10 minutes

  Dungeon synth thundered from busted speakers, warped and tinny, but perfect. Steam from a recent shower clung to the walls of the shoebox apartment, wrapping the air in heat and humidity.

  Barrett Donovan stood naked before the mirror, six-foot-four of sweat-forged ridiculousness. Steam curled off him like smoke from a freshly minted weapon. Every rep, every set, every carefully measured gram of protein had paid off. His body gleamed under the first slant of sunrise. The bright light cut across his chest, carving hard shadows that made even his reflection look dangerous.

  “Hell yeah,” he whispered. Then louder, “HELL YEAH!” His laugh came out manic, echoing off the walls of his tiny square apartment.

  He turned slightly, flexed, and nodded in grim satisfaction. This was it. Years of prep, pain, and protein, finally culminating in a body that could survive what was coming.

  The synth beat pulsed louder as the timer trickled down. A ten-minute playlist, perfectly curated to peak right at zero.

  He pulled on camo pants, “critical for getting down and dirty,” as he liked to say. Next came the black beater, a sleeveless salute to his thick, chiseled arms.

  He tied a stars-and-stripes bandana across his forehead, pushing his long blond hair back into order. Then the dog tags, his only memory of his grandfather, one of the few real men he’d ever known.

  He smirked at the memory. The old bastard had hated him.

  Shit, if I were him, I’d kick my ass too.

  Fingerless gloves snapped on. Tactical, tactile, and stylish in a post-apocalyptic way. He threw a brown, fur-lined trench over his shoulders and flung it into place like a cape.

  Finally, the shades.

  Every badass needs shades.

  He lowered them slowly, two hands on the rims, and let his piercing blue eyes hide behind a mirrored indifference that contrasted the menacing grin below.

  120 seconds

  Goosebumps crawled his arms while he examined himself. He shivered them off. Clenched his fists.

  He looked around the apartment one last time at the dumbbell set, the cracked mirror, the peeling posters of anime characters. His PC sat in the corner, dusty and dead. A sad gravestone for the man he used to be.

  So many nights wasted in that peeling, overpriced faux-leather gaming chair. The thought of it all made his blood boil.

  He exhaled. “This is my time,” he growled at the mirror. “This is MY TIME.”

  He snagged a massive backpack and slammed it over his shoulder. A machete hung in a strap sheath; he slid it free with a practiced flourish, testing the balance with a grin. He squeezed the handle, letting out a gleeful, slightly unhinged giggle.

  At last.

  “Showtime.” He adjusted his sunglasses and raised an eyebrow.

  60 seconds

  He adjusted his sunglasses once more, posture relaxed but his pulse quick.

  The countdown beat thumped in sync with the music.

  He paced once across the room, boots heavy on the floorboards, scanning the wreckage of his life. The cold cereal bowl, the dirty laundry, the stack of unopened bills he’d never pay.

  He didn’t feel regret, just impatience.

  Soon, everything would change.

  15 seconds

  He took a deep breath. Held it.

  Eyes closed, he exhaled slowly as the synth reached its crescendo, vibrating the glass in the windows.

  He raised the machete, feeling its weight settle into his hand like destiny.

  3…2…1…

  A white light swallowed the room. Everything went silent.

  —

  [Welcome to Gateway]

  Barrett’s eyes cracked open.

  Trees. Sky. The forest canopy stretched overhead. Too green. Too alive. And two blazing suns overhead, staring down like judgmental eyes.

  The air was humid, thick with the loamy smell of wet bark and sap. A distant birdcall echoed, sharp and alien.

  “What in the sweet land of liberty…” Barrett muttered, levering himself up on one elbow.

  Around him, dozens of confused strangers stirred, babbling in panic.

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  “W-where are we?”

  “The hell is this place?!”

  “I was just at my desk—”

  The babble grew frantic, climbing toward panic.

  Did I remember to pack toilet paper?

  Barrett shook his head.

  Focus, dammit, it’s showtime.

  Barrett rose to his full six-four, trench coat settling around his boots. The machete gleamed in his hand, shades flashing in the alien sun.

  “One minute I was at a prepper convention,” he bellowed, voice booming across the trees, “and the next—I wake up in THIS NIGHTMARE!”

  His roar was so loud that birds burst from the canopy in a flurry of wings.

  The crowd fell silent. Nervous eyes darted his way.

  “It’s gonna be okay, mister,” said a redheaded girl no older than fourteen, patting his arm like he was a relative on the verge of a breakdown. She continued, voice trembling but brave. “Eh-everything is mindset. Diamonds are made under pressure!”

  Barrett blinked. “Uh…thanks, kid. That’s…very motivational of you.”

  She smiled as if he’d just passed a test, then looked around.

  “Umm, do you have any idea where we are?” she asked.

  Barrett scanned the clearing, seeing twenty people, give or take. Confused, underdressed, hopeless. Most looked like they’d been dragged out of bed: office shirts, pajama pants, one guy in a bathrobe holding a vape. A woman in a pantsuit holding a briefcase. The rest were stuck somewhere between panic and denial.

  Barrett fought the urge to giggle. He kept his expression appropriately shaken, even letting his machete hand tremble a little. No sense in tipping his hand just yet.

  For once in his life, he felt like he was about to take an exam, and he had all the answers.

  They have no idea…

  “No clue kid, I’m the same as you, one moment I’m just doing my thing, the next, whoosh! I’m here.” Barrett explained.

  “Same same,” she nodded. “Did you get the message about ‘Gateway’—?”

  She didn’t finish. A thick blond man in an expensive suit pushed her aside.

