The "fasten seatbelts" light went out, accompanied by a soft tone that was almost buried by the shuffle of restless passengers. A keen ear could pick out the vibration and slight hiss that meant the cabin door had been opened. Up and down the aisle, people were standing up, anxious to depart the plane that had carried them across the ocean.
An elderly gentleman in a window seat just behind the wing made no effort to get up. It wouldn't help the plane empty faster, and it wouldn't get him out into the terminal any more quickly. He watched his seatmate shove his way out into the aisle, reserving his place in a line that wasn't going anywhere, and the man by the window turned his attention to the tarmac outside.
Checked luggage was already being unloaded, which meant little to him personally. Anything that wouldn't fit in his carry-on would be shipped at a later date--a necessity considering what was and wasn't allowed through airport security these days. The moveable connector shook with what appeared to be footsteps, and he glanced up toward the front of the plane again.
Passengers were indeed disembarking, although no one near him had started to move. He reached down to secure his carry-on in his lap and waited patiently. When his turn came to follow his seatmate out into the aisle, he paused to allow the woman across the aisle to depart first. She gave him a grateful smile and hurried her two children down the aisle with her.
He followed calmly in her wake, noting with interest the state of the seats as he passed. Some passengers had clearly done everything in their power to return their places to a state of neat orderliness, while others had not. He nodded to the flight attendant as he approached the door, and she wished him a nice day.
Traffic moved swiftly up the connector to the terminal proper. He let the flow guide him until the narrow corridor opened up, and he passed two more airport employees as he made his way out into the terminal. He returned their greeting with a nod, then stepped to one side before he found himself caught up in the swiftly moving foot traffic between gates.
It was a moment of peace in a rushed environment. He removed an old photograph from his inner coat pocket and studied it for a moment, reminding himself of why he was here. It had been a long time since Miko Watanabe sent him this picture, and it no longer evoked the pain it once had. Now there was only a sense of love, fondness with a slightly bittersweet tinge, and a growing curiosity.
Happy and smiling for a camera in the hands of her husband, Miko held a young boy in her arms as she posed for the picture she'd put in an overseas envelope only a week later. A week after the picture had been taken, and twenty-five years before he could bring himself to do something about it. It had indeed been a long time.
The man lifted his gaze to scan the bustling terminal, and his eye found the appropriate directional information on signs that he had no trouble reading. As he headed for the terminal exit, though, the happy shriek of a child drew his attention to the other side of the walkway. The child raced into a nearby eating establishment, but his gaze lingered outside where large tanks with screens and brightly colored controls lined the wall. There were a couple of young people lined up, testing their hand-eye coordination with the noisy video games.
Twenty-five years, he thought to himself. Miko's son would be long past such things now.
"I don't understand this game," one of the young men at the arcade games complained. Even as he protested, he yanked the controls to the right in a mostly futile effort to keep himself on course. "The goals keep moving!"
"That's because you keep reaching them," Hunter informed him, not taking his eyes off of his own screen. "Every time you reach a goal, the arrows point you toward the next one."
"Why do they disappear every time I change direction?" Cam demanded. "How are you supposed to stay on the track if the goals are off in the woods somewhere?"
Hunter had the nerve to laugh. "You're not supposed to stay on the track! You're supposed to follow the arrows!"
"I can't even keep from hitting the other riders, let alone follow the arrows!"
"They don't care," Hunter pointed out. "They're not real people, Cam, it's just a game. No one's getting hurt."
"I bet you haven't hit anyone," Cam muttered, swerving to the left and almost losing control of his phantom "bike" in the ditch. Getting into the woods wasn't as easy as it sounded--at least on the track he hadn't had to worry about inanimate obstacles.
"No one who mattered," Hunter agreed with a ferocious grin in his voice.
With an exclamation of disgust, Cam let go of the controls and stepped back from the video tank as his "bike" went up in flames. The explosion highlighted the words "game over" and a score that meant absolutely nothing to him. "I crashed," he said, unnecessarily.
"So?" Hunter wanted to know. His concentration didn't waver from the screen. "Try again. There's more quarters in my pocket, and you're not gonna get any worse."
Cam rolled his eyes. "Thanks," he said wryly, electing to watch the rest of the game over Hunter's shoulder. "Where are you? I never saw anything like that."
"That's because you barely made it off the track before you crashed," Hunter reminded him. "I'm on the fifth goal. After this they start sending you into the city. That's way more exciting, 'cause then you get moving obstacles instead of just trees and rocks."
"How many times have you played this game?" Cam asked suspiciously.
Hunter shrugged. "Dunno. More than you."
Which ruled out "once" and "never." Cam studied the screen as Hunter chased the arrows, swerved and accelerated, responding to signals on the screen that Cam hadn't even had time to catch, let alone understand or react to. He felt a flicker of reluctant admiration for learned reflexes that were, after all, faster than his own.
"You're pretty good at this," he admitted grudgingly.
"Yeah," Hunter agreed, gesturing for him to step forward. "Wanna take the other side? Come on, it'll be like piloting a zord. I accelerate, you brake, we both steer. Come on," he repeated impatiently.
"You'll crash," Cam protested.
"Probably," Hunter said with a grin.
They lasted maybe thirty or forty seconds before Hunter's skill couldn't compensate for Cam's lack. Far from evoking complaints, the inevitable crash made him chuckle. "We need practice," Hunter decided, as the explosion that represented the remains of the "bike" erased everything else in its fiery glow.
It was the last thing he remembered and the dream recollection jolted him awake. The roar in his ears and the sear of spinning colors across his vision left him gasping for breath, staring up at a ceiling that was filled with pieces of his memory. As it resolved into a simple white surface some distance above his head, Blake instinctively tried to move.
He could. That was a good sign. He could feel every part of his body, even if it hurt like hell. That had to mean he was still in one piece, and that he would recover. It was probably good that he was waking up alone, too. He didn't need constant monitoring... but he wouldn't have minded seeing his brother's face about now.
Where was Hunter? Where was he? And most importantly, what had happened?