Bonus Chapter: The Man in the Storm, Part Two

  Reality bent, the walls of the station folding inward, twisting and warping until the dim light bled into a black void. Shadows pulled at the edges, and then John was... somewhere else.

  A vast, black sky stretched overhead, jagged streaks of violent light tearing through the darkness like old scars, seething in the gloom. The earth beneath him trembled, cracking open as it lurched and split into chasms that seemed to pull him closer. Floodwaters surged in, burying cities, monuments—everything—beneath an endless, roiling sea.

  The air reeked of thick, acrid ash, coating his lungs, and from the void came a haunting chorus of screams—echoes that clawed at his bones, sinking deep as the darkness pressed in around him.

  “What… what is this?” John gasped; the words torn from him as he struggled to catch his breath. They soared above the world, far from the chaos below, watching as it unraveled in waves of dark energy, cities fracturing, landscapes warping into shapes that defied nature.

  “This,” Jack’s voice was vast and layered, reverberating through the air around them, “was the last Convergence.” He paused, his gaze distant, almost mournful. “And it’s coming again. Only this time… I’m not sure anything will survive it.”

  John stared, and they pulled back even further, a hum growing beneath his skin. It was unreal, he was seeing the edge of his sanity peeling away.

  “Do you see it yet?”

  Scenes folded back, like the pages of a cosmic book flipping in reverse, one after another. The stars expanded, then collapsed, then drifted apart again in a kaleidoscope of time. John felt himself moving further, stars slipping away, until he could see it. It wasn’t clear at first—a double image, an echo across the vastness of the universe.

  Maybe the radiation dust was finally doing it, getting inside his head, his bloodstream, tweaking his perception until the seams of the cosmos unraveled. Plenty of folks cracked under the pressure of the storms, their cells reprogramming under the flood of charged particles, minds twisting with them.

  But there was something about this—it wasn’t madness. It was bigger than madness.

  Jack pulled him out even further until the entirety of existence hung like a fragile glass bauble. John sucked in a breath. He floated amidst total nothing. No light, no blackness, just… nothing.

  “When the universe was born, it thought it was the only one of its kind. Quite presumptuous for a universe, don’t you think?” Jack smiled, a glimmer in the vastness.

  There was nothing, and then there was a pulse—a vibration, a field, a light that wasn’t light, a place that wasn’t a place—an idea more than a thing. The first something where there had been nothing at all.

  Jack’s voice resonated softly. “It was a young thing, unaware of the truth—that it was born into something far, far larger.”

  John blinked. “That’s… ours?”

  “Or are you its? Yes, to both questions, if you want to be poetic about it.”

  Jack moved again, a subtle push, pulling the view back just a little more. John’s breath caught—universes. Not just theirs, but others, alive in their own way, drifting and circling each other, bodies of light and darkness.

  “Nothing is alone, not really. Not even universes,” Jack murmured. “And it wasn’t long, a few billion years at most, until our little universe discovered that fact.”

  There was something stirring deep inside John. A feeling that had always been there, that hum in his bones, a resonance he’d ignored, like a tune he’d grown up with and no longer heard. And there, in the endless dark—a word came to him, echoing, almost forgotten but so utterly familiar: Ours.

  Jack’s smile grew. “Every universe has a name. A truth. A resonance. It’s not a word, not as we think of words, but it’s something known deep down by anyone who truly belongs to it. I think you’re starting to hear yours.”

  Ours. It sounded… beautiful. It wasn’t just a name; it was an invitation, a promise.

  Across the void, something shifted. Another universe, gliding, moving in its own orbit, its trajectory shifting—heading toward Ours. John’s heart thudded in his chest.

  “No, stop.” The words tumbled out, a whispered plea. There was a strange, instinctive protectiveness in him. He could feel it, deep as blood, like a parent fearing for their child.

  “That one’s mine,” Jack said, his tone a curious mix of affection and sorrow. “Your kind will know it as Terra Mythica. The world of myth. Though that is no more its true name than ‘John’ is yours.”

  The two universes drew close, faster now, an unstoppable collision in motion. John flinched as they came together, a cosmic impact. The crash was silent but resonated through everything—a collision not out of malice but out of the inevitable play of physics and fate.

