It's no great surprise that the elevator opens at the end of the corridor that leads to your own office. From that room, a yellow glow spills from a now-doorless doorway. You approach it.
Your desk remains in the center of the room, where it should be. And on that desk stands a single lamp, the light source, though you can see no apparent source of power. And yet behind your desk, where a plate-glass floor-to-ceiling wall once occupied the entire wall, there is now nothing but air. Part of the building's wall has been shattered, along with the edge of the ceiling and floor. You step over to look out across the view of Seattle—or rather, the broken city that Seattle has become. You are careful not to stand too close to the edge—it hardly seems structurally sound.
And then, strangest of all, you make out a translucent figure hanging in the air before you, barely visible, not ten feet from your face.
It is Randy McGinty.
Next