Chapter Text
“God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent. Can anyone tell me what that means?”
Religion class was a bore, but it was the one class that the fourth and fifth graders at Bishop Gorman shared, so it was Ryan's favorite, all because Spencer was there.
“What's Green Day been up to?” Spencer whispered out of the side of his mouth while Mrs. Layden looked around for prey to call on.
“Loch Ness,” Ryan mouthed, and Spencer's eyes widened.
“The Loch Ness-!”
“Mr. Smith, since you're feeling so chatty. Can you tell us what one of those words mean?”
Spencer blanched, and Ryan held back a fit of laughter. He felt bad for Spencer, but mostly he was relieved that he hadn’t been called on.
“No, Mrs. Layden,” Spencer said. He focused his eyes on the top of his desk. Ryan was about to relax, when-
“How about you, Mr. Ross?”
Well, shit.
“Um,” Ryan said. His tie suddenly felt very tight around his throat. He knew this, he knew this, he knew this. “Um, yeah, omni means all, right? And, um, isn’t ‘omniscient’ all-knowing?”
“Correct, Ryan. Omniscient means all-knowing. God knows everything. He knows every thought you have and sees every deed you do. Go on, write this down. And don’t let me catch you boys talking during class again. Now, omnipotent means all-powerful…”
She droned on, but now that he was in the clear, Ryan slumped back against his chair. His dad had overslept again, and he hadn’t had time for breakfast this morning, so he was really looking forward to lunch and recess, where, if he had the time and no one else felt like picking on him and Spencer, he might check in on Green Day again. They weren’t in trouble, the last he saw, but things changed so fast in monster fighting, and Ryan couldn’t believe he had to sit through his usual dull classes while all of his favorite bands were out saving the world.
Well, not Blink 182, for some reason. But it was still fun watching them. They got into all kinds of shit without any magical help.
Ryan's train of thought was broken off when a tiny piece of paper landed on his desk with a soft thud. Ryan unfolded it to reveal a message written in Spencer's messy, blocky handwriting:
Didn't know you were god
Ryan shoved the note deep into his pocket, suddenly nervous. It was one thing to joke around like that outside of school, but blasphemy was the kind of thing that got you more than detention.
And something else about the note bugged him, something Ryan couldn't put his finger on. Comparing him to God. Omniscient. It made him feel hot and clammy at the same time. He put pencil to paper and then set it back down a half dozen times or more before finally giving up and tossing the crumpled note into his desk.
Spencer turned around and cocked his head in question. Ryan gestured towards the teacher in the hopes that Spencer would think he just didn't want to get in trouble.
Omniscient, Ryan thought. It sounded much cooler on paper than it actually was in practice.
***
Ryan bade Spencer goodbye at the bus stop and made his way home alone. Often the two would hang out after school, but Ryan was exhausted and his dad was working late, so today would be the perfect day to just relax by himself. Juicy Juice, a couple episodes of Fresh Prince, and an afternoon of solitude seemed to Ryan to cure all ailments, so he prescribed it to himself to see if it would do anything about the strange, nagging worry in the back of his head. It was a good plan, too, and probably would have soothed his nerves enough to do his religion homework and go to bed.
Except.
There was a van in Ryan's driveway.
Ryan stopped short and groaned because not today, not today of all days, when all he wanted was to rest. When his dad wasn't home. Ryan's dad always warned him not to talk to strangers when he wasn't around, but the strangers that visited the little stucco house didn't always wait.
He could run. Turn around and bolt to Spencer's house and let someone else handle this.
But visitors so desperate to know their future that they found Ryan were not easily dissuaded. Plus, Spencer's parents didn't let them watch Nickelodeon. They thought it was bad tv.
Ryan walked to his house with grim determination. There were five boys leaning against the van, the youngest just a few years older than Ryan and the oldest probably in his mid twenties. Ryan walked right past them and up to his front door, thinking go away go away go away.
“Hey! Hey kid! Hey! Kid! Do you live here?”
Ryan rolled his eyes and turned around.
“I have a key, so. You know. One would hope.”
The oldest of the group, a stocky guy with braids sticking out of his head in crazy directions stepped forward.
“I'm Chris,” he said in a loathsome and sugar-sweet “I’m talking to a child!” voice. “What's your name, sweetie?”
“Ryan,” Ryan said sourly. “What do you want?”
Another older one, this one taller and bearded, had the audacity to bend down to talk to Ryan. Bend down! As if he were three years old and not a fairly tall eleven year old!
“Is your mommy home, Ryan?”