  “It was an accident,” Jack breathed. “An innocent one—two children colliding in playful chaos.”

  John watched as their universe fractured. It broke, and yet it did not. They split and yet twisted, melding, shards shifting together.

  “This…” Jack gestured, the nebulas swirling into shapes that felt like memories—ancient and new all at once—“This is Convergence. Two universes, through force or affinity, becoming one. This is when I first met yours—when the early life of your galaxies brushed against mine. And from that chaos, life emerged, reshaped forever.”

  They hovered above a world awash in strange colors and flickering lights, a living canvas of hues and brilliance unlike anything he’d ever dared to imagine.

  John felt the world drop away beneath him as Jack placed a hand on his shoulder, and together they moved, not by steps, but by intention. The universe itself shifted around them, bending to Jack’s will. One moment they stood suspended in a twilight firmament—planets spinning like marbles across a cosmic table—then they glided forward, passing between galaxies like slipping through doorways.

  Jack’s fingers twitched, and the universe rippled, guiding them to Mars. The surface expanded beneath them, as if they’d plunged straight through the clouds. John felt the crackle of electric energy at the shift, the strange awareness that one moment they were standing above all things, and the next, they were amidst them. The verdant plains of Mars stretched beneath John’s feet, rich with a deep, primal green, vibrant and alive in ways that defied the very name he had known for so long. Yet somehow, he knew it was Mars—something inside him felt it with an unshakable certainty.

  They hovered just above the ground, untouched, as if standing on a layer of air. Titanic giants moved across the endless green, each step shaking the earth, their massive forms imposing against the horizon. In the shadows of sprawling, alien trees, elfin tribes moved unseen, delicate figures weaving through the branches and moss-covered trunks. Jack let them wander—ghosts in this chaotic paradise, silent spectators among meadows that pulsed with color and life. Strange creatures chased each other through the grasses, their bizarre forms looping and darting in great arcs, laughter echoing on the wind. It was beautiful, impossibly beautiful—a living dream painted in ever-shifting hues, so vivid it felt as if reality itself had burst into bloom.

  Then, without warning, the scene unraveled around them. The greens of Mars twisted away, replaced by the rich blues and greens of Earth. It wasn’t a jarring motion, but a subtle shift, like thoughts rearranging themselves. John found himself in the sky above Earth, among flocks of iridescent birds, their wings catching the sun like shards of stained glass, fluttering beneath a gentle canopy of clouds.

  Jack studied him with a piercing intensity that seemed to strip away every layer, as if searching for something hidden deep within John’s soul. Suddenly, they were standing on an ancient mountainside. John’s eyes widened as a dragon uncoiled itself from a jagged cliff, its long, sinuous body curving around crags and plunging into valleys, its scales rippling with glints of fire and shadow. Its breath sent waves of hot air shimmering up from the ground, and the nearby pines quivered under its weight, needles trembling in excitement or terror.

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  Jack moved them again, a subtle flex of power. The tundra opened below them, a frozen expanse where a family of giants lumbered across the snowfields, their massive forms half-lost in an endless expanse of white, their footprints leaving craters behind, small storms of snow scattering with each movement. From somewhere out in the vastness came the faint echo of laughter, high and musical—faerie laughter—spilling from glens hidden beneath ancient trees, far below.

  They drifted there, unseen among the giants and dragons, among the mysterious peoples that called these wild worlds home, invisible observers to moments of life that were somehow as beautiful as they were impossible. And all John could do was look, wonder, and try to understand how this all fit, this new existence where time, space, and the bounds of reality meant nothing under Jack’s hand.

  John’s gaze caught on a small Elven child. She was playing in a meadow, her mother beside her. The scene shimmered—almost too perfect to be real.

  “Don’t worry, they can’t see you. This is just a cosmic memory, a remnant.”

  John froze as the girl looked up, her gaze locking onto his. She looked right through the veil that separated them. Her mother remained oblivious, her gaze focused elsewhere, but the child’s eyes met his, and she smiled, a small, knowing smile.

  Jack stiffened, his features flashing surprise for the briefest moment.

  “Not possible,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Perhaps… still so much to learn about your kind…” He trailed off. He shook his head, and time rushed ahead in a blur, the world streaking past like smeared paint on a spinning canvas.

