Push the World

Bryce Wexley. You are bone-tired.

The woman called Trenody left you alone in a bedroom. The bed wide as a pasture, the ceiling fan ticking like a distant clock. She showed you the frame. The thing in the frame. You saw it but you did not understand it. The towers falling? Alpine? The room that does not exist? The message that you are the door? Your perfect twin? A face like yours but not yours. Eyes in the sky? Their gaze fixed eastward.

You do not know what it means.

There is a knock at the door.

“Senator? Mister Wexley? May I come in? I need to speak with you.” Trenody says.

“Come in.”

You rise. You open the door. Trenody stands there. Her eyes are a question she does not ask.

“I know it is late, but I have to know.” She says.

She crosses the room. Takes up the remote from the nightstand. Aims it at the enormous rear-projection television. The screen flares to life.

And there you are.

No. Not you.

Your twin. Your shade. Standing in the rubble of a ruined city, soot-smeared, hair tangled, holding a woman who weeps without sound. He is rugged. Heroic. On the lower third of the screen the words: Senator Wexley Onsite at the World Trade Center.

Trenody watches.

“If that is Senator Wexley, then who are you?”

She sits on the edge of the bed.

“He’s my doppelgänger. Made by the aliens. I am going to kill him.” You say.

“You look like him.” She says, “Except you are leaner. And you have seen things. Like me.”

Her face goes pale at the word. She sits forward. Near the edge now.

“Kill?" she says.

You nod once.

“With a gun,” you tell her. “I’ll have Vince put a bullet between his eyes.”

She looks at you. Eyes wide, voice quiet.

“But,” she says, “all the flights are grounded.”

You scowl. A slow tightening of the mouth. The breath held too long. You had not considered that.

“The aliens. It keeps coming back to the space aliens.” She says, “They are not gods. They pretend to be. They are keeping us from the Next Level. And the ones who help them, the Luciferians. They are human. They wear skin like ours. But they are not like us. And they want something from you. I do not know what.”

“It’s a long and complicated story.” You tell her.

She lowers her voice. “I am a simple girl. Texas born. Ti and Do—they showed me the way. But you come from a wealthy family. You might as well be royalty. To think we would be under the same roof. What strange destiny led you here?”

That word.

Destiny.

It draws the dust off an old memory.

The sun going down over the Pacific. You, five years old, astride a dark horse beside a man who has never once said “I love you” and never needed to. He is clearing brush in silence, canvas jacket slung over one shoulder.

His boots dusty with the earth.

He is your great-grandfather. Calder Wexley. You never called him that. You called him “Sir.”

He stops. Tethers the horse. Draws a satchel from the saddle.

“Boy, someday all this will be yours. This is your destiny.”

He lifts his arms. One hand holds the manor. The other, the sea.

“The time left to me is short. I’ll make use of it.”

He opens the satchel. Pulls out a steel gauntlet. One from the old suits in the castle hall. It gleams in the amber light.

“In the old days, men understood the weight of signs. Symbol was not metaphor but law itself. To strike a man with a gauntlet was not violence. It was memory made manifest. A blow fashioned not for harm but for permanence. It marked the flesh and the mind alike. A ceremony of pain and spectacle. And all who saw it carried the lesson in silence.”

He draws the armored glove on. Flexes the metal fingers. Makes a fist.

“Civilization has forgotten what pain remembers.”

He turns to you.

“Listen to me, boy, the world doesn’t bend to the strong or the clever. It bends to the one who controls the narrative. The one who holds the story holds the future. Those who make the rules don’t play by them—they rewrite them when necessary. To be the ruler, you must understand that everything is a transaction—money, loyalty, history, even blood. Power is never a right; it’s a thing you earn—through manipulation, force, and the stories you tell. The truth is nothing but a tool in your hand, Bryce, and that truth can be shaped into any form you wish. But remember—truth is power only if you can make others believe it. Never forget that.”

He snaps his arm back, swings, and smashes you in the face. Steel on skin. A crack like thunder in your skull. You’re lifted from the earth, and the sky spins. You hit the dirt hard. Your mouth fills with blood.

You see stars.

He stands above you. The glove dripping red. His boot nudges your face.

“Never forget that.”

You flinch at the memory of Old Man Calder’s blow.

Trenody sees it. She watches you.

“I would give you a penny for your thoughts, but I believe they would cost me more than that.” she says.

“Sorry.” You tell her, “I was thinking about a lesson I was once taught.”

She lowers herself next to you. Slow. Deliberate. Her denim skirt pulls tight at the knees as she sits. She does not look at you. Not yet.

