Chapter Text
The World Building Lore/Glossary
*Psionic plane - This is an external energy plane around the Earth, merged with the planet’s atmosphere underneath the ozone layer. It covers all continents and is accessible to people with a set of specific genes. The characteristics of it differ from continent to continent, country to country, depending on the region, culture, geography or even the people.
Only about eight percent of the entire population is born with this rare genetic trait. There are two main categories of gene carriers, Sentinels and Guides.
*Sentinel - A Sentinel is someone who can use the Psionic energies to enhance their physical abilities. Depending on the number of senses a Sentinel could amplify at a time, they can be divided into five subcategories. For example, if a Sentinel could enhance only one physical sense (Out of sight, hearing, smell, taste or temperature), he or she would be a Level One. If they could enhance two, they would be Level Two. A Sentinel that could enhance all senses at once would be a Level Five. This depends solely on how much energy a Sentinel can allow into their minds, retain and control at any given time.
Sentinels can also use the energies to enhance their speeds, strengths and reflexes for short periods, giving them a higher physical advantage over regular humans.
These levels can be improved with time, experience and intense training.
*Guide - A Guide is a gene carrier that could use Psionic energies to enhance mental abilities. They can also be divided into categories: novice, apprentice, adept, and master, although the clear definitions aren’t set in stone. A novice Guide (typically the first few months of an online Guide) can have advanced levels of empathy. An apprentice (one without any formal training) could project certain emotions to non-gene carriers via bare skin contact or an adept (Trained Guide) might be able to read surface thoughts of a non-shielded mind via skin contact. At higher levels, a Guide could even detect imprints of emotions or thoughts left in the Psionic plane. Their abilities are hard to categorise or quantify due to a few reasons. Most Guides aren't fully aware of everything they can do simply because they do not engage in intense training or practices. And those abilities aren’t permanent, since they ebb and wane along with their mental strengths and disciplines.
Guides are rarer than Sentinels, only about one in every three Sentinels. While the Sentinel population is divided among males and females roughly 60/40, all Guides are female.
*Latent - A Latent is a gene carrier whose mental shields haven’t adjusted to determine whether they are a Sentinel or a Guide yet. A Sentinel would typically go online at the age of 17 to 30, with the majority reaching their status before twenty-five. A Guide doesn’t have a specific time frame. Most gene carriers start practising mental discipline techniques at a young age in order to prepare for the event of reaching their status.
*Shields - A mental barrier every gene carrier is born with. It protects their mind from the Psionic energies until the gene carrier reaches the age he or she can exert control over the energies. The way the shields reshape around one’s mind determines if the said person becomes a Sentinel or a Guide. In the absence of well-developed and trained shields, one could find oneself always connected to the energy plane. A human mind and body cannot contain such energy overload over long periods, which can lead the Sentinel or the Guide to become a mindless, volatile entity, called a feral.
*True Bond - This is an intense coupling between a Guide and a Sentinel. This doesn’t happen unless the Guide and the Sentinel share 100% compatible mental shields. It’s highly revered due to how rare such a compatibility could occur. A bond connects the Sentinel and the Guide in a way that they would be aware of each other at all times, and could even read each other's thoughts and feelings if they wished.
*Surface Bond - Even though not as intense as a true bond, a Sentinel and a Guide could maintain a surface bond, mainly for mutual assistance and safety. It could either be platonic or intimate, depending on the couple. A Sentinel could use their imprints on a Guide to avoid zoning, or a Guide could use the anchoring presence of a Sentinel to barricade themselves against excessive energy channelling.
*Familial bond – A naturally occurring genetic bond that prevails along bloodlines, such as the bond between Sentinel/Guide parents and their children or Sentinel/Guide siblings. Familial bonds are more similar to surface bonds than true bonds.
*Zoning - This occurs when a Sentinel is unable to detach his or her attention from a sensory input. They require external assistance to break their connection to the Psionic plane during a zone-out.
