“You mean to tell me it responds to mental commands?” I asked Kaela, who arched a brow at my sour tone.

  “Of course it does. That’s common galactic technology. You’re from a nascent world pending integration and don’t even have rudimentary neural interfaces? I thought you said you were from a non-magical world. No wonder the Arbiter got involved. Your world must be a real clusterfuck to be on the brink of integration with no neural link and no magic.”

  “Yeah, you could call it that,” I agreed.

  Multiple transparent screens floated in my sight as if I had a phone menu or one of those fancy hologram systems in the Iron Man movies. Unlike that stuff, I didn’t have to make any gestures with my hands or fingers; it all responded to my thoughts. Scroll up, next page, index, search, everything flowed intuitively enough that even an old grandpa could figure it out. It put the clunkiness of my phone into perspective, and that wasn’t because it was three years old.

  The first screen in front of me listed my basic information.

  My entire life had been boiled down to seven numbers as if I were some video game character, and some had no real bearing on my past life as a veteran, kid, or even gig worker. Sure, the life of an infantryman had left me a touch higher than most when it came to physical capabilities, but Lumen and Judgement weren’t something anyone but Harbingers possessed. Apparently, in integrated worlds, ordinary folk had magic in place of lumen and tech in place of judgment. According to Kaela, harbingers could do nearly anything technology or magic could via Lumen. Judgment, on the other hand, sounded a bit wacko. It let you sense guilt and crimes and employ abilities related to them, but they weren’t Lumen Arbitris specifically.

  “Don’t forget, you can’t increase Judgment except by completing missions. Only the Arbiter can reward it, while the other stats can all be increased by doing what?” Kaela asked.

  “Leveling up,” I echoed her previous answer.

  “Good boy,” the lavender-skinned woman complimented me like a dog. She patted me on the head with her left hand's long, delicate fingers. Jovial or not, she didn’t seem to think much of me, and based on the weight she bore on her shoulders, I couldn’t blame her. I’d never been one of those recruits desperate for the older veteran's favor or trust; I’d seen enough before the military to know those were things you weren’t given but that you had to earn. Acting entitled to them was a surefire way to show your entitlement, and it put a mark on your back.

  “Now, read your abilities to me,” Kaela commanded.

  “Ability: Halo Shift. Type: Transformation. Description: Harbinger Carrow channels the power of Lumen Arbitris, shedding his mortal form and taking on one of two modes: Radiant Wrath & Eclipsed Veil.” I read awkwardly, bumbling the words a little. Reading to the educated, wise, and charismatic Kaela felt like getting called on by a teacher to read a passage when I’d been half asleep in class and was ten pages behind.

  “And what do the modes do?” Kaela asked. One of her finely plucked brows arched at me, and her hands on her hips all but commanded me to answer her, swiftly, and without the blubbering this time.

  “Radiant Wrath makes me into a blazing beacon and focuses on destructive power. Eclipsed Veil is silent, invisible, and for wet-work jobs where stealth is better than brute force.” I didn’t read the entries in their entirety, instead, I summarized them. This got me an approving nod from Kaela.

  “And your other Ability?” Kaela seemed to know exactly how many I had.

  “Do all Harbingers start with two?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Kaela answered, and her foot tapped impatiently against the hard floor.

  “Judgement Beam. Offensive. The short to mid-range energy blast of Lumen Arbitris has high accuracy and is useful for burning through armor or barriers to strike the essence of a target’s guilt. Strongest against those marked by Judgment.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Kaela laughed at my bare-bones description of the ability. I’d left off all the effects, riders, and descriptive bullshit about the power. It all read like fluff to me. Of course, the beam briefly blinded enemies; it was a blast of light!

  “You’re off to a promising start: assassin mode, rampage mode, and a high-precision attack. That’s a better start than most of us get, and as a Harbinger, any edge you can get is good. Maybe your story won’t end in tragedy,” Kaela’s bitter laugh made it seem very unlikely.

  “You aren’t pulsing; your form is stable, and your powers are basic. Go get your first kill.” Kaela’s gruff dismissal came as she turned and stalked out of the room. The wall reverse-irised, sealing itself as if it had always been a solid wall. I stared after her.

  “How the fuck do I leave?” I shouted at the walls.

  No answer came.

  I walked over and touched the wall where Kaela had made a door. It felt like every other wall in the room. I pushed against it—nothing happened.

  ::The process is simple.:: The Arbiter spoke from all around me, or maybe directly into my mind?

  “If it’s so simple why am I trapped in this room?” I questioned.

  ::Your existence has reached a higher plane than that of an ordinary human. The Room Without Mercy is your foundation, your sanctum, a place to recuperate, re-arm, and strategize. It is not part of Earth, nor any world, but in a higher dimension. It does not move; no where leads to it, and time has no meaning in these halls. Yet, Harbingers may freely walk between here and there.::

  “You’re trying to be mysterious, and it’s annoying.” I growled out.

  The Arbiter ignored my displeasure with its embrace of attempting to be mysterious and dramatic.

  ::To create a doorway you must first acknowledge the two points as one. Space is no longer a barrier to you. Mortal reality is only partially applicable to you now, and when there is no door, you make one.:: I missed Kaela already. The Arbiter wasn’t nearly as good of a teacher.

  ::Focus on where you wish to be. Not just an image, but sounds and tastes. Feel the touch of your rough sheets, smell the old rotten wood of the window frames, and hear the hum of your refrigerator’s failing refrigerant pump.::

  ::A door is nothing more than a threshold—a moment of transition. Envision a door before you. It can take any shape: an ornate gilded door, a rippling portal of light, or even the battered wood of your childhood home’s front porch. The form is irrelevant. It is the passage that matters.::

  If the form didn’t matter, why did I need to focus on the form of the door at all? It mattered at least a little, surely?