“I know that you and I come from very different places. You were raised in a manor. I was raised next to strip malls. But we are both haunted. That much I can see.” Her voice is quiet. Not soft.

You bridle at the comparison. She’s nothing but a peasant. But what she said about being haunted is true.

She inches closer. Slowly. The warmth of her leg against yours, thigh to thigh.

“It has been a long time since I was intimate with anyone.” She says, “Years, maybe. I do not remember when the loneliness became a habit instead of a feeling.”

She breathes out. Not quite a sigh.

“I know I should not. I know this is not proper. But I need to be touched, and I believe that you do, too.”

She turns slightly.

“I hope I am not being too forward.” she says.

She takes your hand. Moves it with hers. Presses it gently against her breast. Holds it there.

“This is my vehicle. It is how I remain here. It is how I hold the ache. It is how I offer peace to those who need it.”

She closes her eyes.

“I would like to be intimate with you, Bryce. If that is what you wish as well.”

“I do.”

The room is quiet.

No wind stirs the curtain. No noise comes from the street. The world seems to lean in.

Trenody stands before you in the half-light.

She lifts your jacket from your shoulders. Folds it. Her hands find the buttons of your shirt. One by one. She does not rush.

Her breath is steady. Her eyes do not leave yours. She watches you like a woman watching a flame she does not want to die.

“You are still a man, no matter what the aliens have done to you,” she says.

Her fingers trail the hollows of your collarbone. She undresses with quiet purpose. No ceremony. No shame. Her body is not a seduction.

“This is my vehicle.” she says. “It has been broken. But it still moves. It still carries me forward. And tonight, it wishes to carry you.”

You embrace not with hunger but with gravity.

She climbs onto the bed beside you and draws the covers over your bodies. Her hands rest on your chest. Her head on your shoulder.

When she kisses you, it is not passion. It is benediction.

Your bodies move like tide and shore. Slow. Relentless. Old as grief.

No words pass between you.

You have never known this kind of intimacy. Not like this. Not with tenderness. Not with reverence. All your life the body has been a weapon. A lure. A thing used to conquer or be conquered. Sex was barter. Sex was a battlefield. Sex was rutting in the dark like animals blind to themselves.

And sometimes, sex was death.

Charlotte.

Princess Charlotte Eleanor Victoria of Gloucester.

Blood of kings. Member of the House of Windsor by way of the Gloucester line. Twenty-seventh in line to a crown older than most languages. Or was it thirty-seventh? But her Crown was light, and her voice was laughter, and she looked at the world as if it were a stage that owed her no curtain.

Your family’s money made her lineage look poor. Generations of oil and empire. A different kind of royalty. A quieter violence.

She was Regal but unaffected. Known for her striking dark auburn hair, usually worn long and braided in the old court style. Publicly proper, but in private: rebellious, whip-smart, emotionally intense.

You remember her beneath you.

Not tender. Not sacred. Just bodies. Her plaited hair pulling loose with each thrust, her breath ragged, her teeth at your throat.

It was not lovemaking. It was fucking.

You were both drunk. The party in Hertfordshire gone to smoke and murmurs and political lies whispered over cut crystal.

You had the keys to a Jaguar Mark X.

She wanted the wind. You gave her the road. The curve came too fast. The bridge did not move. The car hit stone and folded.

She died where she sat.

Her face crushed and broken on the dashboard.

You crawled from the wreck with ribs shattered, blood in your mouth, and your hands slick with her blood.

The Royal Press Office said she passed peacefully. A lie. The last gift they gave her.

Closed-door funeral. No press. No photographs. Just a redacted page and the smell of lilies.

MI6 swept the floor. Burned the files. General Voss sent a jet and a handler. You were gone before her body cooled.

The Crown forgets nothing. But it sometimes erases.

The world moved on. The line of succession closed around the wound.

But you remember.

You keep her silver cigarette case in a drawer back at your estate.

Inside: A flower, pressed flat like memory. A matchbook from the Wheatsheaf Tavern. And the corner of a love letter. Not to you. From one of the men who courted her. The ink ran pink from the rain the night she died.

After that, your father and mother would no longer indulge you.

They spoke in quiet tones behind thick doors. They hosted dinners where your name was not mentioned. The wine was poured but never offered to you. You were tolerated like weather—something to be endured until it passed or broke.

You still remember the day that sets things in motion to where you are now, Trenody beside you.