  “The Convergence spanned eons, our two worlds living as one,” Jack said; hushed, almost reverent. The universe shifted around them, rolling forward, time spilling in uneven surges—like a vast Venn diagram of intersecting time and space, layers overlapping, blurring the lines between all things. “But it couldn’t last. Our realms eventually pulled away from each other. In truth, from the universe’s perspective, it was but a fleeting collision—a momentary intersection. Yet for those who lived through it, it felt endless, each heartbeat etched in the fabric of reality itself.”

  John watched as the two worlds drifted apart, each shard tearing, groaning under the strain.

  “The Schism was worse than the Convergence. It was agony. In the beginning, the universe was flexible, able to adapt. But once these lives had roots… ripping them apart was a cruelty beyond imagination.”

  Then, they were amongst the stars again. He wanted to scream, but the void devoured the sound before it could form.

  “Magic faded. Eventually, the two were no longer one. Life went on. New stories began.”

  John watched as the stars drifted apart, Ours and Terra Mythica untethering. The stars separated, Terra Mythica drifting away like a lost ship, and Ours fractured, like a bone that hadn’t healed right, a sadness that settled deep. He could feel it—the breaking of innumerable lives, so many voices were snuffed out. An unbearable emptiness, a void settling in his chest.

  Jack spoke again, soft, solemn. “The Schism came with more pain than the Convergence ever could. The Convergence was chaos, but the Schism—the Schism was pure, unyielding loss.”

  John spoke then, guided by an inexplicable certainty. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he just did. Something deep within—something profoundly his—just knew, as though he had always been a part of it; always been there. His lips moved before he even realized, a current of truth thrumming through him.

  “And then our universe was alone—unsure, wounded. Healing, but never whole. In time, the memory of the Convergence faded, until it was nothing more than myth.”

  Jack nodded, his expression sad. “Yes. Forgotten in all ways but the vague imprints—in myths, in dreams.”

  The stars were silent for a long while, until Jack’s eyes grew sharp again. There was something new there—a glimmer of defiance.

  “And John, this is important,” Jack said. “With that Schism came something else—a darkness that every universe names differently. Some call it the Devil or Doom; others know it as Evil or Hate. In my realm, we call it The Eternal End. A darkness. A residue of pain—a shadow that only grew, a stain on the very fabric of existence. It is the fear of finality, the dread of nothing new, of endings without continuance. It was born out of the agony of the Convergence, from the sorrow of the Schism. It thrives in darkness, feeding on despair, growing in the emptiness left behind. A darkness that either grows weaker or more powerful with each passing moment. Hope against despair, potential against the end.”

  John felt a chill creep down his spine. He could see it now—a shadow threading through the emptiness, lingering at the edges of the universe.

  “John, I was born of Infinite Potential, the possibility of tomorrow—a reminder that a soul can always create anew. Even when an end comes, there’s always another chapter, another story. That spark lies at the core of all things.”

  He paused, his expression darkening. “But The Eternal End... it’s a lie. A consuming void, refusing futures, denying new beginnings. And like me, it took form, manifesting from all that was lost: the suffering, the pain, the endless grief. It has grown ever since. And now, as Convergence stirs again, I fear it will seize this chance to fulfill its purpose—the end of everything. Your universe has barely healed from the last Schism, while mine has had more time. But both are still fragile. If this new Convergence is tainted by that darkness… if it gains control, the devastation would be immeasurable. Countless lives, fractured souls—all fuel for the Eternal End.

  Jack looked at him, the words settling into the silence as if a stone dropped in still water. John searched Jack’s face, a flicker of confusion darkening into something rawer. Then John shook his head violently, a sudden burst of emotion pushing through.

  “No!” he snapped, the words breaking out with a raw edge. “No, this can’t be real!” His features contorted—panic swirling with anger, desperation fraying at the edges. His breath came fast, ragged, like he couldn’t get enough air, the world closing in around him.

  “This is insane! I must be dying—or already dead…” His throat betrayed him again, the next words fracturing on the way out. “It’s too much—too everything. Too real, too impossible.” He stumbled over the words, his fists clenching at his sides, his body wound tight, teetering on the brink of losing control. “Is it just radiation? My brain—melting down before burning out?” He faltered, barely holding it together. “The last flickering synapses firing off, desperately trying to make sense of everything before it all fades to black?”

