Well.

That was a nice break from writing alone. I mean, sure, Broken Realities is a thing. But we've got an entire team working on that!

So, without (too much) further ado, I introduce to you my next solo project: Whispers, the "indirect" sequel to Gone. I'll say this now—it doesn't take place EXACTLY in Gone's world—rather, it takes place after many years have passed, in that used to be the lands of Langsford Peak and all of those other cities.

So please enjoy! This will be a different spin on a world many of you might be familiar with…I would be happy to hear any comments or critique!

VVVVV

Four years had passed. The world had changed. So it goes.

Carl Manneh stared out of the window of his Mojang office, his eyes fixated on a distant jet plane coming in low for a landing at Stockholm's airport. Something about the jet drew his attention away from the task at hand. He shook his head, forgot the plane, and returned to work.

Four years had passed since Earth was nearly wiped out of existence. MINECRAFT was now open to the public; much of its history was kept under lock and key, the Disaster and civil war long forgotten by those who would wish to forget it.

The opening of MINECRAFT was like unlocking a safe that had been closed up for years on end. The dust had been blown off; inside, many decades had passed. Order was restored, a new nation was founded, and balance had returned to the world. Carl knew his history; he realized that the world had become corrupted, falling into decay after the glory days of the great city-state of Trinira and the rise of Minecraftia. It had come full circle now, back to the way it should be.

But things had changed. Many years had passed inside the simulation. The old lands, the continent affected by the Disaster, had changed greatly. Carl had decided to open it up to the world; sort of like a Minecraft server, but virtual reality. Players would strap themselves into a remote mechanism (which Carl himself had developed), and be connected to the simulation's mainframe, effectively putting their own consciousness inside the real simulation. It was virtual reality, essentially; thousands of players, separated by hundreds of miles, all breathing, living and working in a digital dimension apart from themselves. Sheer brilliance—they could log out whenever they pleased, and death was only a temporary inconvenience.

But such a massive leap in gaming and virtual reality was not without its problems. The machines that brought people into the simulation were expensive; price tags exceeded thousands of dollars for each machine, and maintenance for technology so advanced was expensive. And so pirated, cheaper models found their way onto the market; they cost only several hundred dollars apiece, but the risks were great. Once you went in, there was no going out; the reason the pricy models were so expensive was because they could bring the user back from the simulation. The cheap models could not do so; once you were in, you were a permanent resident of MINECRAFT. And death was final; no respawns.

Yet millions chose to risk their lives for a cheap price; after all, it was a fresh start in a separate, digital world. For around five-hundred dollars, you could wipe the slate clean, find yourself in a world with new people, new laws, new creatures, new life. Nothing to return to, no looking back; millions saw MINECRAFT not as a game, but as an alternative to their everyday sufferings—a fresh start. Few of them realized how dangerous it was.

And thus the future had begun. Carl knew how MINECRAFT technology could affect the rest of the world; digital simulations, fusion reactors, advanced medical science, neurological science…so much could be done.

And he stared wistfully out at the plane as it disappeared, wondering what was happening in MINECRAFT right now. After all, it was just one giant server; with just one difference.

It was real.

VVVVV

The man had the information he needed; the problem was, the police wanted it too.

Or it wasn't just the police now; SWAT teams were coming in. He had seen them, armed with rifles and SMGs, entering the main foyer of the bank and taking out two of the man's friends. The group had retreated back into the bank safe, locking the door behind them. All of Terra Nova's police force would be after them now.

"Police, we can deal with," a heavyset robber gasped, hoarse and exhausted. "SWAT, there's no way."

"They won't be able to get in here, though," a skinny teen said, clutching his rifle tightly.

"They will eventually. That door's strong, but enough C4 will take it right off its' hinges," warned the last man, an armored and masked robber. "We're running on borrowed time."

"And we've essentially cornered ourselves," the heavyset robber said. "Great job, Tomas."

"It wasn't my idea, you fatass!" the teen barked. "You're the one who lost his balls when SWAT showed up—"

"You haven't even fired a shot! Who are you to judge me?"

"Maybe I'll put a couple rounds in you, eh Eli? All of that fat should absorb some of the bull—"

"Enough, both of you!" the last man barked. He was the most calm of them all; he was wearing nothing but casual clothes, and carried nothing but a small coin and a cell phone. "This was the way it was supposed to happen."