You and your father rode out across the land. The same land you and your great-grandfather cleared when you were a boy. The same ridge lines. The same dry winds. Only now, the brush grew back quicker than it once did. Like the earth no longer respected your family name.

Your healing ribs ached with each step your horse took. Father rode ahead. His back straight. His coat was dark against the pale hills. He did not speak and you did not ask him to. The horses breathed steamed in the morning chill. The sky was a lid of pewter and the sun did not show.

Your father’s horse trotted near the old fencepost. The one your great-grandfather marked with a copper nail. He did not dismount. He looked out over the land like it belonged to someone else.

“You understand what you’ve done.” He said. It is not a question.

“Yes, father.” You said, “And I know you and your mother are ashamed of me..”

He did not look at you.

“We don’t recover from things like this. Not really. We bury them deep, and we walk like they’re not there. But they are. And they own us. Forever.”

You looked out at the hills. At the brush that grew wild again. At the sky that wouldn’t break open.

“You’ll inherit all this. But not clean. Not proud. You’ll inherit it like a man inherits debt. And you’ll carry it until it kills you. That’s your future now.”

You rode in silence for some time. The wind moved through the dry grass. The horses made no complaint. The sky above was vast and pale and without mercy.

His father spoke without turning his head. “And I don’t want to hear more talk of you entering politics. Politics is for show ponies and social climbers. It’s theater. And you’re not an actor, son. You’re a Wexley. You’re supposed to be useful.”

“You never approved me of me! You always looked down at me! I know I always disappointed you and Mother!” You snarl.

You crested a rise. Below you, the valley unfolded—acres of land, oil rigs distant, vineyards coiled in perfect lines like snakes at rest. The empire.

“You want to play politics? Buy a politician.” he said “Hell, buy a whole damn caucus. Buy a Supreme Court justice if that’s your fancy. That’s what we do. We don’t run for office; we own it. We don’t make policy. We write the checks that make policy happen.”

He turned, the reins slack in one hand.

“Do as your great-grandfather did. As I did. Stay in the shadows. Push the world with your thumb. Never let them see your fingerprints.” he said.

“No,” you tell him “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to go into politics. I don’t care what you say.”

Your father smiled. Thin. Cold.

“You still want the limelight? Then go big. Presidency big. Aim for the chair they still believe matters. Put your face on the postage stamps if you can stomach the lies.” He paused. “But you and I both know, you don’t have the balls for that kind of work.”

He turned his horse and rode down the hill.

You stayed where you were.

The wind at your back.

The silence inside you louder than any voice.

Wexley and his sword.

That Thing Down by the Docks

Senator Wexley. The phone rings.

You blink as though waking from a dream. You hold a long, black blade, a gem the color of blood in its center. How long have you been holding it? Where did it come from? The room reels.

You steady yourself and carefully lower the sword, setting it down on the polished glass of the end table, careful not to let it touch the marble.

The suite is whisper-quiet, opulent. Everything upholstered in ghost-white or gold. One wall is all glass, looking out over the city’s starlit ruin. Beneath the chandelier, a decanter of whisky sits untouched. The fireplace glows blue with a gaslight that does not warm. The carpet is cream-colored and so thick it steals every footstep like a secret.

You pick up the phone. Your wife. Celeste.

You stare at the name a moment longer than you need to. Like it is a riddle.

Then you answer, already annoyed. “Yes?”

“Darling? I saw you on Tough Talk. It’s completely forgivable why they had to push back the segment on Wexcess.” she says. “They are going to reschedule the segment?”

“I’m sure they will. Is this really what you wanted to talk about, Celeste?”

She won’t let it go. “What’s unforgivable is your only comment to Doherty. ‘Nice suite?’ Really, darling? I’m surprised Loraine did give you a tongue-lashing, especially after all the media training she gave you.” She pauses “You looked… polished. Polished and hollow. And the footage. From the World Trade Center. The one where you’re holding that woman, covered in soot. The networks play it constantly. You know what the strangest thing is?”

“No, Celeste,” you tell her, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” She asks, “You looked beautiful. Heroic. But it wasn’t you. Not the man I married. Not the way you move when you think no one’s watching.”

“Maybe you’re finally seeing me. The real me.” you say.

“The reason I call, and I do so hate to disturb you at this hour, because Graham’ has been asking strange questions. About dreams. About ‘the other father.’ I caught him talking to a mirror.”

You pinch your brow. “He’s probably gay.”

Celeste is silent. Then has says gently, almost kind, “Come home soon. Not for me. For Graham.”

She disconnects.

