The Acolytes of Crane (Theodore Crane, #1)(18)

It didn’t sound like a broken window, maybe a pot.

Worried that I would become witness to an unlawful encounter, I ran to the front door, and then I saw a young teenage boy, with longish black hair, and lanky in appearance. Wearing gleaming white athletic shirt and shorts, replete with logos, he looked like he was about to step into a volleyball tourney.

His hands were stained with ink, and he smelled like a fresh Sunday paper—if I held it up against my nose. He had probably stuffed three hundred papers into skinny plastic bags that morning. I knew what it was like because I had a route with my grandpa for a year. I became relieved that there was no sign of “trouble.”

Sure enough, he broke a pot. The green clay pot had no importance to me, so I didn’t give him guff. I opened the door, and he looked at me in the manner a kid might after breaking something.

I asked, ‘Don’t worry about it, bud, what is your name?’

‘The name’s Lincoln, and I’m not your bud. I’m sorry about the pot. I can go get my dad if you want,’ Lincoln said. He came off as someone who took his job seriously.

‘Nah, don’t worry about it dude, I will clean it up. I am Ted, by the way.’

“He told me that he had to take off, and that he might see me around. I remember hoping to see him again. Lincoln really seemed like a cool cat. He ran off, and as he pulled away to catch up to his dad’s car, I experienced a visualization of Jason, as Lincoln disappeared into the dark.”





5 LINCOLN: PAPERBOY





“Prisoner eight-six-seven-six, stand against the wall, place your hands in the wall restraints, cross your feet and put your head into the vise.”

I place my hands into the wall restraints, and I can feel them dismantling the energy from my body’s Dieton cells. As the restraints suck the power out of me, I straighten up and my head enters the vise. The vise grips my head firmly and aids the restraints in further disabling my power.

I cannot help thinking the guard sounds like a goon, as always. He speaks into his damn communicator. I cannot see him, but I know him by voice. He says, “Open request for the scumbag prisoner, eight-six-seven-six. Warden is en route. Guns at the ready. Guards, ready your cannons for turnover.”

The guard is apparently pissed off from a week ago, when I bested him. Obviously, I failed. Now they have a squad to monitor me when the warden visits.

I can hear him pacing the corners. Again, I tire of the constant surveillance, furious at how the hosts treated me, held in this sparse, cruel cell with no possessions in the world to my name, save for the clothes on my back and a threadbare mat on the damp floor.

“Wardens approaching. Go live! Charge your cannons, men. If he as so much as flexes a muscle, take him down.” I can hear the hum of the cannons revving up.

The clap of space trendy dress shoes and the rustle of a tight suit let me know the warden is nearing my cell. He is the number one king prick of all the a*sholes in this joint. He asks, “Is the prisoner ready?”

“My name is Lincoln Royce,” I say, but my ability to speak normally is taken away by the draining restraints.

“Did you say something, prisoner?” the warden asks.

“I said, my name is Lincoln, you imbecile.”


“You are only a remnant of Lincoln. Why is that so hard for you to compute?”

“If that is so, then why am I here? Why can’t you turn me off or destroy me?”

“You prisoners think privileged information is a something we offer. Well, it isn’t. Now, the reason why I am here is that I want to know about the first time you became acquainted with the multiverse, and who was involved. That is all.”

“Why do I care? I am not going anywhere.”

“It is simple. If you give me what I want. Maybe we can discuss your release?”

“From here?”

“Hahaha—no, of course not. We will end your existence. How does that sound?”

It sounds good to me. “And all I have to do is tell you about the day I met Zane?”

“If that was the first time you learned about the multiverse, then yes. When you are ready to speak, just speak. We have fitted your room with a recording device. Talk, and it will activate the recording sequence. I want to know about the entire day from start to finish. Don’t leave anything out.”

I raise my finger to toy with the guards, and they fire a warning blast over the shoulder of the warden. The plasma collides into the wall next to me, and I smell the burn of its impact. Punks.

“Think about it, prisoner.”

“My name is Lincoln!”

“You deserted that name a long time ago. Close it up, guard,” the warden says. The guards initiate their retreat.

“Pull back. Keep cannons hot!” the guard shouts. The vault of my cell starts to shut, and I hear the clap and shuffle of the warden leaving.

It is easy for me to locate the file tucked away in my memory. Putting forward a recollection will be simple. All I have to do is talk. I broke Theodore’s ceramic flower pot by accident the morning we met. It is the beginning of my story.

My restraints deactivate, and limply, I fall onto the ground. I hate that warden and the Multiversal Council. I can feel my body recovering power, and because I would like to get out as soon as possible, I speak:

“Okay! I am going to start talking now. My dad and I finished with our paper route a few hours before he had to work. I slept for an extra hour, so I would not be groggy all day. My dad was trying to wake me up for school.”