"Supposed to…what the hell do you mean, supposed to? You mean this was all planned?" the heavyset man demanded, leaning up against the safe wall.

"From minute one," the reply came. "We were supposed to corner ourselves in here. There's no way out."

"You trapped us in here, you sonofa—"

The masked robber whipped his 9mm pistol out and shot only once, sending the Eli flying sideways against a stack of crates; he had only taken a few steps before being gunned down. The confused teenager, Tomas, was next; before he could even do as much as move a finger, he was shot down too, falling lopsided against a row of deposit safes.

"Too bad you had to go like that, Eli," the unarmed robber said, standing over the burly man's deceased body. "A bit messy…but necessary."

"Sorry, Dom," the masked man replied. "I had my orders."

"And I had mine."

The masked robber never saw the bullet coming. Dom whipped out his hidden pistol and aimed right where the armor was weakest, right above his friend's neck. Blood spurted out and the other man fell to the ground, his rifle clattering away. He clutched at his throat, gasping and choking on his own blood. The robber named Dom casually walked over to his friend, and stooped over him, waving the pistol menacingly.

"Orders are orders, pal. You were with me to the end…thanks for doing your part."

Another gunshot took care of the last loose end. Well, not the last…

The lone robber opened up the cellphone and dialed the number furiously. After several tense seconds of ringing, it finally connected.

"Sir?"

"Do you have it?"

"I have the coin…what should I do—"

"Just read me the coordinates. I'll take care of the rest."

The robber, sweating vigorously, read the coordinates off of the tiny coin. They were printed on the backside of the copper piece, barely legible. But they seemed to match the description.

"Good, good…that will be very useful. Is everyone else taken care of?"

"Yes, sir," Dom replied, glancing down at the bloodied bodies. "Is it my time now?"

"No, Dom, I still have need of you. Listen to me very carefully…"

VVVVV

Matthew Cook was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill seventeen-year old. He hated his parents, he never did his homework, he was obsessed with video games, and if there were girls nearby, he would do anything to get their attention.

Like jump out of a moving vehicle.

He thought it would've been funny; simply open the door, step out, roll over a bit, and then stand up like nothing happened. A publicity stunt; after all, the brunette Elisha loved guys who took risks, and Japanese exchange student Sora was always entertained by his antics.

But things didn't go quite as planned. And now here he was, bruised and bandaged, being berated by his parents for pretty much everything.

"Such a stupid idea, jumping out of a moving bus. What the hell were you thinking, idiot?"

His father had never been friendly; Matt hated his father, and his father hated Matt. So life went; usually it amounted to nothing, but sometimes their arguments evolved into physical fights. His mother, a socialite from Singapore, was obsessed with Matt getting good grades, and when he failed to do so she was hell-on-Earth. He lived in a picturesque suburb of Seattle, nestled close to the Cascade foothills; he would be happy there, if not for his family.

"I thought it would be cool…"

"You looked like a complete clown," his father argued. "Not that it's going to damage your image or anything like that. You've already made one for yourself…"

Matt ignored his father droning on and on about his bad traits.

"You never do what you're told, you never do your homework, you go out late at night with friends, you chase every girl you see, you disobey your mother, you've stolen from other people…what's it going to take, Matthew?"

"To do what?"

"To improve you, dumb shit!" his father roared. "You're a sorry excuse for a son—I'm not going to let you go into life like this. If you don't get honors grades this semester, I'm taking away pretty much every damn thing you own."

That was the final straw for Matt.

"You can't do that."

"I sure as hell can," his dad scoffed, downing the rest of his beer and slamming the empty bottle back on the dinner table. The two sat apart, one at each end. "Who's going to stop me? You? The failure that you are?"

"Don't…call me…a failure…"

"It's what you are. You know what? Why should I try to improve you? You're a lost cause," his dad admitted.

"Why do you even try anymore, then?"

"I've tried up until this point. There's no use anymore…you're dead to me now, for all intents and purposes. I've given up hope. So has your mother…she's putting all her faith into your sister now, did you know that?"

Matt was now furious; not only was he being abandoned, but he was being abandoned in favor of his sister. She was a straight-A student, popular in school, and had a happy, healthy relationship. Something Matt couldn't have.

It wasn't because he wanted to be like that; he just was. It was something only another teenager would understand; his genetics drove him to be a wild, untamable soul. It was the way he was born; there was nothing that could force him to be like his perfect sister.