Celeste said Graham had dreams about “the other father,” the other you. Everything keeps coming back to Alpine. And meeting Caruso set fateful night in motion.

You remember when you first met Caruso.

The bar was low and narrow and stank of bleach and piss. You could miss it from the street if you weren’t looking for it, and no one ever was. Neon dead in the window. Dust on the bottles. The fan overhead spun slowly as if bored of the heat.

You sat at a booth in the back. Vinyl torn. Duct tape curling at the edges. You wore a suit that didn’t yet fit your name. Hair still neat. Tie still tight. Skin too clean for the room.

Bryce Wexley, City Council, Eighteenth District. Newly elected. Still shaking hands like they meant something.

And that was when he walked in.

Vince Caruso.

Thick in the shoulders. Heavy in the eyes. Shirt unbuttoned one past respectable. Hair slicked back but thinning in a way he pretended not to notice. He moved like a man who’d carried things in trunks. Heavy things. Wet things.

He didn’t sit. Just slid into the booth across from you like he owned the air between you.

He said nothing.

Just set a manila envelope on the table. His hand lingered there for a moment. Then left.

You looked down. You didn’t open it. Not yet.

No name. No seal. Just a faint thumbprint where someone had gripped it hard.
You knew without knowing.

Five grand. Untraceable. No memo. No contract. Just a small note, folded like a prayer: Remember your friends.

He lit a cigarette. Blew smoke toward the jukebox that hadn’t played in years.

“City Heights ain’t Washington,” he said finally, voice like gravel under boot.

“You’re goddamn right.” You told him.

He looked at you like he’d already seen the whole arc, beginning to end.

“You got the face for the cameras.” he said. “But you need to decide what kind of man you’re gonna be when they’re off.”

“I am rather photogenic, aren’t I?” you said. “But I already know exactly what kind of man I am.”

The choice had been made the moment you walked through the door.

Caruso rose. Left the cigarette burning in the tray. Never looked back.

You opened the envelope. You counted the money. The amount was a paltry sum. Laughable. You accrued more money through your family’s empire in the seconds it took you to count. You tucked the note into your inside pocket.

You carry it still. You never needed it. What you needed was Bryce. Someone to do your dirty work. He was beneath you, but that had its appeal, knowing your family would disapprove.

The next step was that night.

Late autumn, 1992.

Fog thick on the San Diego waterfront.

You were still a city councilman, not yet thirty.

Caruso was a mid-tier muscle for the Bravanti outfit—connected through labor unions and port security. A fixer. A messenger. And when needed, a cleaner.

A man named Tomas Reza—mid-level union accountant and federal informant—got cold feet. He contacted a local reporter with names and routing numbers and whispered rumors of City Hall connections. He’d been seen at three fundraisers. One hosted by your people. He had photographs.

Tomas Reza had to disappear. But no one wanted the blood on their hands. Not officially.

The call came in the night.

Caruso picked you up himself in a grey Ford with no plates. You didn’t speak much on the ride.

“He’s in the warehouse already. All you gotta do is help me bury the problem.” he says.

“‘Help?’ I’m here to make ensure the job gets done right. And I want him to know.”

The warehouse was condemned. Steel walls rusted to ash. Windows busted and patched with plywood. Somewhere, a freighter horn moaned in the fog.

Reza was bound, beaten, mouth taped. Eyes pleading. He recognized you. That was the best part. He made mouth noises behind the duct tape. You couldn’t make out what he said, but his message was clear: “Please don’t! Please Don’t kill me!”

It was quick. A length of cable. One pull.

Reza was the first man you had put down, and you knew there would be others in your future. You were more excited than ill. You had crossed a threshold.

Neither of you didn’t talk after that. Just worked. Just shoveled dirt into a makeshift grave cut into a gravel pit behind the warehouse, under a trapdoor in the concrete floor that Caruso said used to be part of a smuggling tunnel. After a few scoops you let Caruso do the rest of the work.

“It’s deep enough.” Cause said, wiping sweat from his brow with Reza’s tie. “We pour concrete next week. City’s paying for it. Funny world, huh?”

Caruso asked you to help move Reza’s body. You made a token effort, and then, after a few moments, you let Reza’s legs fall to the ground. Caruso glared at you but said nothing. He knew who held the leash.

Your shoes were ruined. You threw them in the bay later that night. You went home barefoot.

Neither of you spoke of it again. No names. No location.

Only “that thing down by the docks.”

The cover-up held. Reza vanished. The story died.

You rose in the polls.

Caruso moved up, too. Quietly. Doors opened. Favors exchanged.

But you both remembered.