Chapter 1
April, 2009
Spin Buldak - Border town against Balochistan, Pakistan.
Afghanistan
Maybe it’s something one of them says, a certain look that means something or a touch that lingers a little longer than it should. Whatever it is, they end up in each other’s arms for the first time that night.
Michael doesn’t know it yet when he stands under the showerhead, letting the scalding water and the delicious pressure wash away the day. He aches everywhere; his left shoulder is still sore from having taken the brunt of his awkward landing. His jaw is tender from that vicious punch he hadn’t quite managed to avoid by ducking. His right shin stings where he had banged it against the steel scaffolding during that mad scramble to get to the top. Now that the adrenaline is gone, all the muscles and bones are reminding him of the abuse they had endured with vengeance.
Michael’s not too worried. Bone-deep exhaustion and pain aside, it’s been a good day. He and Damien had managed to extract the asset, Code name - Suleiman, without getting anyone killed.
Well… without getting anyone who didn’t deserve it, killed.
It’s always a good day when he isn’t washing blood down the shower drain, his or any of his team’s.
Speaking of teams, it’s only Damien Scott on the active battlefield with him these days, while mission support is holed up somewhere far from the action. Scott is, in a word, an arsehole. He's an American, ex-Special Forces to be exact, so it makes sense. He somehow miraculously manages to slap a layer of method and order to the chaos he insists on spreading everywhere he goes.
To his utter disbelief and detriment, however, Michael is becoming fond of him - a ridiculous notion if there ever was one. But Michael is having trouble dismissing it as such if he were honest with himself.
Alright. Fine.
It’s a whole lot more than that, since Michael’s being honest and all. The feeling that started as fondness is showing alarming signs of growth into emotions that go a little further and closer to the heart-territory. Living out of each other's pockets every damn day while dodging life-threatening situations left right and centre has a way of bringing people closer. You learn each other’s moves as if they are your own. You can complete each other’s sentences and thoughts. And, at a point, you start putting the safety of the other before your own. It's a relationship that builds and develops on a foundation of absolute trust and dependability.
Underneath the carefree, all-out-of-fucks-to-give nature that borders on abrasive at times, a soul lies in the core of Damien Scott that does care a whole damn lot.
In Michael’s defence, it’s hard not to fall for someone when you know them on a level that deep and personal.
Not that Michael could afford to blurt any of it out in an inopportune moment. Or God forbid, let the man detect even the slightest hint of it. The arsehole won’t let him live it down. He will make Michael regret it for the rest of his life, and he'll do it wearing an absolute shit-eating grin.
Hot water runs out before Michael runs out of self-reflection, and the sudden rush of cold water rudely chases him out of the shower. Towelling himself dry hurriedly before the chill can get to him, Michael realises he’s been in there for over an hour. As always, getting lost in his head has a way of throwing his internal clock out of whack.
His stomach growls. It’s been waiting patiently until now to air its own list of grievances and reminds Michael acidly that he hasn’t had anything to eat since a hurried breakfast. It’s past seven in the evening. Michael is at risk of losing the remaining layers of stomach lining if he doesn’t find food soon.
There’s a knock on the door.
Michael isn’t expecting anyone.
He takes a moment to put on the pair of sweatpants he had left folded on the edge of the bed, and grabs the Beretta off the bedside table before approaching the door.
Damien stands in the hallway, his hand curled into a fist, ready to knock again when Michael opens the door.
Michael freezes at the unexpected sight, and so does Damien. He looks kind of surprised to be standing there in front of Michael’s room.
He’s not covered in a cloying cloud of cigarette smoke, cheap whiskey and even cheaper perfume. Michael only notices when he finally remembers to breathe. That is another surprise. From what he's observed, Michael's under the impression that Damien likes to decompress by finding the closest bar and the first available woman who falls for his questionable charm. Michael’s brain needs a minute to replace that with the freshly showered and dressed version of the man standing before him.
