- Chapter 071 -

  A Monster Just Enjoys the View

  The Sweet-Tooth was quiet, a haven of warm air and sugar in the mid-morning lull. Mark leaned his cane against the side of the booth, the polished wood gleaming in the soft light. It had been a few days since the funeral, days spent in a strange limbo of recovery and waiting. Petra Novak had dismissed him as boring, a move that felt both insulting and tactical. She was playing her own games, letting him drift until he either proved useful to her or faded away.

  He intended to do neither. But first, he needed to settle his own mind.

  "Just to confirm," the waiter said, pen hovering over his pad. "A floral tea, steamed milk, and vanilla syrup?"

  "That's the one," Mark said. "It's called a London Fog." He winced internally as he said it. An American name for a drink he was cobbling together from memory. It felt like a betrayal of his postcode, but needs must.

  "And for you?" the waiter asked, turning to Tori.

  "Chocolate cake," she said immediately. " The big slice. And coffee. Black. Strong enough to strip paint."

  The waiter blinked, then nodded before moving on.

  Mark watched Tori. She looked better than she had a week ago. The haunted look was gone from her eyes, replaced by some of her previous prickly alertness. But also a tension in her shoulders, the suggestion she was waiting for the next disaster.

  "That's a lot of caffeine for a Tuesday morning," Mark observed, a small smile touching his lips.

  "It's medicinal," Tori adjusted the tablecloth. "Keeps the homicide urges at bay." She glanced at the cane resting by his leg. "You're walking better. The cane suits you. Makes you look… almost distinguished."

  "It's helping," Mark admitted. "The hip still complains if I push it, but I can manage the stairs now without feeling like I'm climbing Everest. Its progress in the direction I want."

  The waiter returned, setting down the steaming mug of tea and a slab of cake. He placed the coffee in front of Tori and left them to it.

  Mark reached out and tapped the rune carved into the table. The privacy ward hummed to life, a subtle shift in the air pressure to shield them from outside ears

  He took a sip of the London Fog. It was close. Not perfect, the syrup was maybe a little too sweet, or the tea a little too floral, but it was warm and familiar.

  He set the mug down. He looked at Tori, at the woman who had seen the inside of his nightmare, survived and was there as he was at the edge with a deck of cards.

  "I need help,"

  It was blunt. Direct.

  Tori paused with a forkful of cake halfway to her mouth. She lowered it slowly. The defensive sarcasm falling away to reveal the serious, clinical healer beneath.

  "Help with what? Is it the pain? Issue with your back healing?"

  "A new spine would be great," Mark rubbed his lower back. "But no. Physically, I'm mending. It's... something else." He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "There is something wrong with me, Tori. And I'm not afraid to admit it."

  Tori set her fork down. The cake was momentarily forgotten. She leaned in, her eyes searching his face with intense, professional focus. "Explain. 'Wrong' how? Are you hearing things? Losing time?"

  Mark took a breath. He gave her the condensed version of the tomb meeting. The Warden. Petra. The ghosts. He skipped the details of the lineage, that was a complication he wasn't ready to share just yet, he focused on the core issue.

  "The Warden showed me... a connection," Mark said carefully. "Someone I knew. Or should have known. But when I looked at her... nothing. Just a blank space where a memory should be." He tapped his temple. "I think Clyde did more damage than I realized. He was rummaging around in there with a crowbar."

  Tori frowned, her brow furrowing. "I'm a Dreamer, Mark, not a Memory specialist. Those are distinct disciplines for a reason. Memory is structured while dreams are narrative. But based on what you told me before... about the jumbled sensations, the sensory fragments... It sounds like trauma. Disorganization. Given time, the mind is usually strong enough to sort itself out."

  She gave him a sympathetic look. "And after what happened with Clyde... I can understand why you wouldn't want to seek out another Memory healer. Trusting someone else inside your head right now would be... difficult."

  "Impossible for now," Mark corrected. "Take no offense, but I’ve not had many positive experiences with people in there. But… that's not what truly worries me."

  He looked down at his tea, watching the steam curl.

  "It's the dream, the one I had last night, and similar since the tomb. It scared me, Tori."

  Tori stiffened. "Scared you how? The ghosts again?"

  Mark shook his head. "I know my nightmares. I know my horrors. This wasn't that." He traced the rim of his mug. "Ever since I... burned the stars... I’ve felt my control has been slipping. Lucid dreaming has become a lot more difficult."

  Tori nodded slowly, keeping her expression neutral. She was listening, letting him find the words while holding back her judgement.

  "Before the end, I told Clyde there was a hole where my compassion used to be," Mark said, his voice a murmur. "... well. You saw what I did."

  The memory of the shattered mindscape was enough, he didn’t need to explain it over again.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "Last night," his hand started trembling slightly. "I dreamt I was above The Ark. Looking down on the Collective. On Titan." He looked up, meeting her eyes. "I apologize, you won't get the reference. But there was a story back home. About a war. About a people called the Centauri who rained destruction down on their enemies from orbit."

  He swallowed hard.

  "In the dream... I was them. I looked down at the Masons' capital building. And I took a rock. And I pushed it."

  Tori frowned, confusion clouding her concern. "You dreamt about throwing rocks at a building? Mark, that sounds like standard frustration. You're angry at them, and with new found reason if what you said before is the case."

  He held up his hand, trying to stop the tremors, a tired wheeze that may have been a laugh escaping.

  "It wasn't a rock, Tori. It was an asteroid. A bombardment of raw mass." He leaned in, his eyes wide and haunted. "I can do the rough math. In the dream, I did the calculations. Relativistic speeds. Kinetic energy to rival unspeakable weapons from my world."

