Eight Years Earlier...

"I ain't got your money, but I tell ya what—" A fist jabbed Ian under his ribs, stealing his breath. He doubled over. "I tell you what," he wheezed. "I tell you what—I can get it."

Every gamble had a payoff—and an equally hefty risk. The meaty fist connecting with Ian's cheek was a reminder of what it meant to lose.

"That's what you said last time, Lucky Charm. Remember? Don't know how it is back where you're from, but 'round here, you pay up."

The backhand stung Ian's flesh, punctuating the words. "Welcome to New York, bitch."

Blood dripped into Ian's eyes, staining his world in red. Two men held up his lanky six-foot-two frame. Body feeling like lead, Ian whispered, "Ain't like it's the city. Upstate is s'pose to be nice."

The hallway's three walls closed Ian into a dead end, every classroom door locked. He cringed at the uninhibited laughter of the five men barring his escape. With all the graduation fanfare on the other side of the campus, there was no hope of anyone just happening by.

Cheeks throbbing, skin taut from the swelling, Ian fought to open his eyes. A student in a long black graduation robe at the end of the hall crept into focus. Someone had come; by luck or fate, someone had heard his cries.

Ian tried to call out, but a strong blow to his swollen lips sent those words back down his throat. Spots popped and faded before him but the golden cross around the student's neck drew Ian's focus, thank God for the help. Despite the promise of salvation, however, the observer only gave him a curious look.

It was a woman—maybe an angel. Two brown eyes stared at him from under short, dark curls before the student turned and walked away.

The shock and disappointment left Ian bitter as he watched the young woman go.

"Bloody Americans," Ian said. He spat out a piece of tooth. A fist connected with the back of his head, then another to his left cheek.

Ian had height, but his body was slender with little muscle tone. He could hardly see the justification for their savagery. Sincerity welled up in his voice along with the tears in his eyes.

"I thought you Yanks were nicer," he blubbered.

This was it. The end. Ian contemplated giving up, resolving to simply let them beat him to death.

The sound of footsteps, falling faster and faster, closed in, a husky voice accompanying it. "Hey!" Just as suddenly as the advance came, it stopped. "What the hell, Jeff. Don't you have something better to do?"

Jeff? It has a name? Ian barely had the strength to keep his head upright. A wave of relief rushed over him when Jeff, the shaven-headed young man before him, eased out of his fighter's stance and smiled.

"Well, I'll be damned. Rinn?"

"Yeah." Rinn gave Ian a curious look and focused on Jeff's clenched fists. "Haven't seen you in a bit. What the hell are you doing here?"

Jeff smirked and nodded toward Ian.

"Okay. Dumb question." Rinn inched away. "Listen, I'd love to catch up, but I've gotta go."

"Look at you," Jeff mused. "You look good in that robe."

Rinn paused in her retreat and pointed to Ian. "Do me a favor and let him go." Cutting off Jeff's protest, she added, "You owe me. My sister's coming today. My mom came all this way. It's not right for her to see her kid behind bars before she dies. The last thing I need is the damn cops canvassing the place because you just offed this...dude."

Ian stared into the eyes of his Good Samaritan: Rinn. The angel had come back—but she had an edge to her.

Rinn scowled. "I didn't spend a shitload on this robe and shit for nothing. Think of what Jesus would do and just let him up."

Jeff smirked and held out his arms. He shrugged. "At least one of us made it, huh?" Rinn didn't respond, and the standoff ended when Jeff relented. "Fine."

One by one, the men lumbered away. Ian counted each blur as they passed. Having no one left to prop him up, he hunched over, hands on his knees. He was glad he didn't see which one cleared his throat before spitting. More than the blood and bruises, feeling the saliva on his left cheek hurt the most—being spat on, as if he were scum.

"We're even, Rinn. Later, Lucky Charm." Jeff's voice faded with a chuckle.

Body trembling, Ian fought to compose himself. He wanted to stand up straight. He wanted to look Rinn, whoever she was, in the eye and give a word of thanks—maybe a joke to lessen the embarrassment. It seemed fitting that a woman got him out of this mess—a woman had put him into it.

By the time Ian looked up to see his rescuer, Rinn was already gone, taking a right at the end of the hall. Head heavy, Ian stayed hunched, giving him a better view of the blood on the white floor.

Ian considered it luck that he saw the chip of tooth. Running his tongue along the inside of his mouth for a quick inventory told him his vanity could remain intact.

