Marlo stood in the sun, neck burning, sweat dribbling down his back like it was collecting a debt. Some of the kids had beards and rough, scowling faces. They'd spent the past hour scrubbing and cleaning the church. He was a lithe twelve-year-old and lucky to be here at all. He wanted to trust the word of the men of faith to pay for the work done. In his old world, before being reborn here, he'd gotten into online arguments about the morality of such men. Still have to work for the bread, he thought. That was the pay: a loaf of bread.
The preachers walked out—not preachers of a god, but of a universal man. The loaves of bread sat in rectangular metal containers. He could barely smell them. One after the other, the children stepped forward to receive their share. When it was Marlo's turn, the preacher looked at him and split his loaf in half.
The smile Marlo had forced died on his face.
"What?" he muttered, more to himself than the preacher. Genuine shock.
"You are not a man grown. This should be enough for you. Come back after everyone receives a share. If there's any left, it'll be yours."
No! The protest stayed in his head, hot and bitter. They'd been promised full loaves. You cheats.
A smile crept back onto Marlo's face. Instead of taking the half-piece in the preacher's hand, he plunged both hands into the metal bin. He grabbed two loaves, squeezed tight, and was running before the preacher could react. Part of him feared the "kids" here might bring the faith's justice down on him, a thief, but they stank of the same alleys he slept in.
A shout rang out. Behind him, the others rushed the preacher and the bin. The preacher clicked his tongue and stepped back, wearing the look of a man who's just noticed a rat in his stew.
Worried someone might fight him for the bread, Marlo bit into one loaf as he ran, nearly choking. After a while he stopped, stuffed the second loaf deep into his small, filthy pocket, and slowed his breathing. He chewed slowly now. It had been nearly two days since he'd last eaten, and though he'd rather take his time, he couldn't help himself.
He hated the new world he'd found himself in. He had been seventeen in his old world, on summer break. Next thing he knew, he was screaming in the body of a newborn. His new mother, Alysa, looked barely twenty. He never knew his father, but Alysa named him after him: Marlo Dane. She'd made it to Marlo's eighth year before the world took her—four years ago now.
When he'd finally been able to talk, he'd shocked her with how well he could speak. He wanted her to know he was there for her as much as he could be. But in the body of a child, there wasn't much he could do. Seventeen-year-old mind or not, this was a world so new to him he might as well have been a babe.
She had loved him—the kind of love only a mother could give. Ian—Marlo now—had loved her just as much. Love works like that. He never completely saw her as his "real" mother, but he drank her milk, ate when she went without. She gave him so much, he couldn't help but give something back.
She never spoke much about his father. Never spoke much of him at all. Marlo came to hate the bastard. Hate's easy to learn. Still, he kept the man's name. Maybe a distant relative would hear it and lend a hand. Or maybe his father would hear it—and Marlo would drag him to the place where his mother's ashes lay among the rest of the dead.
A few more days, he told himself. He meant until his thirteenth birthday. If he was lucky enough, he might awaken.
Yes, magic existed in this world. Those who awakened could bend reality in strange ways. Bastards, the lot of them. He'd only met one, and the man walked like no one else deserved the same air. The priests weren't so bad in comparison.
If I awaken, I'll find him and my father and be twice the bastard to them. The awakened were treated as they carried themselves: high and mighty. Funny thing was, the one he'd met could only splash about with a bit of water and shuffle some rocks. Bottom-rate witch. But he'd get stronger—Marlo knew that much. Then all his friends and bootlickers would get their payback. I'll eat meat and rice, eggs and anjera.
He couldn't even imagine it now. He'd pray for a crumb of the food he once took for granted.
He wiped his mouth clean of crumbs and made sure the other loaf was hidden in his pocket. He strode on—didn't want to miss another chance for "pay." Kens, the city he'd found himself in, was one of many in the nation of Othen, which itself was just one among a dozen empires—and that was only in human lands. East and west lay stranger realms: angels, dragons, titans, and more. Sometimes Marlo thought hundreds of his old Earth could fit in this one. He'd always been a bit of a science nut—once, a keyboard search away from an answer.
By the time he stopped daydreaming, he was back at his makeshift home. Technically, their makeshift home—a duo he'd joined, all about the same age. Marlo was two months older than the girl, four months older than the boy. Three weeks together now.
As time passed, they spoke more often. Each could come and go as they pleased. No one was responsible for anyone else. Still, there was a quiet comfort in company.
He found them as he'd left them that morning—or maybe they'd been and gone. The girl's brown hair looked like it might smell of dead leaves, her fig-dark eyes to match. The boy had black hair and dull brown eyes. No names yet. Easier that way.
"No luck today?" Marlo asked. They'd seen him coming. The boy sighed and flopped onto his back. The girl gave the smallest shake of her head. Unlike him, they were completely children.
He sighed, licked his lips, and pulled out the loaf from his pocket.
Her gaze flicked from the loaf to his face and back again, asking without words: Are you sure? She'd take it—he knew that. The boy too, propping himself up on one elbow.
Marlo broke it in half and handed it over. They didn't hesitate. They didn't ask about him. They tore in, ravenous. Some part of Marlo felt content watching them eat. It wasn't the first time he'd done this. Maybe that's why they'd stayed this long. Dry bread, though.
When they'd finished, Marlo said without looking at them, "It's almost evening. We should make for the Pale Shore."
Othen was as far east as human lands went—or near enough. East enough for a shore. Pale Shore, though these days it could be called Filthy Shore. The stink grew worse by the day, but the sunsets… they were worth it.
They headed out, unbothered by the crowded streets or the air thick with despair and piss. They were small, slipping through the press of bodies, hopping over gutters, past alleys whose names Marlo never cared to learn. I hate this world.
Sometimes he'd start thinking about how to get back. The thought never lasted long. It felt hopeless. When he first learned of the awakened, he'd thought maybe he could find a way home. Nearly two years on, the want to awaken had nothing to do with that anymore. Not directly, anyway.
Eventually, they made it—climbing a heap of garbage and stepping onto the rocky shore. The golden dusk spilled across their faces. Waves struck the rocks below, the crash mixing with the cries of birds.
Marlo took a deep breath. Something opened inside him.
New channels, indescribable, wound through him—bound tight to his body and yet stretching across the universe. A strange, heavenly weight gathered in his chest, though not in any place he could name.
On the twelfth day of the last month of the year 1596, Marlo Dane awakened.