Wait. He's Real?
You sit behind the counter as the sounds of the convenience store – the sporadic rustle of bags, the occasional chime as the door swings open and shut - fade into a serene background hum. People grabbing their late-night snacks, or desperate students seeking caffeine are no more than specters in the periphery of your consciousness.
A pocket of solitude gently carves itself into existence. You find yourself alone, nestled within a bubble of quiet amidst the urban nocturne. As relentless cries of the police sirens echo outside, your mind brews with made-up narratives, each one featuring the delinquent that has become the city's law enforcement's latest quarry.
Your eyes drift towards the darkness outside, the glass a fragile barrier between you and the biting chill of the night air. The lights of the store reflect dimly off the window, casting ghostly images onto the other side. But your focus shifts somewhere far beyond the glass, somewhere back in time. To a recollection of a man bending reality, a scene where you witnessed - no, participated in - an act of what could only be described as magic.
The impossible concept of portals - the astonishing, instantaneous journey from one point to another - fills you with an overwhelming sense of wonder. The sheer thrill of that uncharted expedition still resonates in your chest.
How much time has passed since? A few days? Weeks? Exhaustion has blurred your sense of time, but an eager anticipation gnaws at you. The future brims with tantalizing questions, and your mind paints dialogues for when you cross paths once more.
But then, your logical mind steps in. Portals? Really? You shake your head, a laugh escaping your lips. Childish, you think, to cling onto a memory that couldn't possibly be real.
And yet, your mind lingers on the short-lived fuss caused by the ATM's unexpected discrepancy - a total that didn't match the recorded transactions. But because there was no sign of tampering, no record of the secure vault door of the machine being accessed in an unauthorized manner, the bank dismissed it as a clerical error, a glitch in their normally infallible systems.
But you witnessed what really happened, didn’t you?
And, of course, there’s the reignition of pain in your rib. But that was because I slept on it wrong, right? That encounter was just a dream, wasn’t it?
Your mind drifts back to the countless documentaries you watched in school, the debates over multiverse travel, the endless "what ifs" of theoretical physics. If those concepts have room to breathe, to be debated and contemplated, could the existence of portals really be that absurd?
I mean, to add on,our world is home to a man who swings around the city. A guy who walks on walls. You chew on this thought, tasting its validity. In a world where the impossible seems to happen on an almost daily basis, you considered that maybe you weren’t dreaming after all.
As hope sprinkles up, you attempt to visualize his face again. You’re met with a void. Wait. What did he look like? The more you try to remember, the more it feels like grasping at smoke. The lack of his image fuels your doubt, adding weight to the argument that the encounter was no more than a figment of your imagination spun by an exhausted mind.
Your reverie is interrupted by a yawn. The tiredness creeps up on you, seeping into your muscles, making you feel heavy and slow. Your eyes moved reluctantly to the digital display on the wall. “11:47 pm,” it read.
The soft hum of the store is shattered by the sharp jangle of the bell above the door. It swings open, letting in a brief gust of the cold night air.
The automatic response, a rehearsed line you had delivered countless times, rose from your lips before your brain had a chance to catch up, "Welcome." You remained fixed on the monotonous beige of the wall, indifferent to the world around you.
And then, a familiar voice reached over to you, "Oh, hey! It's you again."
Your head snapped up, and your heart drummed as your gaze zeroed in on the source. The man you'd been trying to convince yourself you'd imagined.
“Hey, how’s that rib holding up? You better now?”
All the tiredness flees, replaced by a rush of adrenaline. Every detail of him sharpens in your vision as if you're seeing him for the first time.
“Yeah! It’s... uh... healing.”
His attire is different from your last encounter, presenting a more eclectic mix. An unbuttoned shirt drapes loosely over his torso, showcasing white polka-dots over a backdrop of mossy green. Layered beneath it is a long-sleeved black V-neck, and further still, the ghost of a white shirt is visible. And there, impossible to overlook, the blindingly white tights, complemented by the black, inky goop of the portals.
The realization jolted through you. He’s real. His powers are real. He was not some fever dream spawned from an overworked, undernourished imagination. He's here, standing just a few feet away from you.
Wrapped in his face mask, sunglasses, and the same ugly, brown boat hat, his identity remained a mystery. No wonder you failed to recall his features earlier - you've never truly seen them.