  “Fred Johnson,” he said, offering a hand. The guy had shoulders, calloused palms, and eyes like a lawyer. A lawyer who benched two plates.

  Barrett’s eyes narrowed; he’d have to keep an eye on this one.

  He crushed the handshake, holding it a beat too long. “Barrett Donovan. Don’t forget it.”

  Their stares locked, heat simmering in the air.

  Barrett clocked the details: His shoulders were broad, his watch expensive, his eyes full of corporate judgment.

  “You’re lucky you were at that convention,” Fred said. Tone full of accusation.

  Barrett smiled. Power play. Cute.

  Every conversation has a pace, and guys like this are obsessed with controlling it. Barrett knew that, and so he took his time, letting the moment draw out as others looked over at the tension building.

  “I’ve been lucky many times in life,” Barrett replied, adding a wink for good measure.

  Fred’s jaw twitched.

  A tall blonde in gym clothes cut in, ponytail swinging as she strode forward. Barrett’s eyes flicked down automatically to her legs. Tan quads like sculpted granite, there was even noticeable separation. He would definitely have to keep an eye on her.

  She crossed her arms. “Look, we can figure out who’s who later. Right now, we need to focus on what’s in front of us. Let’s scout the area, get our bearings.”

  Fred turned to her sharply. “Hold on. Isn’t anyone else seeing the problem? Look at this guy.” He jabbed a finger at Barrett. “Every one of us woke up in office clothes or pajamas. This man shows up fully armed, trench coat, backpack, machete—come on!”

  The crowd murmured. Barrett tilted his head, letting the accusation roll off him like rain.

  The blonde folded her arms. “We were all just magically teleported to this strange forest with two suns. Is it so crazy to believe he was at this convention?”

  Barrett grinned behind his shades. “Finally, someone with some sense.”

  The woman turned and gave him an annoyed look.

  Fred exhaled hard through his nose and rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Fine. We’ll scout the area. But I’m keeping an eye on him.”

  “You do that,” Barrett growled with amusement.

  The group began to move, clumping together in uncertain lines. Leaves crunched, and the forest swallowed their nervous chatter.

  As Barrett started after them, an old man in a Hawaiian shirt and a straw Panama hat shuffled by and gave Barrett a hearty pat on the shoulder.

  “Watch it…” Barrett warned. The man ignored him and walked past.

  Barrett sighed, adjusted his shades, and followed the group deeper into the forest.

  —

  There was a narrow path leading out of the clearing. The group followed it in a loose, uneasy column. Fred strode at the front, back straight and self-important, while the others clustered behind him in nervous clumps.

  Barrett hung near the rear, hands in his pockets, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he watched them stumble and whisper.

  He imagined Fred getting humbled and having to replace that cocky face with something more fearful. He pictured the blonde with the quads turning to him afterward, eyes wide with admiration and hope.

  What’s that, my quadtastic queen? You want me to protect you?

  His eyes glazed over as the fantasy bloomed. A quiet giggle slipped out before he could stop it.

  Lost in fantasy, he didn’t notice the fist-sized rock in the path.

  His boot caught.

  His arms windmilled.

  He face-planted with a heroic thud.

  “Mister!” a small voice squeaked beside him. “Are you okay?”

  Barrett lifted his head, spitting dirt. Most of the group had stopped to stare. Fred, several paces ahead, wore an expression so smug it deserved to be slapped off with a paddle. The redheaded girl with twin braids hovered closest, freckles scrunched with concern.

  Barrett sprang to his feet immediately, eyes darting to the treeline as if he might still salvage some dignity.

  “I, uh—thought I saw something,” he muttered.

  “Mister Donovan, are you alright?” the girl asked again.

  “Beat it, kid,” he grumbled. “You’re ruining my mysterious stranger aura.”

  “Sorry, mister,” she said earnestly. She glanced down, then up again with hopeful reassurance. “If it helps…you do look very mysterious.”

  One eyebrow crept over the top of Barrett’s sunglasses.

  Ahead, the rest of the group was already moving again.

  He fell into step beside her. “What’s with all the ‘mister’ stuff and the outfit? They grab you from 1950?”

  She giggled. “I get that a lot. I’m homeschooled.”

  Barrett snorted. “That tracks.”

  “How about you?” she asked.

  “I went to public school.”

  “No, I mean what’s your story?”

  Barrett chuckled. “Ah. Okay. I see what this is.”

  She tilted her head.

  Barrett chuckled low. “This is the classic ‘big tough guy and bright-eyed kid’ duo setup, huh?”

  She stared.

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not about to babysit you.” He gave her a sideways look through his shades, trying not to sound too harsh.

  “You won’t have to,” she said, puffing herself up. “We can be partners! I can help.”

  “Yeah? How?” Barrett asked, skeptical.

  “Mindset coaching,” she said proudly.

  He blinked. “…Come again?”

  “I’ve read hundreds of self-help books. I can make sure your mindset’s strong so you’ll succeed no matter what happens.”

  Barrett barked a laugh so loud a bird burst from a nearby branch, squawking angrily as it vanished into the trees.

  “Mindset coaching?” he repeated, still chuckling. “Kid…that’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Her smile flickered. Then fell. She looked at the ground and quickened her pace, slipping ahead of him in the line.

  Barrett scratched his jaw, an uncomfortable beat of guilt creeping in. He regretted hitting her quite that hard. For a moment, he considered letting her go and staying in character.

  After all, he was the bad guy.

  He sighed. “Hey—wait up, kid—”

  A scream ripped through the group ahead.

  Everyone froze.