He reached down with the intent of keeping it as a memento. His fingertips hovered just above the blood; the red streaks jiggled, melted, and faded into the floor.

"What the...?"

Ian struggled to make sense of it. A tap of his foot against the ground caused the surface to swirl and shift; his shoes, however, remained unchanged.

He poked at this strange find and then examined his index finger. The digit was clean. Whatever had become of the ground, it didn't adhere, though he could say with certainty that the floor had liquefied somehow.

His injuries hindered his movements, but he mustered up enough strength to tap the floor again. The smooth substance sloshed back and forth like red-speckled white slime. He focused so intently on how this was possible that he failed to see what shot from the wall behind him until it sailed past.

Despite the dead end, someone landed crouched before Ian. The stranger looked ahead and then ran, taking a left at the end of the hall. Ian stared, blood dripping from his open mouth. He looked back in time to see three more people, all dressed in black, shoot from the liquid-like surface of the wall. The thick white material slid from each body in unison as they emerged.

The strangers landed, thud after thud reverberated, creating ripples in the floor. Although Ian expected them to give chase, the tallest one held the other two back and focused on Ian.

Still with his hands on his knees to steady himself, Ian studied them: first their thick black boots, then the leather-like black bodysuits they wore—more like armor. Each had a ring pierced in his bottom lip.

Ian could only assume they were aliens who could walk through walls. Whatever they were, they were a welcome distraction from his injuries.

The taller man turned to Ian, eyes squinted as he asked, "Which way'd she go?"

Ian opened and shut his mouth several times before he coughed. "Where'd you come from? What are you guys?"

"Come from—wait, what? You talk like we're from another dimension. We ain't aliens, dummy," the tall man said, as if reading his mind.

"Then—then—then what?" Ian blubbered.

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral, you mean?" The stranger smirked, his silver lip ring glistening as he reached behind his back for a thick black gun. "This level of violence can only be achieved by good-ol'-fashioned humans, my friend. So let me ask you again: which way'd the thing go?"

Trembling while eyeing the weapon, Ian answered through chattering teeth. "R—right. No, left."

The two other strangers exchanged a glance and then gave chase, leaving the tallest behind. Both reached the end of the hall and split up—one going right, the other left.

"Not that we don't trust you, Outsider. But we cover our bases." The tall man approached Ian with an air of caution and a faint smile. "Now, I've got a problem, you see." His tone was gentle but mischievous. "Thanks to your boss, I just lost an Artificial Elemental who can mimic other people's appearances." He took hold of a handful of Ian's shoulder-length black hair. "I don't suppose you'll just tell me where it's headed, huh?"

Ian stared at him, eyes dancing along the man's placid smile. He resembled a grinning Cheshire cat, both in his eyes and smug smirk. Each second of silence served to dull that smile until it was nowhere in sight.

The man said, "Talk."

"W—what are you guys?" Ian repeated.

Instead of answering him, Smiley took a step back. "Cut the shit. Don't get me wrong—I'm impressed by how real your injuries look, but I'm not buying it. Maybe you were waiting for it. You're an accomplice, a plant, a distraction—what the hell do I know? What I do know is I can't afford to get the cleaning crew on this one."

As incoherent and meaningless as the man's words were, Ian tried to look attentive, his eyes fixed on the thick black gun. In the back of his mind, he struggled to figure out if he had in fact unintentionally wet himself during the beating, because if not, he might take the opportunity to do so now. The adrenaline coursing through him faded little by little, bringing an excruciating reality to the foreground. He couldn't quite focus on the man's words—just his own injuries.

"So if you think I'd risk going back empty-handed, then dream on. Talk."

"Boss," the two strangers said in unison. Ian snapped his head up to see them return with two different women in restraints. Mouths covered with black gags and hands bound behind their backs, the captives lumbered forward, their identical black robes flopping with each sluggish step. That wasn't all that was identical—their faces were the same.

Smiley was stunned. "Two?"

The younger of his colleagues shrugged. "They're both tangible, so it's not an illusion. What do we do?"

"What can we do? This guy's here all bloody and tells us to go both ways. Now you both show up with two. This entire mission is going to hell."

The third stranger—the lone woman—turned her right hand palm up, revealing glowing white numbers flashing beneath her skin. "Sir, it's almost time to go back. Rather than drain resources, we should abandon this capture."

"No. No way. That's not an option."