You felt a pang of curiosity gnawing at you, an urge to unravel the enigma before you. But you clamped down on your lip, scolding yourself for such intrusive thoughts.
“So. Here to collect your weekly allowance?” You teased.
“Why of course!” He responded cheerfully.
“Tch,” you smile. As he shuffles towards the cash box, you make your way to the window. You turn the sign, signaling 'closed' to the outside world. Your hand then finds the light switch, flipping it off.
“Ah!” he yelled from across the room. “Why’d you do that?”
"Well," you reply, your voice casual, "it wouldn't look very good if a customer walked in on you robbing the place, right? We need to make it look like we're closed. Keep people out, y'know?"
A simple, "Oh, okay!" reverberates across the dim room.
You navigate through the store, stopping a reasonable distance away, close enough for conversation but far enough for him to work. You watch him, silently evaluating his progress.
It appears his struggles from last time are repeating themselves.
The issue was supposed to be resolved. Out of nowhere, an icy touch grips your neck. You yelped, stumbling forward. "Gah! Dude! Why are you always grabbing my neck?"
“Oh shoot! Sorry. I'm so sorry!”
Waving away his apology with a dismissive "yeah, yeah," you steady yourself against the shelf behind you, disregarding the cold metal rods digging into your back at irregular intervals.
As seconds stretch into a half-minute, you break the silence to prompt him, "Dude. Remember. You need to visualize the insides. That, and the location relative to you."
“Ah, yes, that's right," he spoke in a cheerful voice that almost sounded rehearsed. He returned to his work, his arm continuing to disappear and reappear in the most inconvenient of places. However, compared to last time, he didn't seem nearly as frustrated over these failures.
As he continuously reaches his hands into the machine, your gaze follows a different trail of chaotic wormholes, observing as objects get pulled in and spat out at random. The erraticism leaves you wondering, "Hey, dude?"
His attention stays committed to the task. "Hm?"
You point to the spots around the room, “You’re not doing that on purpose, are you?”
His head shoots up.
“Oh! That’s – that’s...” his hands instinctively fold together. “Yeah. That’s not entirely... intentional."
Your smile flickers knowingly, "Yeah, I kinda figured." A question strikes you. "By the way, I don’t mean to pry, but can I ask you something?"
Caught off guard, he stills, taking a rest from his task and granting you an affirming nod. "Sure. What is it?"
"How did your ability... you know, happen? Is it a recent thing or were you born...um, holey?”
"Well, I used to be a scientist. Got myself into an accident, and, uh, now I’m just covered in holes." A strained laugh escapes him. It's a weak cover for the depth of hurt that his voice reveals.
He chose to spare you from the grim of the tale – his horrific disfigurement, the abrupt end of his normal life, the loss of everything he once held dear.
Since he only tossed you a dry bone, you wanted more. However, recognizing his discomfort, you realize that you need to tread on lighter ground. You watch absentmindedly as portals disappear and reappear on his... leggings?
"Why is it that the portals only form on your pants?"
“My pants?” With a jerk of motion, he straightens his posture and looks down at his legs. "Oh. These aren't pants."
“Huh?”
“It’s skin.”
“What?” A stunned silence hangs for a moment. “Damn, really?”
With a sober nod, he confirms, “An unfortunate aftermath of the accident. My skin has been like this ever since." He rolls up his sleeve to reveal more splotches, "They make themselves at home all over me.”
As he covers his arm again, fascination pulls your gaze back to his legs. A part of you was tempted to crouch down for a more detailed observation of his so-called skin. Perhaps you could just ask to see his hand.
Then, you questioned, would I be crossing a line by probing further? In your peripheral vision, you catch him fidgeting with his shirt. Better just shelve this for now.
A mischievous glint lights up your eyes as you finally say, "So, you've just been going around committing crimes of public indecency ever since?"
"Hey! Wait a minute!" he sputters, his voice climbing a few notes in shock. Laughter bubbles within you, and you're thankful it no longer comes with a side of piercing pain. "It's not like there's anything indecent showing! Plus, it... it provides an easy... um, access to my holes."
“I suppose you’re right, but...” you can't help the giggle escaping your lips.
“What? What is it?”
“Do you have to refer to them as 'my holes?’ The term is quite...” you twirl your hand, fishing for the right phrasing, “suggestive.”
“It is?” He places his finger against his chin. “Oh.”
He freezes.