"Why her? She's—"

"Perfect, in a sense. Not trash like you," his dad scoffed. "Maybe you should just get rid of yourself. Make a little more space in this world."

His father got up from the table, forcing the chair back into its position. In anger, Matt remembered how the past week had gone so far.

He got a B+ on a calculus test, an achievement for him. His teacher had praised his work, which far surpassed his previous grades. But his mother had no words for him.

"Your sister got an A+ on the same test. Why can't you be more like her?"

Matt had spent his entire Saturday at a local community center, serving meals to hungry and homeless. When he came home, he was greeted by his father.

"You lousy piece of trash—going out on the town, doing whatever you want! I suppose you think it's fine to just abandon your father when he needs your help…"

He had beaten down a schoolyard bully, protecting one of his female classmates and earning the respect of most of his peers by standing up to an aggressor. His reward was less than desirable.

"Always getting into fights, you are," his father berated him. "Why can't you just behave like normal kids? You're an embarrassment to your family."

Matt reflected everything he had tried to do right; but nothing seemed to appease his family. It was always his sister…she was always the model student, the Good Samaritan, the shining star of her school. He was appreciated for anything; sure, he wasn't as respectable as her. But nobody had anything good to say about him…it was like he was invisible.

Matt wanted nothing more than to abandon the life he held; it had no promise for him, no allure. His family hated him, his friends were shallow, there was nothing in his future. His father had grimly predicted that he would grow up to work at McDonald's; his mother had no intent of sending him to college, and had decided to spend the money on his sister.

It was time to leave, find somewhere where he was appreciated. Matt had six-hundred dollars to his name; not much, but enough to go to one place. One place where he would be new, a stranger…a fresh start in a world where people of all walks were welcome. He had seen it in a local advertisement; the allure was too much to handle. He would go there, and become a new person.

MINECRAFT. The very word rolled off the tip of the tongue…the promise of adventure, fresh love, a new home, and a new life.

His parents would notice, but they probably wouldn't care if he left. As they went to bed, Matt grabbed all of the cash he had stowed under his mattress, and slid out of the house quietly, locking the front door behind him as he left. It would be a long journey; Matt left his old life behind him, and ventured out into the cold Seattle air, starting on a path that would take him farther than he could ever imagine.

VVVVV

One could say that the feud between American Brad Thompson and Englishman Bryan Kenly began over a pet slime that they had argued over in their private Minecraft server a long time ago. The small argument grew so large that the two became fierce enemies; they would grief one another on servers both private and public, and spew vitriol every second they were on. So when MINECRAFT opened, naturally they took their feud there.

Both Kenly and Thompson brought thousands to their sides; Kenly, an ex-lawyer, was charismatic and had a way with words. He would seduce his way into the hearts of some, and haggle his way into others. But many flocked to his side; on the other hand, Thompson, a well-known Youtuber, had a legion of devoted fans to call upon who would fight against his hated enemy. Many of them were rich enough to afford the fancier versions of the simulation plugin, the ones that allowed you to respawn; most of Kenly's troops did not have that option. But Kenly had organization on his side; Thompson's force resembled more of a disorganized rabble rather than a standing army. Both ruled their own feudal kingdoms centered on a ruined town, lands of rolling pastures and vast farms controlled from keeps and castles. Neither was satisfied with what they had; each thought that the other must be destroyed.

And thus, for what must have been the hundredth time, Kenly and Thompson squared off against each other on the Purgative Plains, outside the ruins of the old city of Delphos. The metropolis had been abandoned one hundred and twenty years ago, when the Disaster occurred and the mass western exodus began. Now, it lay in ruins; legends spoke of the key to a great weapon lying within the ruins, but that preoccupied neither Kenly nor Thompson. They preoccupied each other.

The two armies stood apart on opposite sides of the plains, the forests of Connaughtsshire to the south and the stark, ruined skyscrapers of Delphos to the north. Thousands of men had died on these plains; many had respawned again. Others had met their maker upon these grassy fields.

Lord Kenly, mounted on horseback, stood at the fore of his chivalric knights, the spearhead of his proud army. As modern technology was forbidden in this giant "server", he had to make do with cold iron and heated steel; but that served him well enough. Thompson had to do the same.