Damien fidgets, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and swallows visibly. He looks unsure of himself, almost vulnerable. It contrasts horribly with the casual arrogant confidence he usually carries himself with - a display Michael’s used to seeing and grudgingly tolerating.
Michael’s staring at a whole new side of Damien Scott, and it’s throwing him off.
Damien opens his mouth, his lips twisting in an attempt to articulate something that doesn’t quite want to come out. He swallows again, ducks his head and closes his eyes, his shoulders slumping inwards.
Michael knows Damien’s about to take off, and he doesn’t want him to. So Michael surprises himself.
It’s that kind of evening.
“Damien.” He says. The voice that comes out of his own dry throat is not one Michael recognises.
Damien hears what he’s meant to hear, anyway.
Michael only realises the extent of his focus later, much later, after everything's gone to hell without even a paltry basket.
But for now, everything clicks into place. Fate grants him a sneak peek of what it's going to steal from him later, and all Michael feels in the depths of his soul at that moment is how fucking glorious it is.
He doesn’t remember how or when Damien’s hands ended up holding his face, but the feel of those calloused palms is like brands on his skin. Michael's own hands clasp on top of Damien’s, suddenly afraid that he’ll withdraw and take that vital warmth with him. The next moment, he’s being back-peddled into the room, and the door catches a flailing foot - either Damien's or his own, Michael doesn’t know - before banging close behind them.
Damien’s eyes are shimmering blue this close, and his pupils are growing darker and larger as Michael watches. A plethora of shining emotions soars past at speeds too quick for him to decipher. Michael’s lost in those dizzying depths when Damien finally closes the distance.
The kiss is nothing gentle.
Not that Michael wants it to be. Damien is kissing him the same way he fights: with everything he has and unwilling to back down. They are connected in a tangle of lips, teeth and tongues. It’s more of an insistent biting, sucking and licking lost in a discordant harmony of low growls and moans. It’s a living, starving thing that has come to life between them in the guise of a heated kiss, and neither one can get enough of the other.
Lost in the haze of the passionate kiss, it takes a while for Michael to realise that he’s backed up against the wall next to the door. Damien is crowding him in with his slightly taller and broader body.
The brick wall is cold against his back, while Damien radiates heat even through his clothes. Caught between the two extremes, Michael feels goose bumps rise all over his naked upper body. His fingers tighten where they are wrapped around Damien’s hips, and he pulls him in even closer, spreading his legs apart to make space as he does.
Damien pulls back just as Michael starts to feel a little lightheaded from lack of air, and peppers a trail of biting kisses along his jawline before Michael can complain about the loss. Michael cranes his neck back with a groan, his eyelids closing shut in pleasure when Damien’s lips close around the pulse point at the side of his Adam’s apple.
Michael’s entire world narrows down to the heady sensations Damien’s clever mouth is invoking all over the column of his neck - a newly discovered erogenous zone Michael hadn’t known. At any other time, he would worry about losing situational awareness while still stationed in a foreign country, not quite yet completely out of danger. But, at that moment, he just doesn’t care.
Michael’s so aroused it’s almost painful, and his knees are starting to buckle under Damien’s merciless ministrations. A miraculously still functioning part of his brain points out that Damien isn’t just kissing, but he’s scenting.
The idle observation snaps him out of the daze, and Damien lifts his head from where he’s buried it at the base of Michael’s neck. He has felt Michael stiffen underneath him
“What’s wrong?” Damien looks at him with eyes that are pure black swirls. He looks drunk.
It’s Michael’s turn to swallow and force a few words out, “Are you– Damien, are you trying to imprint?”
Damien blinks. It takes him a moment to parse out Michael’s concern. “Yeah.”
“But I’m not–”
“Yes, you are,” Damien says, frowning. Michael stares at him in confusion, and Damien tries to explain. “I can feel it. You’re rare and precious, Michael, and you’re going to become a Guide…My Guide.”