You cackle.
“I – I – oh my gosh!” His hands cradle his face in dismay. “I didn't mean – that's not what I..." His squirms of mortification only fuel your amusement. “That’s not how I intended it!”
Between your laughter, you manage to squeeze out a reassuring, “Really, it's okay.” Since the conversation took a detour, you guide it back on course. "Hey, what's your name, anyway?"
“My name is...” He pauses for a moment, almost theatrically, “The Spot.”
The sheer absurdity catches you off guard. It's clearly a pseudonym, but you decide to play along. “Hm! Okay, The Spot! I’m bad at remembering names, but I think I can recall that one.”
“Oh, you will!” He declared. He rubs his hands into one another, thinking to himself, Just like Spiderman.
“Uh, what?”
“Uh – n-nothing – nothing. Don't worry about it.” he hurriedly flapped his hands.
"So, The Spot," your smile broadens. "Could you make a portal right here again?" You point towards the wall.
"Sure, yeah – uh- okay." He pulls one from his thigh, and positions it where you indicated.
As you advance to peer into the nebulous abyss, he steps back to make space. You extend your hand to get a feeling of the thing.
"Wait!" He lunges forward, his hand closing around yours in a surprisingly chilly grip.
“Wha-?”
“Sorry!” He withdraws his touch instantly. “Uh! I just – I’m not sure if it’s safe.”
“But you've been in and out of these things all the time.” Your hands sweep through the air with emphasis. “Hell, you've even gone through an entire portal, and you came out fine."
“Yes, but, uh. My chemical makeup is probably different from the typical human’s.”
Different chemical makeup? Huh. Given his abilities, that makes sense, but if his makeup differs from what is standard, what would his skin cells look like? Or any of his cells, for that matter?
“Have you never tried passing organic matter through it other than yourself?”
“I haven’t, no.” As he admits, you stare into the endless, dark void.
An idea pops into your head. "Let's test it!" Without waiting for a response, you scurry across the room to grab a tomato. As you make your journey, your mind continues to churn with questions. What if his accident altered him to a point where he doesn't even have cells anymore? Could he be inorganic?
When you arrive back at the wall, your eyes widen. The portal vanished. "Hey, what happened to it?"
"Oh, they disappear after a certain period," he remarks casually, reaching down to his leg to grab another. "Here," he positions the fresh one back on the wall.
"Do you need to physically pull the portals from your body each time?” You tilt your head. “Can’t you just make them appear where you want like you did last time?" You recall the way he repositioned the ATM.
“I technically could, yes.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But that demands heightened focus. This," he gestures to his leg, "is kind of less demanding, you know?"
"I see." But do you? The pieces aren't quite falling into place. Given the casual manner with which he summoned portals to flip over that machine the other day, this explanation throws you off a little. But you decide to stow away these thoughts for later.
With an air of anticipation, you toss the fruit through the ethereal substance.
Turning your head, you scan the room. "Where did it go?"
He mirrors your perplexity, his head bobbing back and forth, "Erm... I...uh..."
Suddenly, a portal flickers into existence mid-air.
Out shoots the tomato, traveling at such a velocity that it splatters against the wall in a mess of red pulp. You stare at the mutilated fruit in surprise, wondering where it went during its brief “hiatus.”
You shake off the bewilderment, clapping your hands together in satisfaction. "Alrighty then! It looks like I'll be safe after all."
"But...but the tomato exploded."
"Yes! After emerging safely from the portal. The collision with the wall caused the explosion.” You retort, edging your hand towards the murky hole.
"Wait – hold on – wait!" He lunges forward to stop you. But it's too late.
Your hand phases through, reappearing across the room, completely unscathed and devoid of any discomfort. His tension deflates into a sigh of relief, "It’s fine, then, I guess."
As you take in the uncanny sensation, you let out a surprised gasp. “Huh. It’s warm.”
“Yeah. I was surprised at first, too. Given that dark matter is typically cold, I speculated that-”
“Wah – this is dark matter?” Disbelief paints your face. “How could dark matter have these properties? Teleportation? I thought its whole thing was the fact that it didn’t reflect light or something.”
"Eh, not exactly.” He almost seemed offended by your oversimplification. “Plus, these portals aren't purely powered by dark matter,” he clarifies, gesturing towards the goo nearby. “There's some concentrated dark energy bound in there too.