  “John, you already know the answer to that,” Jack said softly, the words drifting into the vast quiet of the stars. “Your body is safe, right where you left it, back in your little shop.”

  John’s gaze flickered across the glowing universe around them, the quiet beauty of it all seeming to press in on him. “Why are you showing me this?” The words left him, quiet as breath. “Who do you think you are? God?”

  Jack laughed, the sound soft, almost wistful, as if the question itself carried a deep, unspoken meaning. “No, John. Not in the way you mean. I like to think perhaps we were both made in His image, but who really knows? Maybe I’m just a kid playing in the sand. Aren’t we all?” He looked at John, his eyes full of an ageless mystery, as though reflecting something vast and unknowable. “I have some authorship over my own part of the world, just as you do for yours, but the creator of all things? No, that isn’t me.”

  Jack paused, and the space between them filled with the shimmering lights of distant galaxies, swirling, a slow dance of color and possibility.

  John’s brow furrowed, confusion mingling with awe. “Why does any of this make sense to me?” he asked, his voice catching.

  Jack’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Because deep down, you already know it. You aren’t merely flesh and bone, and you never were—not entirely, anyway. You’re stardust, John. The same as every other living being, each a unique source of stories, of worlds, of countless possible futures. You—all of you—are the very source of magic itself. How you came by it, that’s beyond me—a gift from God, gods, or from the unknown. But what I do know is that the spark within you, that is you, is older than the mountains, older than the stars, older than any world you could ever dream of.”

  John’s heart beat with a strange resonance as Jack’s words settled in, a profound truth he felt rather than understood, a truth older than time and larger than words.

  They floated together amongst the stars, wrapped in the silence and beauty of the universe—two beings suspended in a sea of endless light, the chaos of existence having given way to this one serene moment. And for the first time, John felt that he truly understood his place in the universe; they were all playing in the sand, each one a breeze, a spark of the infinite.

  In a heartbeat, they were back in the gas station, and John was in his body again. The pipe slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor, its sharp sound cutting through the sudden stillness.

  Jack’s voice dropped to a somber note. “You asked, why I’m telling you this. John, I’ve been reaching across the void for a long time. As your universe yearned for something beyond itself, so did I, searching for someone who could hear me. Our universe moves faster than yours—an anomaly, perhaps, but every universe has its nature. And as our worlds collided long ago, it’s happening once more. Small pieces have already begun to slip across the divide. I’ve been calling through the chasm, seeking a mind ready to hear me.”

  “Why me?” The storm raged, but John’s words slipped through it like a thread of calm.

  Jack sighed. “I wish I could tell you it was some prophecy or destiny. But in truth, I’m speaking to you because you heard me. You’ve been hearing me for some time, even if you weren’t ready to accept it until now.”

  Outside, the sandstorm settled, but John barely noticed.

  Jack turned to him. “John, I need your help. The next Convergence is coming. We are already running on borrowed time. The worlds are starting to collide once again. And this time, the darkness is ready. If we’re not careful—if we don’t fight back—the End might just get what it wants.”

  He paused, nodding toward the door. “You’d better get that. Your friend’s outside.”

  The sudden shift in tone threw John off balance. A knock sounded. John hesitated for a moment before heading over and unlocking the door. Eli stood there, a smile hovering just short of his eyes. John met it with one of his own.

  “Storm let up and… I just wanted to say goodbye,” Eli said, his gaze drifting past John’s shoulder, taking in the mess left from John’s attempt to swing a pipe at Jack. His gaze swept past Jack as though he wasn’t there, and John watched carefully, searching for any flicker of recognition.

  “Redecorating?” Eli asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Something like that,” John replied.

  Eli shrugged. He hesitated, then hugged John tightly before stepping back. “I’ll write once I’ve got my feet planted somewhere.”

  As Eli left, Jack watched, his eyes far away. John turned to him, his shoulders heavy. “What now? What do you need from me?”

  Jack pushed off the counter, taking a deep breath, his expression that of a man who’d fought too many battles—and wasn’t proud of them all. “Far too much, I’m afraid. Far too much.”