"Look here, sir. This one wears a cross," Smiley's colleague observed. "Does that mean—?"

"That means nothing." The woman gestured to her own capture. "So does this one." She looked Smiley in the eye, finally. "Sir, the mission's a failure. We should regroup."

"No. We go forward. Unbind them."

With the gags off, it was worse than Ian feared...they looked perfectly identical—and he didn't recognize either.

"Who are you?" Smiley asked them.

"Rinn..." Ian muttered under his breath, willing one of them to answer.

Both women remained tight lipped. Finally, one said, "My name's Rinn."

Wrong voice.

"My name's Rinn," the other one said.

Ian calmed. That was the right one.

So when Smiley turned and demanded, "Which one?" Ian was all but too happy to return Rinn's rescue.

"This one," Ian said, pointing. "This one's—"

"Got her." Smiley yanked Rinn close. He instructed her gagged again, stronger. "And reinforce those binds."

"Wait? What?" Ian willed his body to move but he couldn't physically rush to the rescue. "No. Not that one. That one's real. That's the real one."

The strangers' looks of relief faded to confusion once more. The youngest of the three, the man, said, "He's changed his indication. Sir, we don't have the time."

"We're...we're taking all three." Smiley turned to face the wall. "Meaning we'll take this bloodied one too. Maybe he's an accomplice. The System is flawless. We'll figure it out back home. We can always drop the extra two back here if they're not involved."

"Are you sure, sir? Don't you have to pay to get a memory wipe done—and two, at that?" the younger man asked.

"Well, we can't afford to let her go—no way in hell—whichever one she is. You know what'll happen to us if we go back empty-handed." The tall man tapped his lip ring with a frown. "This guy indicated her. These are two random people. He's confirmed one of these is a fake. They're in on it somehow."

"And if they're not?"

"In a place as big as this, they were all in this one spot. It's too much of a coincidence. We got 'er." He gave Ian a satisfied smile then turned to face the wall. "System, crew returning to The Colony. Transportation requested."

A voice came out of nowhere. "Stand clear."

Ian jerked his head up, but a quick survey of the walls yielded no hint as to the source of the announcement. By the time Ian realized Smiley was dragging him toward the wall, he'd already touched the surface. Unlike the floor, the liquefied wall stuck to him. Then, as if he were made of rubber, it yanked him forward.

"Bloody hell!" Ian wailed. Each wound felt strained and torn anew as the thick putty-like surface stretched him out and then snapped him forward again. He emerged into a white, domed room.

Vision blurred, Ian wobbled forward, feeling insignificant and small in the sea of black clothes as far as he could see. That unseen voice drew Ian's focus upward to the unending ceiling.

"Stand by for a medic," the voice announced.

"System, cancel that order," Smiley said. That Cheshire cat had lost quite a bit of his smugness, if his shaky voice was any indication. "Um...we don't need a medic. They don't need it."

"Stand by for a medic."

To Ian, the robotic voice sounded insistent. He searched the vast ceiling for something resembling a loudspeaker, something to show him its source. There was nothing—only a carefully laid-out pattern of lights that reminded him of the sun.

"Injuries assessed. Class-Five Elemental ready for transport."

"Class-Five?" The younger man asked, "For prisoners? Isn't that a bit extreme? It's not like we're coming back from a war. Sir, why would the System request such a strong healer for potential duds?"

"I dunno. But I'm not waiting around to find out. We can't afford no Class-Five E. Get these two into an interrogation room. Figure out which one is the target, or it'll be our asses."

"And the injured one?"

"Stick a blasted quarantine label on the idiot and get him into a wall. If the damn computer wants to heal him so badly, it'll have to do it the old-fashioned way, in stasis. Three weeks with him in there should give us enough time to figure this shit out."

"Sir, but—"

"It's just three damn weeks. Stop arguing with me. If he's a dud, do you really think I want to go through the fallout when he realizes he's underground and goes crazy? Just shut up already. He's—oh, shit!"

The spinning world finally came to a halt, and the artificial sun faded. Feeling boneless, Ian focused on his knees which had given out, refusing to support him. His right cheek stung after the fall, a sensation that reverberated throughout his entire body. Every nerve buzzed as the darkness came, and all his thoughts rushed to the consequence of a careless wager.

"But...." The panicked voices around him sounded distant. He whispered, "...But I coulda paid. I had the money.... Is it too late to pay?"