Mason Beck Fiction

This is the full narrative of our presession for Strange Beginnings, the first story arc in my homebrew The End of the Institute campaign.

The actual Session One took place last night, but unfortunately, our transcription bot died mid-way through and took the record with it. I’ll be recreating that session from memory as best I can, but it may take a little longer to appear, and won’t have quite the same level of detail.

I hope you enjoy.

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The alarm clock is what wakes him.
But it’s the ache in his chest that makes him rise.

John Miller. First day on the job at the Magnus Institute.

The interview had been about a week ago, held in a hotel conference room. The return call came quickly. Offer made. Offer accepted. No fanfare. No muss. No fuss.

His shift doesn’t start until nine, but he’s already up. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s just habit, carried over from a different life.

He’d kept his drinking in check the night before. Just enough to take the edge off. Not enough to drown in it. Not enough to leave a hangover behind. So this morning, he decides to treat himself.

Coffee.

The good kind, from his usual spot. It’s on the way.

It’s morning in London. The sun is up, but muted, dulled by the haze that comes with fall. The air is cold. The streets are humming. The Tube is running. People are moving.

And so is he.

As he turns the corner toward the coffee shop, he sees the signs. Police tape still clings to the lampposts, fluttering faintly in the morning air. Barriers lean tired against the curb, weathered from days of standing guard. The break-in at the Institute. He knows about it. Most people do. So he shrugs and keeps walking.

He steps inside the café. Orders his usual. Maybe an extra water to stay hydrated. Breathe. Keep himself focused. It’s his first day. He’s got to make a good impression.

As he stands there waiting for his drink, his eyes drift around. He nods to the person beside him, a polite gesture, nothing more. Then looks away, not wanting to linger or invite conversation.

His gaze drifts toward the side window, where there are a few little tables outside.

He sees a silhouette. A profile.

It takes him a moment, but there, sitting outside at one of these tables, is a man. Jed. Alive, just as he remembers him.

He’s talking to someone. Laughing a little. He’s leaning in, one arm on the table. More relaxed than John ever recalled him being. In a way he’d forgotten he could be.

He can’t hear him from inside, but he knows the tilt of his head. The crease at the corner of his eye. That patient pause that lets the other person feel heard.

You can tell the other person is speaking, and you see his hand holding the other person’s hand.

He doesn’t move. For a moment, he just freezes.

Logically, he knows it isn’t possible. Jed is dead. John carried his body through the desert. He remembers the weight of him. The heat. The silence. The infection alone should have killed him, if nothing else had.

But there he is. Sitting outside. Laughing.

So John does the only thing that makes sense.

He heads for the door.

Out of the café. Around the corner. The cold air bites at his face as he moves.

He approaches from behind, slow and cautious. And as he draws nearer, the view becomes clearer.

Jed is seated across from someone.

And now John sees who it is.

It’s him.

Not a mirror. Not a copy. Himself, as he once was. Softer. Lighter. Before the cracks set in. Before the weight carved itself into his features. Before the long years pulled him inward.

He’s still smiling. Smiling at Jed like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.

John stops.

He hesitates, then edges closer. Just enough to hear them, if he can. Not close enough to be noticed.

He doesn’t look the same anymore. Not really. The face watching is older. Heavier. Changed in ways that are hard to name but impossible to miss.

And so, for now, he watches.

He chooses a table nearby. Not too close. Just close enough to listen in without drawing attention. He adjusts his hat, pulls it low, and turns up his collar against the cold.

Then he slides into the seat sideways, casual as he can manage.

He listens.

A voice, familiar, shaken, says, “Don’t… don’t make me guess. Please don’t make me guess.”

Then his own voice replies, “You’re going to have to. You’re just going to have to guess, because I’m not going to tell you until you get it right.”

Jed: “I hate surprises. You know I hate surprises.”

A small laugh from the younger John. Then…

“Wait,” Jed says. “Wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute. Did you… get a fucking dog?”

And from the other, John hears his own voice again. Laughing.

“Yeah… yeah, we fucking got it, man. We’ve got a dog. We’re gonna go pick it up in ten minutes.”

A breath catches in his throat. He murmurs, barely audible, not even to himself.

Then the moment fractures.

There are screams.

He turns and sees a man come around the corner, wearing a face mask and carrying a duffel bag. He’s running flat out, silver pistol in hand. He barrels past the café, clips a pedestrian, nearly loses his footing. Two officers appear behind him, giving chase.

Then the man turns and opens fire.

Glass shatters. People scream. Everyone hits the ground.

But the officers don’t stop. They keep after him, pushing forward down the street.

Another officer comes into view. John is already moving, halfway to his feet, when he hears the shout.

“Oh shit… we need a medic down at the coffee shop!”

The officer is already on his radio, calling it in.

Then, from behind:

“No, please… John, no!”

He turns.

Outside, on the pavement, he sees himself.

He’s on the ground.

There are two red blooms spreading through the fabric of his chest.

John moves before he thinks. His body leads the way, driven by instinct.