Michael blinks. He has heard the words, but the meaning just doesn't want to settle. The idea of it skitters around his mind like a frightened animal, unwilling to let him grasp it.
Latents come online either as Sentinels or Guides. Guides are rare in general, about one to every three Sentinels if the statistics are to be believed. And they always tend to be female. Male Guides are so rare that they are practically unheard of.
Michael won’t know either way until the shields around his mind rearrange themselves in their own time. But Damien - more likely the Sentinel within him that’s prowling so close to the surface - is completely convinced of the fact. Michael believes him.
The implications of the declaration are too complicated and frankly frightening to consider at that moment. A part of Michael knows he should take a minute to get his head clear and think things through. But the rest of him is insisting that the life-changing events could wait, it’s not like he’s online yet, and therefore Damien can imprint on him to hell back and still emerge out of it with nothing more than a surface bond.
Damien watches him, his head tilted to the side, and his lips twitch. It’s almost as if he could hear Michael’s thoughts warring with each other. His shields brush against Michael’s own softly, teasingly, sliding off the edges of his mind like water droplets. Michael forgets how to breathe.
“It’s going to be like this every time until your shields adjust, Michael,” Damien says, his voice soft and full of longing, “I can’t hold myself back when it’s you. Believe me, I tried.”
The self-deprecating grin he flashes tells Michael a lot without the words, and Michael suddenly understands why Damien’s been chasing distractions all over the place.
“I just can’t,” Damien continues, and his hands are cradling Michael’s face again reverently, “I don't want to. Not when I know you want this too.”
Well, he’s got Michael there. He does want Damien. He wants him like nothing he’s ever wanted or needed before.
“I do.” He admits in a strangled whisper.
“Will you let me in, then?” Damien asks, his words solemn, “Please.”
“Yes,” Michael swallows, staring back at the gaze that is seemingly able to see through to his soul, “whatever you want.”
“You,” Damien says as he sways in close, “I want you.”
The kiss that follows is slow and deep, and Michael relaxes into it, letting the Sentinel take the lead. Time becomes a distant and abstract memory as he once again lets himself be drowned under a wave of thorough ministrations.
They find their way to the bed at some point, both managing to shed their clothes along the way, finally blissfully free of layers that separate them. Michael lands on the bed first, on his back, with Damien on top of him.
Michael is too far gone to be embarrassed at the sound that escapes him when Damien wraps his lips around his cock. The beard burn on the insides of his thighs adds a whole new dimension to the already overwhelming pleasure. Damien swallows him down to the root with no apparent gag reflex.
It isn’t at all fair. Michael is under attack by a professional in a field where he’s a bumbling novice. No amount of squirming, groaning or fisting the bedsheets is helping to hold himself back from the inevitable conclusion Damien is determined to drag him to without mercy.
“Fuck,” he curses, eyes squeezed shut against the too fucking perfect orgasm he could feel building up at the base of his spine and travelling towards his tightening balls, “Damien, I’m too fucking close.”
Damien doesn't stop. There’s a gleam in his eyes when he looks up before going back to sucking Michael's cock with renewed vigour. When he starts humming around his length without warning, Michael doesn’t stand a chance.
His entire body spasms and twitches, and Michael thinks he blacks out for a second, while Damien continues to milk out and swallow every drop he has to offer.
“My turn.”
Michael hears Damien declare after a while, followed by the tearing sounds of foil. He’s too fucking blissed out to move or open his eyes yet, and pliantly lets Damien rearrange his limbs to open his legs wide.
The feeling of a cool, lubed finger inside his ass is new and strange enough to drag him out of the post-orgasmic fog, and Michael opens his eyes.
Damien is kneeling between his legs, smiling at him, “Alright?”
Michael shifts a little experimentally and tries to get used to the movement inside him. It’s not unpleasant, but not entirely comfortable. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, squirming a little, “I think so.”