Lord Thompson, on foot, stood upon a weathered, mossy rock that jutted sharply out of the plain. His force was a mixed bag; many were armed with nothing more than pitchforks and crude spears, peasants and townspeople who could not be relied upon to hold an army. They might overwhelm Kenly, yes; but they could not break him completely. Thompson had some men-at-arms and pikemen to call upon, as well as archers, but his forces were always outmatched in terms of armament.

As usual, Thompson started the battle by sending his troops in a massive mob, a swarm of mediocre peasants and soldiers armed with a range of equipment. The battles usually were like that; Thompson, lacking any sort of tactical intelligence, would send his troops forward, knowing that most of them would be back to fight another day. Kenly's strategy was also relatively simple; send the chivalric knights forward, smash Thompson's army to pieces, and fall back before his pikemen units could arrive. It had happened that way for a long time; decades, in fact. Nothing seemed to change.

But this time, something was wrong; different, you could say. Thompson's troops were spreading out, extending themselves. Normally, they would charge forward in one straight line. But this time, they formed a kind of envelope around the front of Kenly's formation, as if they were attempting to flank him but failing. Were they attempting to flank him? Something was wrong…

Bryan Kenly wasn't quick enough to realize his mistake; he had assumed that this would be the same battle over again, same parameters, same outcome. But therein lay the mistake; this was different. For from out of the southern forests and the northern ruins rushed thousands of hidden soldiers, motley recruits armed with very little. They weren't much in the way of soldiers, but it was their tactic that allowed them such success. Kenly had never seen it coming; his forces were now enveloped by the surprise attack. There was no glorious charge of knights, crushing through the enemy forces. Instead, there was a massive retreat as Kenly's army, now thoroughly panicked and in some cases dismayed, began to retreat or rout back towards the presumed safety of their feudal lands. Some escaped; those further back were able to retreat, back towards the Riverrun Bridge. But others were not so lucky.

The hammer came down, smashing in on the sides of Kenly's army. Men struggled against each other, fought, suffered and bled for their own reasons. A crush of steel, bronze, flesh, and bone that kicked up dust and blood and smoke, a mass of fighting men desperate to survive. Lord Kenly, in his own desperation, led his knights on a stampede through friend and foe, crushing many beneath the hooves' of his horsemen. Kenly men fought with great valor, but they were swarmed by the numbers of Thompson's horde. Within ten minutes, the Englishman's army had either fled the field or been destroyed, such was the force and the speed of the surprise attack.

Thompson himself studied the battlefield shortly afterwards, riding along past hills of corpses. The weapons scavenged from Kenly men would be invaluable; not only would his troops be armored and armed better, they would receive a huge morale boost from this sudden and crushing victory.

On the other side of the Delphos River, a horde of archers waited behind wooden walls and stakes. There would be no taking Kenly lands; Thompson may have won on open ground, but attacking those fortifications across a river would be nigh on suicide, and would throw away all that he had won on this day. Instead, he contented himself with the spoils he had won, and the knowledge that Bryan Kenly, the reputably invincible Englishman, had been humiliated on this day. Not only had he been defeated, but he fled dishonorably.

As Thompson strode along on his horse, watching as his men eagerly picked the battlefield clean, a runner came up to him, panting and struggling to breathe.

Whoever they were, they had something urgent to deliver; messengers ran a lot, but none were ever this exhausted. He had clearly been sprinting for quite some time.

"Courier? Do you have—"

"A package, my lord. From the sender…it is said to be of great importance. Urgent."

It had to be seriously urgent for a runner to be so out of breath; couriers paced themselves, going fast but keeping their breathing stable. This one appeared to be on the cusp of falling to the ground; he held his knees as they shook, stabilizing himself.

"Who was the sender?" Thompson asked, receiving the package from the courier's trembling hands.

"Can't…say his name, my lord. Privacy matters and all—"

Thompson unsheathed his blade and leveled it to the runner's bare throat.

"The name, courier."

"Read the package…if you want his name, you'll find it," the runner urged, his eyes fixated on the shining steel of the blade. Thompson, equal parts dissatisfied yet curious, withdrew the weapon and sheathed it once more. What he was about to read would change the war, and more.

VVVVV

"There's no turning back, Matt. You know that."

"I am aware of what I'm doing. I've got nothing to turn back to, Dan."

