant that he was always going to be on the bottom of the heap that the world had cast him into. Not honestly ugly, but not good enough looking for women to notice. Not an asshole, but a bit too dark and brooding to be bothered with, most of the time.

Not lazy, but not given a way to do anything of note in the world.

After years of having fought to find himself, he’d worked out that he wasn’t supposed to be there. That had to be the answer. Still, as he drove away, his car starting with only a little grumbling about it, and headed back into Vancouver where he lived, Tommy had to admit something to himself.

"That flying guy was freaking cool. If I’m not just insane. Or dead already. This can’t be the afterlife though. It’s too boring. Then... Well, I mean, I’m talking to myself about a man being able to fly. It has to be real, though." He knew that for a fact.

After all, if he’d made the man up, he wouldn’t have had the weird facial piercings or the lame chin beard. Not that he was judging based on that. It was a distinctive look, if nothing else. He felt almost at a loss, when he let himself into his tiny apartment about twenty minutes later. That, the space he lived in, wasn’t nice or anything. It was cheap enough that he didn't have to have a roommate, even if he had a second room. One with a bed in it, because it had come that way. The kitchen was barely a counter with a hotplate and a half-sized fridge, but it was enough for him. He had some milk in it, as well as some diet soda and an unopened four pack of Monster energy drink.

Nothing harder than that, since drinking when you already knew your life wasn’t going well was a recipe for making things even worse. Pot was legal, too, but while tempting, he’d never really worked up the cash to start a habit like that. Instead, he watched old anime shows online. Never really being into it enough to get a printed figure on a pillow that he pretended was his waifu.

Claiming he didn't know the genre well enough for that was a lie, of course. That, having a pretend girlfriend based on cartoons, just playing make believe, imagining that someone in the world loved him had always felt off. Desperate in a way that was somehow worse than being alone. As if he would have been finally admitting a thing that everyone already understood about him. That he, Tommy Glen, was destined to a particular fate.

To not only die alone, but to do it in the most boring fashion possible.

Settling on his sofa, he didn’t turn his small computer screen on. Not at first. After all, he’d had a chance to make a real change and hadn’t even jumped into the water. A thing that spoke of being a coward to him. Which, wasn’t true. Even he, being down on himself in the moment, could see that. He was actually brave enough.

His problem was that his life had become far too small, over the last years. Men didn’t really make friends, once they were out of school. Not often at least. Having given up on even talking to women several years before, avoiding them with some sense of directed effort, in fact, meant that dating was out. Unfortunately, he wasn’t gay or bi, so he couldn’t just hook up with a guy. It would have made his life easier, but just wasn’t his way.

That meant Tommy lived in a very closed world. A tiny, often gray, place. He went to work, paid his bills, and once a week went shopping for food. He sipped at the diet drink in his hand, noticing it was orange. So it wouldn’t even have caffeine in it. It was fine, but ultimately boring, given that. It lacked the pep and vigor it could have. It was, ultimately, the drink of a child.

He frowned, but knew that a lot of his existence was like that. He watched cartoons, ate chips and Hot Pockets instead of real food far too often and drank things that probably marked him as a freak of some type or another.

Tommy very nearly drove back to the bridge, after half an hour of sitting in the dark, considering who, and what, he really was.

Instead, he started to think about what he’d seen. Sinical was a stupid and pretentious sounding name, and the blue and green hair, facial piercings and weird robe cape or whatever that outfit had been was all over the top as well. What it wasn’t, of course, was boring. For a moment he felt like he wasn’t even there.

Just a non-player-character, who looked ordinary and average in every way. Not fat, but not fit, either. His hair was short, and tidy, being about an inch long all over, since he cut it himself, and that was the easiest thing to do, and the color of... Murk. Not exactly blond, brown or red. Not gray, but a tone that mixed them all, without being more than a thing that became hard to describe. Not noticed, either.

His eyes were cool he guessed, being a blue green color, with a dark blue ring around the outside and flecks of light gold on the inside, but it wasn’t enough to have ever gotten him a date, or even a compliment. Tommy shaved each day, his twenty-seven-year-old face not particularly showing the signs of age or wear, yet.

Then, you had to live before things like that could show up. That was the rule, he thought. So, he sat there, finally getting up to go to bed, two hours later. After all, if he wasn’t going to be dead, floating in the semi-clear waters of the Columbia River, he probably needed to actually show up at work the next day. Even if doing that was going to kill his soul.

It was Monday, already. Which meant he needed to show up at seven for his shift. That took effort, and felt nearly impossible, but he did it. Thinking, probably too much, about what he’d seen.

A man, flying. For some reason.

Sinical had mentioned his people, too. That seemed to be saying that others could do that kind of thing. Which had him wondering a great many other things as he worked, packing generic soup cans into boxes and packing them onto pallets, to go out to stores, or more likely, holding warehouses, for distribution.

He focused, intently, as he did it. Watching each can as it came at him, in a large group of them, mentally flipping them before they got to him, arranging in his head how to manipulate them, to fit into the boxes, four at a time.