“I can’t reach it!” Sofia yelled from above. “I’d have to stand on Tick’s shoulders!”
“Then do it!” Paul screamed from below. “Hurry!”
Sofia lifted her right foot and wedged it between Tick’s neck and shoulder, grabbing his head with both hands and pulling his hair.
“Ow!” he yelled.
Sofia ignored him and tried pushing down and lifting her other leg up to his left shoulder. That’s when everything came apart and they fell on the ground in a chaotic heap of arms and legs.
After they’d finally squirmed away from the pile and stood again, the three of them stared at each other, panting with red faces.
“You’re right,” Tick said between breaths. “That was ridiculous.”
“I don’t think my body will ever heal,” Paul said through a wince.
Sofia stared up at the button with a grin. “Well, at least I got a closer look at the words on that sticker.”
“Really?” Tick asked, his hope rising. “What did it say?”
Sofia let out a discouraged sigh. “Two words: Push me.”
Sato lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He’d focused so long on a bear-shaped shadow caused by the pale moonlight seeping through his window that it seemed to be moving, growing smaller and larger as if breathing. He knew it was only a trick of his eyes, but it still gave him the creeps.
He’d dreaded going to sleep lately because of an old dream that had come back to haunt him. He had no idea why it had returned in recent days, causing him to jerk awake every night, a sheen of sweat covering his whole body. Actually, it wasn’t a dream at all—it was a memory.
The memory of his parents’ murder.
What a day that had been, almost eight years ago. A terrible, frightening, horrible, horrible day. Master George had been there. Mistress Jane had been there, too. Others as well, but for some reason he couldn’t remember their faces. But he’d never forget the way the old man had looked that day, or his closest ally—the woman dressed in yellow. He’d never forget. Sato would never, ever forget.
He closed his eyes, knowing the dream would come but giving in to exhaustion, hoping the memory might strengthen his hopes for revenge. Revenge on Mistress Jane.
Revenge . . .
“Yama Kun, come meet our guests!” his mother called from downstairs. She’d always called him that. It meant Little Mountain.
Six-year-old Sato stepped out of his room and slowly walked down the stairs, not wanting to meet a bunch of strangers. While preparing for the big dinner, his father had called them “Realitants” as if any person in the world should know what that meant.
Realitants. A strange word, especially for a six-year-old. But after witnessing what Sato saw that night, the word burned a place in his mind, never to be lost. Realitants. In years to come, he’d end up thinking the word every day, sometimes repeating it aloud as he looked in the mirror. Realitants. The word came to mean evil and death to him, and he made a pact to one day rid the world of them.
He’d known so little back then.
He entered the front room, where several people sat on the leather couches and fancy armchairs, sipping ocha tea and speaking with each other as if discussing the weather or the latest sumo tournament. Most of them were unrecognizable, their faces a blur. The only ones he saw clearly were the slightly chubby man in the suit—Master George—and the beautiful but chilling bald woman, Mistress Jane. They sat together on the couch, mumbling something he couldn’t quite hear.
It was the image of those two sitting side by side on the couch that stayed in his memory more than anything else. It was that image that many years later would make him distrust Master George with a passion. At least for a time.
Without warning, the room grew silent, and everyone turned to look at Sato.
“I’d like you all to meet my son,” his father said, gripping Sato’s shoulders from behind and squeezing. His mother joined them, pulling Sato’s hand into hers.
The dream froze for a moment, as if paused on television. It always did at this exact point, and Sato knew why. Although he was nervous at meeting strangers, uncomfortable in his nice clothes, perhaps even hungry at the time, it would be the last time Sato ever felt the comforting touch of his parents. The last time he ever felt safe and protected.
That moment with his parents would be the last time Sato ever felt happy.
The dream continued playing out.
Mistress Jane stood, then Master George and the rest. Each of them stepped forward around the great, round coffee table and shook Sato’s little hand. George knelt on the ground, a big smile creasing his face.
“Goodness gracious me,” the old man said. “I can see it in the boy’s eyes. The passion, the hunger, the intelligence. A splendid Realitant he’ll make, Master Sato”—he looked up at Sato’s father—“a splendid Realitant, indeed. We’ll begin the testing shortly.”
Mistress Jane was next, also kneeling before Yama Kun. Though her smile shone and her face was pretty, even then, Sato felt that something was wrong with her.
“Yes,” she said. Sato almost expected her to cackle like an evil old witch. “A smart child by the looks of it.” She leaned forward to whisper in Sato’s ear, so quiet only he could hear her. “But whose side will you fight for? Everything is about to change, little boy.”
Mistress Jane stood. “This is as good a time as any,” she announced, turning slowly as she spoke so everyone could see her face. “My team has discovered a new Reality—a stable one. It’s solid enough to officially call it a branch.”
“Really?” George shouted. “That’s delightful, simply delightful!”
Jane looked down at Sato, who returned her glare. She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue, as if disgusted by George’s enthusiasm.
“The Thirteenth Reality,” she continued, not taking her eyes off Sato, “has . . . unusual qualities. We’ve explored it extensively, realized its potential.”
“Why didn’t you tell us before?” Sato’s father asked, his voice laced with anger. “If you’ve been exploring it this long—”
“The Chi’karda there,” Jane said, ignoring the interruption, “is different. More powerful. More potent. It’s mutated into something quite extraordinary. We may finally have the secret to finding our Utopian Reality. If this place isn’t it, the power in the Thirteenth will help us make it ourselves.”