He patted his chest and with a glint of pride in his voice, revealed, “My Ph.D. thesis was actually dedicated to discovering the unknowns of these entities."
Ph.D. thesis?
What the fuck? He has a Ph.D.?
He ignores your bewildered expression.
"And since then, our understanding has progressed a lot in recent years!” He slumps slightly as he admits, “…more than the public is generally aware of.”
You blink, your curiosity piqued. “Really? Do tell.”
He brightened at your invitation and cleared his throat. “Alright, to start with the basics, dark matter is quite interesting because, unlike typical matter, it’s primarily thought to be made up of Weakly Interacting Massive Particles, otherwise referred to as ‘WIMPs.’”
And just like that, your attention already began to waver.
He prattles on, and you heard fragments, terms such as "non-baryonic," "neutrinos," "gravitational lensing," and "cosmological constant." Some snippets of his explanation resonate with your knowledge base, while others blur into a scientific symphony.
When he started connecting those properties to its invisibility, you managed to latch onto the discussion once more. “Wait. Dark matter doesn’t interact with electromagnetic waves, and yet...” You gesture to the ‘dark matter’ on the wall, “I mean we can see this here, right? This substance must interact with light. How can you classify this as dark matter?”
An annoyed sigh escaped him. You cringed inwardly, regretting your interruption. Thankfully, his impatience dissipated as quickly as it had flared up. “Right! And that's where the real fun begins! We had to develop a machine that creates a very precise, high-frequency gravitational field that resonates with the frequencies of…”
You brace yourself for another onslaught of scientific jargon. You bite your lip. “Resonating frequencies,” “quantum tunneling,” “superstring theory” - the words flow from his mouth like an alien dialect, terms you never came to understand during your school days.
Not wanting to interrupt his passionate monologue, you still found yourself nodding along, trying to maintain the facade of comprehension... as if I understand what the fuck he’s saying.
"Through utilizing those factors, my team and I successfully trapped a sample of dark matter in a hyper-condensed state within a specialized containment unit. But making it visible...” he waved his finger, “now that was the real challenge.”
Oh, boy.
“For our first test, we subjected it to an extremely intense magnetic field created by superconducting magnets. We hypothesized that if dark matter contained any sort of magnetic monopoles, they might...”
As his voice flowed on, you can't help but notice this dramatic change in his demeanor. The man who was previously a bundle of nerves was now commanding the room, his voice resounding with authority and knowledge.
Underneath those glasses and mask, you imagine his eyes must be gleaming with passionate zeal.
“After all of these tests, we eventually saw something. By aligning it with the exotic matter under strict conditions...” You frown. What exotic matter? You prepare to interject and ask for clarification, but then you halt. What if he already explained that? The last thing you want is for him to think you weren’t paying attention! “We achieved what we termed a 'Dark Cherenkov' effect. The containment unit began to fill with what looked like...” he directed his hand to the inky portal, “Well, that.”
He drew in a breath, "Now able to study it more intimately, we debunked several past theories on dark matter. For example,” he practically sparkles with fervor, “the identification of what we coined 'asymmetrical super-participants,’ was a complete contradiction to the Higgsian Symmetry principle! Unlike their ‘partner particle' counterparts...”
Even though his words might as well be a foreign language, you feel a sense of privileged insight. It’s as if he wields forbidden knowledge of the universe and chose you to pass it down to.
He steps closer. "Our team was on the brink of significant advancements in this field until...” the vibrant tones of his speech muted, dipped in a more somber hue, “the incident occurred." He paused for a beat, shook his head slightly as if dispelling unpleasant memories, and resumed.
"Our dark matter sample fused with me. And now,” his eyes fixed on his own hand as if seeing it for the first time, “it still manages to maintain its visible form while under my control.
"Our initial research focused on the potential for multiverse travel, so using dark matter for local transportation," a self-deprecating chuckle leaked from behind his mask, "wasn't exactly our first area of interest.”
Scratching the back of his head, he confesses, “Thus, the specifics of my abilities are still... unknown."
"But remember," he held a finger aloft, “inter-universe transit requires an astronomical amount of energy. That’s where dark energy comes into play!” His hands slapped together, his enthusiasm rekindling.
A mental sigh of exhaustion washed over you. If his explanation was a marathon, it seemed you were only on mile 13.
Shit.
At this rate, he might as well pull out a chalkboard.