“You think so?” Damien smirks and adds another finger. His movements are smooth, practised and sure, and Michael is beginning to get used to the fullness.
“Not like I’ve done this before now, have I?” Michael mutters under his breath when Damien raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry. He might as well have screamed it at the top of his lungs from the top of a mountain the way Damien stills. He stares at Michael with big, round eyes.
“What?!”
Michael glares back. He doesn’t want to get into a discussion about his dating history. Unlike Damien, he’s never been able to sleep with anyone just because they flashed him interested looks. He’s only ever slept with three women before, and he’s been in committed relationships with them during all those times. One-night stands have never been Michael’s thing.
“Not now, Damien,” is all he says, moving again pointedly. He wants Damien to keep doing what he’s doing. They’ve come too far to just stop now. Michael thinks he might start throwing punches if that happens. “Don’t fucking stop now!”
“Oh, we're definitely talking later,” Damien asserts before scissoring his fingers inside him.
The bundle of nerves deep inside him flares into life with sparks of wild arousal. Michael feels his cock jump again, his asshole twitching in response. “Jesus!”
“Nah, just me,” Damien winks, absurdly smug. “You like it?”
“Never knew it’s this good,” Michael admits and then winces. Apparently, a good fucking makes his tongue loose.
The sense memories of what happens next still maintain an unforgiving grip on Michael’s psyche. He remembers how it felt when Damien finally slid inside him with a single, controlled thrust. He remembers the painful stretch when his ass desperately tried to accommodate the unfamiliar intrusion and the burning sensation that followed. He remembers how it felt to be held in Damien’s arms while he patiently waited for Michael to get used to the feeling. He also remembers how the pain morphed into pleasure with each deep thrust that nudged his prostate… how Damien gradually let go of control and chased his own pleasure deep inside Michael in an almost reckless abandon.
Michael remembers how he came again right along with Damien, and how they lay wrapped up in each other in a tangle of limbs, too sated, content and absurdly happy.
Maybe that’s the reason why the dream always chooses that moment to mutate the treasured memory into a nightmare the way it always does.
“Why?” Damien asks after a while.
They are lying on their sides, facing each other. Michael knows what’s coming. But he’s helpless to stop it. All he can do is watch - a presence trapped in his own mind - as the rest of the memory plays out in a way that never really happened in the waking world.
“Why, what?” he asks, frowning.
“I thought I meant something to you.” Damien sounds heartbroken.
“You do,” Michael assures, and grabs Damien’s hand to place a chaste kiss on his wrist.
“I thought you were my friend,” Damien's voice slowly rises as the anger consumes him, “Someone who could have turned into something more, even.”
“Damien–” One half of dream-Michael is confused, while the other half is resigned to the inevitable.
“How could you do this to me?” Damien roars.
The memory splinters.
Michael finds himself at the centre of the storm, surrounded by the millions of jagged-edged shards of past, present and a denied future swirling around him in a vortex, gathering speed until nothing is recognisable anymore.
It feels like barbed wire being dragged against his brain, shredding him from the inside to pieces along with those memories.
He thinks he’s screaming.
They are no longer naked, lying on a bed somewhere forgotten. They are in another house, an empty one without any furniture. The smell of gasoline fumes is thick in the air.
There’s a gun in Damien’s hand. Michael is rooted to the spot.
“You are an imposter…a fucking terrorist!”
“Damien–” Michael pleads. He can’t even hear his own voice over the howling roar trapped in his ears.
“You made me trust you,” Damien accuses, his voice breaking with agony he can’t quite contain, “You twisted, lying, fucking piece of shit!”
“No!”
The next thing Michael feels are fingers as hard as steel bands around his throat. Damien’s face no longer has any colour, definition or shape. He’s hazy, along with everything else in Michael’s surroundings. It’s just him and the ever-hardening pressure around his throat, slowly cutting off his air.
The memory is wrong.