He rushes toward the fallen figure, heart pounding, his beanie pulled low to hide his face. He doesn’t think about who might see him. Doesn’t think about what it means. He just moves, his mind caught between fear and disbelief.

The sound of his footsteps is loud in his ears, even through the chaos. People are screaming. Somewhere, someone is shouting for help. But the sound of his feet cuts through it all.

Jed turns toward him.

Their eyes meet.

Jed’s eyes. Wet with tears. Shining with pain and fear.

And in that moment…

Everything stops.

John tries to take another step, but his foot will not move. It’s heavy. He pulls, dragging it forward. Then the other leg. Worse. Stuck fast. His balance breaks and he falls to his hands and knees.

He looks up. Jed is still staring at the place where John had been standing a second before. Nothing around them moves. Not the people. Not the officers. Not even the pigeon caught midair above the street.

John reaches forward, clawing with his hands… but his fingers only dig into sand.

Then he looks at Jed again and sees him begin to dissolve. He is dissolving. Everything is dissolving. Because everything is now sand. The café, the street… your breath, even your thoughts, all fall away, grain by grain.

You try to move. You try to speak.

But you are already dust.

A wind lifts you and blows you away.

The city is gone, and now the only thing you feel is the sun.
A desert stretches around you in every direction, as far as you can see.
The sky is pressing down on you like hot glass.

His thoughts drift, slow and fragile, unraveling at the edges. Weak. Scattered. Fading.

Then, through the haze, he feels something.

Arms beneath him. A shoulder pressed to his chest. The sensation is distant, but real.

Then comes the voice.

Jed’s voice.

“Don’t you dare fucking leave me. Not now. Not this time. Do you hear me?”

He’s carrying John the way John once carried him. Head to his shoulder. Hands locked beneath his arms. Jed stumbles forward through the heat. The air smells of copper, blood, and dust. The same as before. Only now, John is the one fading.

“Stay with me… please, please… please, John.”

His voice shakes. It vibrates in his chest. Even when he falls silent, the sobs continue. John feels them in the stuttering rhythm of Jed’s steps.

He tries to lift a hand. To help. But his fingers dissolve into sand and slide down Jed’s back.

Still, Jed keeps going. Dragging what remains of him across the desert.

“Don’t do this again,” he says. “Don’t you go where I can’t follow you.”

John wants to answer. To tell him it’s all right. That he made it. That he’s proud of him. That he loves him.

That it’s okay to let go.

But when he tries to speak, only a whisper escapes. His breath breaks apart into dust as it leaves his lips.

He manages only the beginning of the words. “I’m… sorry…”

Then it collapses.

His last sight is Jed’s face, streaked with dirt, wet with sweat and grief, pleading with the wind to give him back.

And then the wind takes him too.

Everything fades.

A sudden slap on your arm brings you back. You jolt in your seat.

You are sitting at a table in a dim room lined with shelves. Books lie on the floor. Folders and papers are scattered everywhere. A retro cassette player sits on a nearby table, making a faint mechanical hush. A tall, lanky man stands behind you. His brows are furrowed. Dark circles shadow his eyes from weeks without sleep. He is the one who slapped your arm.

“Hey. Hey! You listening?” he says, impatient.

Startled, you catch your breath. “Uh… I… I think my thoughts were… elsewhere for a second. Do you mind repeating what you just said?”

The man stares at you irritably. “Look… I said, if John gives another sanctimonious speech about how he’s keeping things from us to protect us, I swear to God I’m going to scream.”

Something moves inside of you. A smile comes to your face before you choose it. Slowly, your arms go of their own accord. Your voice, not quite yours, says, “I think you’re going to be screaming long before that.”

Before you can process what is happening, your body lashes out in a bright flash of motion. There is metal in your hand. A blade catches the light as it strikes and sinks into him.

The man cries out and rolls, crashing into a stack of boxes. His face twists through confusion, fear, pain, and anger all at once. He looks at you, lips trembling as he tries to speak.

You already know the word that’s coming.

Why.

It barely leaves his mouth before the sound begins to fade. The room slips away under a rising, rhythmic tone. At first it’s faint, mechanical, somewhere behind the ringing in your ears.

Beeping. Slow and steady. Getting louder.

Light shifts.

Your eyes flutter open.

You’re in your bed.

You’re in your apartment.

Your phone alarm is going off.

You check the time. It’s 7:30 in the morning, the day your shift at the Magnus Institute is supposed to begin.

There’s a notification on your screen.

A text.

From an unknown number.

It reads:
How does it feel to be so special?

You stare at it for a moment, your breath catching.

Then, after a pause, you type back:
I don’t know if I like being special. My mom always said I was a special boy.

The message sends.

A moment passes.

Then the reply comes. Immediate.

Oh, to be you, and only you.
There’s less of you every day, and that’s what makes you oh so special.

You frown at the screen.

“Well, that’s kind of how aging works…”

You set your phone to Do Not Disturb. Whatever this is, it can wait.

You get up. You get ready.

And this time, you change your routine.
You are not going to that place you saw in your nightmare.You pack your things.
You step out the door.