Matt was preparing to jump to his new home; in the dead of night, he had fled his house, and taken the long way to a suburb of Seattle, a quiet neighborhood with several MINECRAFT hubs, most of them upper-class. The only one that was lower-class, the ones that stuck you in for life, was owned by Dan, a middle-aged lowlife who had netted himself a decent suburban home through the drug trade, and now through MINECRAFT. As Matt stepped into the hub, he saw at least two dozen pods, each containing a live human being.

"How do they—"

"Breathe? Eat? Sleep? Shit? They don't, man. They're living corpses, I tell you," Dan answered, sitting at his control monitor. "Once you go in, you're as good as dead to this world. That's why I wanted you to reconsider it before you plunged in headlong."

"I told you, I've got nothing to live for—the only thing I have to live for is coming here."

Dan was taken aback momentarily, but saw the hidden meaning a moment later.

"A second person? Well, then…are they paying for themselves?"

"No," Matt answered. "I'll pay for both of us—"

"It's fine, not a problem. So long as I get the money, you and I are square," Dan replied, opening up two of the empty pods. There were only a few left empty.

"There aren't many left," Matt observed. "Four—"

"I need new space. I've already converted my dining room and basement into hubs. I plan on installing more, soon…"

He trailed off as the basement door opened again, and the second arrival finally showed up.

"Well, well…your company arrives. Time to get down to business, I suppose. Has she made her final decision?"

Sora stepped down into the dim basement, holding only her purse. She had brought no other belongings; foolish to bring belongings in the first place, anyway. They wouldn't go with you to the other side; the only physical being transferred to the simulation would be you, and you alone.

"Sora…I didn't think you'd show up—"

"I've been thinking about it for a long time," the twinkling-eyed girl spoke, setting her purse aside. "It's always been out of reach…but I finally have enough money."

Matt rushed to her side, holding out his own money. "No, no, I'll pay for yours—"

"I already have my money, Matt," she smiled, holding out her own wad of bills. "I've saved it for a long time…never thought I would use it for something like this."

"That's a lot more money that I've got," Matt noticed, staring at the cash she carried. It was at least eight hundred dollars, possibly more.

"She bought the more advanced version. Costs more, but…"

Matt's heart skipped a beat. He realized what that meant; Sora would be able to leave as she willed—she would have to be in a safe place, away from danger, but she could leave. Matt on the other hand was stuck; he was leaving his world behind, to face a brave new one. If he died, that would be it. No more.

"You didn't buy the advanced version, Matt?" Sora asked, painfully aware of his conundrum now.

"I…didn't have the money—"

"It's certainly more expensive," the operator mused, "but I'd say it's worth it. Sorry, Matt."

"S'ok…I wouldn't want to come back, anyway. I came here to run away from my home…I don't have anything to go back to."

Matt was dimly aware that the two of them were studying him with looks of pity and remorse; many who went into MINECRAFT never came out. Those that were able to respawn and leave were lucky, and rich.

At that moment, to break the awkward and unusual silence, one of the pods along the far wall opened up, and its owner rose up out of his steel coffin, gasping for breath desperately. His limbs quavered like jelly, and he took several moments to regain his composure. He had been up for at least thirty seconds before he noticed everyone else staring at him.

"Er…Carl? What the hell happened?"

"Cursed Kenly bastards…again, with all of this dreck—"

"Spit it out," Dan ordered, his cheeks flushed. "Was it—"

"We won, yes. Surprise, isn't it? Brad Thompson's glorious army of diehard peasants winning a battle. But one of those Kenly crossbowmen nailed me in the head while they were retreating. A potshot, but a damn good one…and man, that hurt…"

"Go back to the sim, Carl," Dan spat, shaking his head vigorously. "You talk too much."

Apparently Carl was one of the richer men, able to respawn after death. Muttering to himself about "blue-blooded British bastards", he fell back down into the simulator as the cover slid back over him, and once more he returned to his fantasy world.

"Bloody…every week he dies, in some godforsaken battle. You don't want to get yourself caught up in the internal politics of the sim," Dan warned. "It's a quagmire. Especially if you're stepping into it just now…"

"I've heard a few things about it," Sora said, holding her purse rather awkwardly. "Like…well, just rumors…"

"Aye, rumors come and go. I don't hear much about anything but the bloody Thompson-Kenly feud. It's been going on for a several months now…and every damn day, he wakes and has to tell me every gory detail."

Dan spat empathically at the simulator where the man was now asleep once more, delving deep into the digital world.