  He stared at the table, seeing the devastation replay in his mind.

  "It hit the building. But its never that simple, it vaporized it. Then followed the shockwave... it flattened the city. It cracked the mountains... they were dust, Tori. Just gone..."

  He looked at her, his voice cracking.

  "I didn't wake up screaming. I didn't wake up scared."

  He paused, the confession heavy on his tongue.

  "I woke up asking if it was enough…"

  Tori sat back, blowing out a breath. She tried for a reassuring smile, but it faltered. "Mark... even with Carl's gem demonstration... that's fantasy. No one has the ability to do the kind of damage you are suggesting. No one would know how or where to start. It's just your mind venting."

  Mark looked at her. He didn't blink. A cold, analytical confidence sitting heavy in his eyes.

  "But I do… I know how the idea works…"

  With no answer after a few moments.

  "It’s physics," he continued, devoid of any emotion. "I can do the numbers. The kinetic energy… If you accelerate a rock the size of this building to even a fraction of light speed... you don't need magic. You don't need a spell. You just let gravity do the work."

  He leaned forward, his gaze intense.

  "I don't have the restraint of the Collective, Tori. I haven't grown up with this gentleman's agreement not to break each other or the world. I'm new here. And I've been broken too many times."

  He gestured to his cane.

  "I'm scared because... right now? In this very moment? If I had the power to do it… If some magic would allow it…"

  He paused, letting the terrible truth settle between them.

  "It adds up. It balances the equation, an incredibly efficient way to deal with the issue. With finality."

  Tori stared at him, her face pale. She finally saw it. Not the victim she knew, not the manager he was attempting to become again. Something else.

  "I need help," Mark repeated in a whisper. "Because I don't want to be the man who pushes that rock. Or dreams of another way to settle scores."

  Tori leaned back, crossing her arms. She looked at him for a long moment, assessing. Then, she nodded with professional confidence. She dropped the role of the friend, she was a healer of mind and body, and that was needed more than ever.

  "Alright, Let's be practical."

  She pointed a finger at him.

  "You're terrified," she stated. "You just confessed to calculating the destruction of a city, and it scares you. That right there? That is proof enough that you aren't over the edge. A monster doesn't worry about becoming a monster. A monster just enjoys the view."

  Mark grimaced. "Competence at knowing right from wrong doesn't stop you from doing the wrong thing if it seems right at the time."

  "Maybe," Tori conceded. "But you've also been hit in the head one too many times. Your mind is bruised. If you had real mental defenses to start with, they are exhausted at best." She leaned in. "So how about we look at constructing a Guardian?"

  Mark frowned. "I have no real magic, and that doesn't sound like a ritual application. I can't just draw a circle in my head."

  "It's a Dreamer thing," Tori corrected. "And technically, it's not magic in the way you're thinking. It's a mental structure."

  She took a sip of her coffee, her expression turning serious.

  "There are things that go bump in the night, Mark. Real things. Dream-eaters and Nightmares in the literal sense. You should be thankful you haven't encountered them yet. I hope you never do."

  She set the mug down.

  "Most Dreamers learn to develop Guardians. Constructs to protect their inner space, soulscapes, whatever you want to call them. They aren't weapons. You can't drag them into someone else's mind to fight for you. They exist in the threshold."

  She offered a small, crooked smile.

  "Some of my colleagues even jokingly call them their conscience. They filter... They stop the intrusive thoughts before they fester. They stand at the door and decide what gets in... and what gets out."

  She let the idea sit there.

  "Maybe for you," she said softly, "it could be a little more literal. If you're worried about what you might do... build something to stop you. Build yourself a guardian at the gates."

  Mark considered it. A gatekeeper. A firewall for his own worst impulses.

  "What's yours?" he asked. "And does it work?"

  Tori bristled immediately. "That is really private," she said stiffly. "A Guardian is a reflection of the Dreamer. It can be anything."

  She hesitated, glancing around before she sighed.

  "In my case... it's... don't laugh." She fixed him with a warning glare. "It's one of the moons. From an old story my grandmother told me. It... sings."

  Mark bit the inside of his cheek. The urge to make a 'Moon Princess' joke was overwhelming, a physical pressure in his chest. It was right there. It was perfect. But looking at her, seeing the vulnerability she was offering him, he swallowed it.

  "A singing moon," keeping his voice steady, he managed a genuine smile. "That sounds... peaceful."

  Tori eyed him suspiciously, waiting for the punchline. When it didn't come, she relaxed.

  "How do I start?" he asked.

  "I'll drop off some materials later," she said, finishing her coffee. "Meditative guides. Visualization exercises. But the core of it is simple. You need to create a mental image. Something strong enough not to fear, but something that exists to support you. To protect you from yourself."

  She stood up, placing the cake into a box the waiter had kindly dropped on the table.

  "It can be anything," she added. "As long as you have the right story for it. The right belief."

  Mark nodded slowly. "Thank you, Tori."

  "Don't thank me yet," she said. "Building it is the easy part. Living with it can be a challenge."

  She left, heading back toward the infirmary. Mark sat for a few minutes longer, finishing his lukewarm London Fog. A Guardian. Something strong. Something he respected.

  He paid the bill and picked up his cane. He needed fresh air. He needed to think.

  He stepped out of the Sweet-Tooth and turned toward the residential district, away from the noise of the market. He walked slowly, the cane tapping a steady rhythm.

  Something strong enough not to fear.

  His mind drifted back to the tomb. To the ghosts. To the woman with the ID badge who looked like she had just stepped out of a coffee shop. Alice.

  He stopped at the edge of a small park, looking up at the mountain.

  He didn't need a moon, as nice as that sounded. He didn't need a monster. He needed a story that would hold the line…