him how to dress and act and walk so people would stop and take notice. But what Gunther prized the most were the personal gifts Faust had shared with him: the ability to sharpen one's mental clarity and to move through life fearlessly, and, most importantly, to never be ashamed of the dark range of desires and fantasies that ran through his blood. Some of the visions were so powerful, so real, he would wake up in the middle of the night covered in sweat, his heart exploding inside his chest, an intense heat building inside his loins that ached for release.
He decided to tell Faust about the visions. When Gunther was done, his eyes dropped to the floor, feeling ashamed and vulnerable and dirty for reasons he couldn't quite form into words.
"There's no need to be embarrassed. The visions are quite normal,"
Faust said, his eyes free and clear of judgment.
"The key is to act against those people who can hurt or injure the good and the weak."
People like Raymond Bouchard and his IWAC team. People who intended to harm Faust.
The plane's engines climbed, getting ready for takeoff. It was about to begin.
The plane's engines were warming up, the steady, rumbling sound vibrating inside the cabin packed with four bodies that were, thankfully, not very tall or wide. Conway had only been expecting three people: himself, Dix, and the jump instructor, Evans. The fourth guy, Paul something Conway hadn't caught his last name was clearly the cameraman; a small video camera was mounted on the top of his helmet.
Videotaping the jump was extra. Conway, having no use for it, didn't check it off on his registration form. It must have been Dixon's idea.
Apparently Dixon was sparing no expense today.
Conway sat in the rear of the plane, next to the cameraman. Directly across from Conway and seated right next to the jump door was Dixon, wearing a helmet and clear wind goggles strapped across his glasses. He stared out the window at the ground, his attention turned inward to the business of psyching himself up for the jump.
The plane lurched forward. Dixon gripped the edge of his seat with both hands and kept swallowing, his eyes focused outside the plane, on the ground. The plane gained speed, bouncing over the bumpy runway of packed dirt and stone, the cabin shaking so violently it made him wonder if the plane would suddenly burst apart at the seams. The cameraman stared passively out his window while eating carrots out of a plastic baggie. Evans blinked one eye at Con-way in a gesture of shared conspiracy and then blew out a long pink bubble. Dix looked as though he was about to blow his breakfast again.
Then the plane lifted off the ground and the cabin stopped shaking, the windows filling with blue sky as the ground faded fast. Con-way's mind rolled back to that beautiful, warm October morning he first jumped, the day of his twenty-first birthday. He had sat in a plane not unlike this one, listening to its engines straining and leveling as it climbed higher into the sky, the engines sputtering, sometimes stalling, as if they were undecided about their job and without warning might suddenly quit. At that moment his heart had seized with an icy shudder that left him wondering why he had yet again listened to John Riley the son of a bitch was always doing crazy shit like this and had willingly strapped himself inside this badly constructed and amateurish machine that would at any moment give up and plummet to earth, killing them both.
Of course that didn't happen. The plane's engines had leveled off and everything was fine, and, just like now, the Cessna sailed straight up into the sky, nice and smooth. Conway felt that wonderful adrenaline-filled mix of fear and excitement burst deep inside his loins, electrifying his skin, and washing away his exhaustion and earlier paranoia.
Dix was no longer looking out the window. His head was bent forward and he was taking in quick breaths, his eyes locked on the altimeter strapped across the
He decided to tell Faust about the visions. When Gunther was done, his eyes dropped to the floor, feeling ashamed and vulnerable and dirty for reasons he couldn't quite form into words.
"There's no need to be embarrassed. The visions are quite normal,"
Faust said, his eyes free and clear of judgment.
"The key is to act against those people who can hurt or injure the good and the weak."
People like Raymond Bouchard and his IWAC team. People who intended to harm Faust.
The plane's engines climbed, getting ready for takeoff. It was about to begin.
The plane's engines were warming up, the steady, rumbling sound vibrating inside the cabin packed with four bodies that were, thankfully, not very tall or wide. Conway had only been expecting three people: himself, Dix, and the jump instructor, Evans. The fourth guy, Paul something Conway hadn't caught his last name was clearly the cameraman; a small video camera was mounted on the top of his helmet.
Videotaping the jump was extra. Conway, having no use for it, didn't check it off on his registration form. It must have been Dixon's idea.
Apparently Dixon was sparing no expense today.
Conway sat in the rear of the plane, next to the cameraman. Directly across from Conway and seated right next to the jump door was Dixon, wearing a helmet and clear wind goggles strapped across his glasses. He stared out the window at the ground, his attention turned inward to the business of psyching himself up for the jump.
The plane lurched forward. Dixon gripped the edge of his seat with both hands and kept swallowing, his eyes focused outside the plane, on the ground. The plane gained speed, bouncing over the bumpy runway of packed dirt and stone, the cabin shaking so violently it made him wonder if the plane would suddenly burst apart at the seams. The cameraman stared passively out his window while eating carrots out of a plastic baggie. Evans blinked one eye at Con-way in a gesture of shared conspiracy and then blew out a long pink bubble. Dix looked as though he was about to blow his breakfast again.
Then the plane lifted off the ground and the cabin stopped shaking, the windows filling with blue sky as the ground faded fast. Con-way's mind rolled back to that beautiful, warm October morning he first jumped, the day of his twenty-first birthday. He had sat in a plane not unlike this one, listening to its engines straining and leveling as it climbed higher into the sky, the engines sputtering, sometimes stalling, as if they were undecided about their job and without warning might suddenly quit. At that moment his heart had seized with an icy shudder that left him wondering why he had yet again listened to John Riley the son of a bitch was always doing crazy shit like this and had willingly strapped himself inside this badly constructed and amateurish machine that would at any moment give up and plummet to earth, killing them both.
Of course that didn't happen. The plane's engines had leveled off and everything was fine, and, just like now, the Cessna sailed straight up into the sky, nice and smooth. Conway felt that wonderful adrenaline-filled mix of fear and excitement burst deep inside his loins, electrifying his skin, and washing away his exhaustion and earlier paranoia.
Dix was no longer looking out the window. His head was bent forward and he was taking in quick breaths, his eyes locked on the altimeter strapped across the
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