Iridian

23. GHOST

It was a place that was more than a dream, more than just a mere memory. The sterile smells of the ward was a tangible, piercing sensation. The greens of the walls were the same bland, austere shade. He was there, as I expected to him to be, at the window looking out at a sunset that should have been the last of my life.

"Beautiful sunset, isn't it?" I commented casually as I stepped up to him. I couldn't tell whether he was simply a conjuration of my mind or a real presence. The subtle scent of the cologne he sometimes wore tickled my nose. He didn't react, as if he couldn't hear me, and though he seemed real enough to touch, I daren't reach out, lest he disappeared in a puff of smoke.

We stood there for a time; him, looking at the scenery, me, looking at him. Then he abruptly turned around, spared a brief glance at the empty hospital bed where I should have been lying and headed for the exit. I noticed the regret in his expression, and wondered why as I followed him.

The hospital corridor was oddly empty as we passed through, but I shouldn't be surprised. This was a dreamscape after all, not a real hospital, and a dreamscape that hadn't the benefit of an eidetic memory like Javidan's. It would lack the structure and precise detail of a perfect recollection.

We entered a part of the hospital that was unfamiliar to me. It was probably a fragment of Dante's memory, not mine. There were people in this area but they mostly ignored his presence, except for a cursory glance from a staff member at the nurses' station. Was that how it had been in reality too? Iridi had a charisma that generally made people notice them no matter what they looked like—it was a side effect of channelling the Nexus—but some had the ability to effect the opposite, and fade themselves from attention. Dante was one of those, Takumi too. Maybe it had something to do with being a Sentinel, or telepathic strength, in order to influence the perceptions of those around them.

The scenery around us morphed. We were high up on the roof of a building, in a place that had many tall buildings clustered together. The blanket of the night cast deep shadows with only a wane sickle moon to provide any illumination. The lights of the city around us glimmered like tiny, winking stars.

Dante was crouched, waiting, watching for something or someone. There was a stillness in the air as if all breath had been exhaled.

Suddenly a section of the roof burst as a figure shot upwards and hurtled towards him. I flinched as a piece of roof shot past my ear but instead of touching me, it went through me as if I were a ghost. Dante leapt from his position, his psych activated as he met the figure in mid-air. They fought furiously; Dante with his psych while his opponent used a pair of short, wicked-looking swords that he handled with uncanny speed and skill.

And then they both made a mistake.

In the blink of an eye, Dante's opponent moved in close enough to him to deliver a deep slash to his ribs, but not before he retaliated with a low strike that should have disabled the other—disable, not kill. Neither gave in. They danced away from each other, both dripping precious blood as they balanced precariously on the peak of the roof. As if an agreement had been made, the other snarled viciously, backed away and jumped off despite his wounded leg.

But not before I saw his face.

There was no mistaking it. It was Silas Gentry, though the face was younger and less careworn, less infused with darkness than the one I'd faced just weeks ago. That aura of malignance was missing.

Dante had collapsed to his knees, leaning against the carving of a bird decorating the roof as he pressed his hand to the gash in his ribs.

"Idiot," he muttered under his breath, his face tense with the pain. Even in that dream-state, I could sense the rush of Nexus he was channelling to heal that gushing wound, and then the scene shifted once again...