  ::Push your imagination onto reality. There is no travel, The Room Without Mercy will open to wherever you need to go. Be warned, you are not the one to decide if you need to go somewhere.::

  I had a small flashback to when I was 8, or maybe 9 years old. I didn’t want to remember it, or try to, but it floated up out of the back of my mind.

  “You know better than that, Dusty,” Dad’s voice had always been rough, and most of the time, if you did something wrong, he’d yell real loud, but he hadn’t been mad that day. He had a deep frown on his face as he stared at me, my hands stuffed deep into the pockets of my hoodie while I shuffled my feet awkwardly and stared at the scuffed linoleum of the kitchen. Young me hadn’t escaped dad’s disappointment there, but I sure looked for one.

  The wind rattled the front shutters, and fall leaves blew over the sidewalk, creating shadows from the porch light.

  Why didn’t Dad ask me what prompted my actions? His indifference to my thoughts stung. It would have been simpler to dismiss his anger and yelling, but the deep disappointment clouding his face—a failure of even the most straightforward expectations—affected young Dustin in ways that anger couldn’t touch. I couldn’t recall what I had done wrong. Perhaps I lied about my homework? Did I sneak out after curfew? Maybe it was a fistfight... that part of the memory eluded me, and just when I tried to concentrate, The Room Without Mercy devoured the memory. I found myself gazing at a black doorway, its paint flecked and marked by a crudely carved letter D in the center.

  I stifled a grimace and focused on recapturing my stoicism. I took a deep breath, turned the door handle, and entered my apartment. The door completely vanished once it closed behind me.

  Time flowed. Thunder roared, and the windows shook. I went to the front door, and sure enough, the worst storm I’d ever seen in Norwich raged outside. I still had my clothes on and boots, too. I cracked the front door, and it took all my effort to push the door open in the face of powerful winds.

  Grace’s window was open, but she’d stood up to try and close it. I pushed it down from the outside and waved at the older woman. She mouthed a thank you, then gestured for me to get out of the rain. I gave her a little salute and turned back to my apartment. Wet leaves hit me in the face; other debris crashed into the railing and walls. I ran back inside. The door did almost nothing to lessen the noise of the wind. It also failed to keep all the water out. Beads of water, pushed inside through gaps in the weather stripping of the door, formed and ran down the inside of the door frame.

  I sighed. My clothes were drenched, and the storm only seemed to get worse. I threw a couple of towels at the bottom of the door—better than nothing. After that I stripped, lit a candle, and spent a few minutes under the hot water of the shower. If the storm did knock out the power, at least I wouldn’t be smelling myself until it came back on. Even in the tiny shower, I could hear the howling gale rip at the roof, and rumbling, booming reverberations of thunder shook the foundations of the building. Near, far, it sounded like multiple kids striking metal sheets purposefully out of beat.

  That’s how the night went. The power went about ten minutes after I got out of the shower. After that, well, I fell asleep in bed. After a while, even the worst storm I’d ever seen became tedious. My eyes grew heavy, and I drifted off.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  My alarm woke me. I stared at the ceiling. How much of last night had been a dream? I could hear Grace’s television already. Power was back, then.

  “Good morning, America. Or should I say… what’s left of it? The Global Super Storm—which some scientists are calling the most destructive weather event in human history—has left entire cities without power, roads torn apart, and everything in absolute chaos. From New York to Tokyo, bridges have crumbled. But here’s the real question, folks: was this just a freak act of nature? Or is something more sinister at play?”

  The voice belonged to an asshole named Johnny Sunrise. Imagine Ryan Seacrest without any charisma, add a spray tan, some botched plastic surgery, a terrible blonde dye job, and that was Johnny Sunrise.

  “That’s right, Johnny. We’ve all seen hurricanes and tornadoes—but never anything like this. Meteorologists are baffled. The jet stream? Gone. Ocean currents? Reversed in some places! And get this—there’s still some super lightning event in the upper atmosphere that we don’t even have a name for yet!”

  Susie Dawn was the co-host for Mr. Sunrise. She looked like most women on Grace’s favorite network—blonde, fake, and eyes devoid of a soul.

  “It’s almost like the storm wanted to stay in place. It’s eerie, folks. If that weren’t enough, we’re now getting reports of… well, let’s call them anomalies. Things happening that don’t quite add up.”

  “We’ve got some footage, don’t we Johnny?” Susie set up Johnny.

  “We sure do, now watch closely, folks. What we have here is cell footage from the station on Delancey St/Essex St. The mist you’re seeing lingered there for three hours, and if you observe, the tendrils of mist pull that poor person to their death—we assume. The mist has since vanished, with no traces of the missing person to be found.”

  Susie laughed nervously.

  “Here, we see footage from Kansas. A local weather reporter was in the field getting footage of the storm. See that? Good, American ground doesn’t flow like water. Katee Ardale’s been missing since that was recorded.”

  For once in my life, I sort of wished I was watching Grace’s stupid show. What happened to the reporter? The Arbiter did mention that the fifty Factors were chosen last night, in addition to me becoming a Harbinger. Is that what caused the storm and all of these anomalies?

  “Well! One thing’s for sure, folks—our government wants you to know everything is under control! President Hastings has issued a statement saying the storm was a ‘rare but fully natural phenomenon’ and that all these so-called anomalies are just the result of stress, misinformation, and mass delusion caused by the woke liberal agenda. Fake news! So don’t worry, America! Drink your coffee and ignore the weirdness.”

  Johnny Sunrise sounded even more forced than usual.

  “Right, Johnny. Because we all know nothing strange ever happens when the entire world’s weather pattern collapses overnight!” Susie Dawn failed to spin it even worse than Johnny. I almost heard her sob hysterically between words.

  “Nothing to se—” the power went out again.