It's always twisted into something that didn't happen: a strangling, stabbing, a goddamned beating… but somehow never the actual thing.
Michael wheezes and struggles to breathe, but the pressure around his neck is unforgiving. He doesn’t quite fight it, not anymore. Instead, he lets himself succumb to the approaching darkness with something akin to relief.
It’s how this dream/nightmare torment ends.
After countless revisits to the same damn thing over and over again for the past two years, he at least knows that much.
As always, when the light around him fades, Michael wonders why it’s never the bullet that misses his heart by less than a quarter inch. Never the flames that lick at his numb body as he lay there, staring at a ceiling that is cast in waning shades of red.
July 2011 - The Present
Michael’s Apartment - Aldwych
London
England
03:02 AM.
Michael stared listlessly at the red digits while his wildly beating heart took its time finishing the marathon. He was covered in a layer of sweat, the old t-shirt and the sleep shorts clinging to him like an unwanted second skin, and the duvet was missing.
It was probably on the floor, which was where it usually ended up while Michael fought a losing battle in his dreams. At least, he had gotten a whole extra hour of sleep compared to the day before. Something was better than nothing, he supposed.
Going back to sleep was out of the question.
He rolled off the bed to his feet with a weary sigh and padded over to the bathroom. He took a few minutes to clean his teeth and empty his bladder before stepping into the shower. Shivering under a high-pressure stream of cold water, Michael let the remnants of the nightmare wash away the same way he had washed away an exhausting day in his dream.
After the ten-minute shower, Michael put on a pair of sweatpants, not bothering with anything else, and stepped into his empty living room.
If he were back at his family home, he would have stepped into the inner garden where he could have done his meditation in peace. Since he was back at his apartment in Aldwych, he didn’t have the luxury. The one-bedroom apartment was on the third floor of an eight-story building in the city. The complex had no backyard or garden to offer. He did have a balcony, but it was not nearly spacious enough to move around the way he wanted. Besides, even if he did, he had no intention of putting on a show for the nosey tenants in the surrounding apartments.
So Michael had done the next best thing after moving in. He had minimally furnished the bedroom with everything he needed: the bed, a wardrobe and a table for his laptop. His kitchen had cupboards, a counter and a dining table where he could make food and eat when he felt like it.
The entirety of the three hundred square foot space of his living room, he kept empty for the most important purpose: meditation.
It hadn’t been that big a part of his life when he was still a Latent. In the beginning, he had only let his mother teach him the routines at her insistence, impatient to get through all the boring, repetitive, flowing around nonsense so he could get her to back off. Then, as the shields around his mind started to develop, he found that meditation helped a lot with the spontaneous headaches. When he joined the military later on, it was the mental and physical discipline he had reluctantly learned via the routines that had gotten him through some of the toughest training and missions.
He kept up with the practice as much as he could whenever he had the time. That had been the blessing that actually saved his life after all the physical and mental trauma he had been forced to endure when he had finally gone online.
Every Sentinel, Guide and Latent had their own meditation methods, either taught to them by their family or their local Institutions. The command and control of the Psionic energies required a lot of mental flexibility. Therefore, the wielders of those energies needed to learn those techniques. Meditation was the tried-and-true path to practice those mental disciplines while shoring up the personal shields and improving one's abilities. So, it was safe to say that meditation was an integral part of anyone who was born into that unique gene carrier category.
Michael was a practitioner of Kiko, the Japanese version of Qigong, although he would always take care not to put it quite like that within his mother’s hearing range.
Kiko was a combat-oriented routine. It was built upon a base of slow, purposeful and repetitive movements where the many derivative and complex forms of martial arts could be added and developed at later stages. Kiko, at its simplest, was about focusing on breathing and the airflow, following along its path as it circulated throughout the body and then out back into the world as it completed the cycle.