"I speared this damned knight and slew this blue-blooded lordling, but some half-assed levy peasant gutted me like a hog," Dan growled in a passable imitation of the man named Carl. "Every day…anyway, I suppose that's enough of that. Just don't get involved with those kinds of things. Anyways, you two have different pods. Matt, yours is with the rest of the 'common folk', as I like to call them," he pointed out.

A long row of simulators ran down the wall, and several of them were empty. They looked cheaper; less equipment attached to them, fewer screens and monitors, and they were painted a dull gray as opposed to the opaque chrome of the more expensive models.

"Do I just…lay down in it?" Matt asked, curiously patting the cold steel frame of one of the machines.

"Sit down, relax, and I'll do the rest. Just make sure you've made your peace with this world—because you ain't coming back."

With a sudden pang, Matt began to feel an aching loneliness; he had been born into this world, and grew up in it. He had played the game Minecraft before, a long time ago, but that had been years ago. This would be something entirely different; almost like a mock Earth, a new world, a new start. There would be little that he would miss…

"I've got no peace to make," he replied sadly. "I'm ready to go."

"You don't sound ready," Dan smirked. "A lot of people have gone in, and been regretful about it…I can tell."

"I've made my decision. Do your job…please," Matt added, wincing.

"Alright, alright…just reminding you, no turning back. And as for your young lady here…"

Sora had bought the more advanced package; she was in a smaller group of simulators, the more advanced-looking ones.

"How will this work, exactly?" Sora asked, sliding her hand over the sheeny steel of the simulator.

"You enter and exit the simulator at your own free will," Dan explained. It sounded like this was the thousandth time he had gone over such a subject. "Whenever you will, you can leave and come back. Now, granted, I'd rather you do seal yourself in at night, and wake at dawn—makes it easier for me if you need to do something here in the real world. But you can come and go."

"What happens if I die, then?" Sora asked nervously.

"Depends on how you die. Pain, however much you would feel, and then you wake up here again. You can reenter whenever you'd like. Much more efficient than the cheaper models…but again, the cheaper models are cheaper. Way more."

Matt grimaced silently on his side, ignored by the other two. He reminded himself that this was his choice to make; unlike Sora, whose family was rather wealthy, he had been unable to afford the more advanced models. He was going to enter this new world for good, come hell, high water, or both.

"Well, I'm going in. Enough talk," Matt decided, slipping into the machine. Inside, one could hear hardly anything; the shield slipped over his head, and the only light that entered the interior came from a small section of Plexiglas over his head.

"Just relax, and let me do the work," Dan called from outside. He thumped on the glass, and then disappeared.

Everything was so deathly quiet inside that pod; it was like sitting in the grave, waiting for time to end. Sensory deprivation was often the quickest way to madness, it had been said; Matt wouldn't be going insane, but he was aching to know what was going on outside. He knew nothing about the process of entering MINECRAFT; what would happen when he went in?

The pod opened up again, and Dan secured Matt's head back against the flat surface of the inside of the pod. When he was secured, small electrodes were attached to several places on his head.

"Electrodes…cliché, yes, but necessary. Your consciousness is leaving this world forever, kid. I sincerely hope you made your peace."

"I already told you—"

But the lid of the pod was slipped back over once more, and darkness and silence filled the void. Matt waited for pain, shock, or some sort of physical feeling, but all that happened was a brief flash of white light, a small pinch, and the pod was gone.

Matt stood on a grassy knoll, under a deep blue sky. The sun had only recently risen, gleaming brightly above these plains. He could feel the breeze bringing a sweet smell from somewhere nearby; he looked down, gazing upon a small village nestled by a grove of trees.

So this was MINECRAFT. The game as it should've been…so realistic, it was like an entirely new Earth.

Matt was in a new home. He began his journey down the hillock, wondering where he might end up in this world. The village would only be his first destination.

VVVVV

The pendant was far from home; wherever home might be for it.

An artifact of an older time, it flowed down the river and eventually stopped by a small village, washing up on the rocky shore of the stream.

It was hanging on a silver chain, and the pendant was a bluish-green glass orb, a bit smaller than a human thumbnail.

A fisherman chanced to stoop down and pick it up from the waters, studying it curiously.

Something was inscribed on the pendant, something barely legible. The fisherman, illiterate, could not read what it said, but he had no idea he held the key to something far greater than anyone in the world possessed.

For the numbers inscribed into the pendant were a key.

8131996.