Michael stepped into his living room, his bare toes sinking into the thick carpet as he reached the centre. He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine, relaxing his limbs as he did so, and let his weight settle evenly on his feet. Inhaling deeply, he started with the basic forms at first, letting the storm in his mind calm gradually as the early morning air flowed through his body.
He took his time moving into the complex forms that were based on the movements of various wildlife. When his mind was finally calm and focused, he felt the strange, yet now familiar Psionic energies swirl around his mind, gently brushing against his shields.
The Psionic plane wrapped around London was as ancient and cosmopolitan as the great city itself. It brought with it an undeniable sense of perseverance underlying the chaos, vibrancy, urgency and confusion the city’s people fed it constantly. The foundation of the great city where the energies lay, was solid with its proud, unyielding history spanning over two millennia. And, it had enriched the Psionic plane it anchored with the riches of its existence since its beginning.
Most importantly, it was familiar and welcoming. It was home.
Michael let himself open, letting out a relieved breath when the last of the iron bands he had wrapped around his mind and soul fell away to let the energy flow in. It was a rare luxury he could only indulge in private these days.
The mark spread over his left pectoral flared to life with a pleasant warmth, and he didn’t have to look down to see the intricate latticework of black lines shining silver from within, denoting his status.
The traces of the bullet wound were all but gone, and only a small patch of white skin remained, bracketed between the lines of his mark. Unlike at the beginning, nowadays it barely even twinged when the energies from the Psionic plane rushed in at his call.
All the pain that remained was entirely internal these days, hiding in the dark, desolate corners of his mind.
Michael had to be careful about keeping himself hidden, and let it be felt by the external probes that he was still a Latent. It was, unfortunately, a necessity, considering the harrowing circumstances when he had finally reached his true potential.
Even the official Council records still showed him as a Latent, and it would remain so until Michael found Damien Scott - his Sentinel.
He didn’t do anything to run from the pain the name brought up, letting it flow through him along with the oxygen. It never helped to push all those emotions to those dark corners only to have them bubble out in the most unexpected ways at the worst possible times.
Those lessons had been hard learned.
For the past two years, Michael had been plagued by nightmares. They never faded with time. Although the grief, misery and agony hadn’t lessened, Michael at least could process them now without being incapacitated or overwhelmed by their strength.
Time slipped away from him, as it always did when he went deeper into meditation. He had no idea how much time had passed when he felt the minute vibrations of his shields. It was how he knew that he had cleansed and absorbed all the Psionic energies he could. It was only then he started slowly emerging out of the deep trance he was in, bringing the session to its conclusion.
He was on his way to the kitchen to make coffee when the phone rang.
Michael answered when he noticed the caller ID: Dad.
“Michael.” It was the Colonel, his superior officer calling, not the father. Michael knew the difference in his tone well enough. “I saw your request.”
He was referring to the official request Michael had submitted about three days ago to get back to work.
“Your evaluation results just came in too.”
“I’ve been cleared.” Michael wasn’t really asking. He knew how things worked, from both ends.
“Yes, you are,” the Colonel said, his voice soft, a sliver of concern leaking through despite the commanding persona he had adopted. “I trust you to know your own readiness and limits.”
“I do, sir.” Michael assured him, “I wouldn’t have made the request otherwise.”
“Alright, then,” the Colonel accepted without further questioning, “I have something for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Section Twenty, under Lieutenant Colonel Eleanor Grant,” he said, “She wants someone on the field to shadow her asset, provide support…that sort of thing.”
Section Twenty was another deniable intelligence unit. In other words, nothing new to Michael.
“When and where?”
“As soon as possible,” said the Colonel, “Last I heard, the asset was in Lahore.”
“I’ll do it.” Michael agreed. It would be good to finally get back in the thick of it. He had already done all the healing he could do at that point. “Who’s the asset?”
“Someone you know. That should make your re-entry a bit easier, I think.” In the background, Michael heard him typing something on a keyboard. “His name’s Sergeant John Porter…”