“She hasn't been in seven years,” Ryan said. The five of them looked nervous. Good. Go away.
“Do you have a sister?” A third tried. This one didn't seem to condescend. He had curly hair and a spritely face, and the serious expression he wore didn't seem to fit him. It seemed to Ryan like this one must usually be smiling. And in fact, he looked familiar…
“Were you on the Mickey Mouse Club?” Ryan asked suddenly. The pretty boy gave a brief, sheepish grin.
“Yeah, I was,” he said.
“Cool.” Ryan almost smiled, but then remembered why they were there. “But no. My sisters live with my mom.”
Braids tried again.
“Are there any women living in the house with-?”
“Just me and my dad.”
“But this is the address!” the youngest one said. He sounded betrayed, and the game was getting old.
“Address for what?” Ryan sighed, as if he didn't already know.
“We're looking for the Oracle of Delphi.”
Ryan rolled his eyes again.
“Present. C’mon, let's get inside before the neighbors call the cops on you guys or something.”
Ryan led them out of the hot desert sun into his cool, dark living room. Ryan flicked on the lamps, but didn't touch the buzzing fluorescent overhead out of habit. His dad hated that light.
“Can I get you a drink?” Ryan asked once they'd all found seats-- on the couch, the arms of the couch, the floor, all of them avoiding the big La-Z-Boy that Ryan's dad slept in like they could tell it was off limits. “Um. We've got apple juice, grape juice, milk, water, vodka, beer…”
“What kinda beer?” the young one piped up, and stupid-braids-Chris smacked him on the back of the head with a sharp “Justin!” The kid pouted, and said “I'm good, actually.”
“Not to be rude,” a quiet, baby-faced boy with a southern accent said, “but how do we know for sure you're the Oracle?”
Ryan sighed. He reached out and touched the top of his hand with his finger tips, and as a wave of memories that weren't Ryan's crashed through his skull, his eyes widened. Damn. Vivid.
“So when you were in Berlin, and you met a man named Jack-” Ryan began, and he needed to go no farther. The guy's eyes widened and he yanked his hand back. Ryan smirked, and turned to the tall, condescending one.
“Sorry about the bite,” he said, “that looked gnarly. Good thing the Backstreet Boys were there to save the day, right? And Justin, interesting the amount of weed you snuck out of Amsterdam without the TSA noticing, couldn't have anything to do with those glowing eyes, right? And JC-”
“Okay, we believe you!” Chris said. “Christ. You're really the Oracle?”
“One and only,” Ryan said.
“Wow,” JC, the pretty boy, said. “That's really cool, dude. So, um, how does this work?”
Oh, suckers. They should know better than to ask something like that.
“Well, first of all, I require payment,” Ryan said. The five of them looked at him blankly.
“I'm serious. Foretelling the future is hard work, and, uh, most of you look over 18, so-”
“We are not buying you porn!” Chris said. Ryan rolled his eyes. Jesus.
“Cool, didn't want you to. There's a book my dad told me I'm too young to read called “Invisible Monsters” and it sounds really cool. Plus, I disapprove of censorship. And I don't have ten dollars right now. So, if you guys pop on down to Barnes and Noble and buy me a copy, I'd be willing to share the future with you.”
“Is it a sex book?” Chris asked.
“For fuck’s sake!” they all cringed back when Ryan swore. “What are you, Baptists? It's just a book, okay? This author is gonna be huge soon. Fight Club. Watch out for it.”
“And we have to pay you before you tell us?” the tall one asked. (Ryan had learned through the brief flash through Lance's memory that his name was Joey.)
“Yup. You're already kinda killing my Fresh Prince and homework afternoon, so I'd like to guarantee I'm getting something out of it.”
“Fine,” Joey said. “But we're gonna leave someone here. Make sure you don't try and run away.”
“This is my house!” Ryan yelled, but four of them were already walking out, leaving baby-face (Lance, part vampire, gay and closeted) with him.
“So.” Lance looked awkward, barely old enough to babysit Ryan.
“I'm gonna watch TV,” Ryan told him, and turned on the TV as promised. He plopped down on the couch, flipping through channels to get where he wanted. Somewhere about twenty channels up from where he started, he noticed that Lance was very quiet. He sniffled next to him. Ryan rolled his eyes.
“It's not a big deal that you're gay,” he sighed, not so much a reassurance as something he was annoyed of having to say.
“Easy for you to say,” the kid sniffed. He was older than Ryan, sure, but still. Basically a kid.
“Yeah, easy for me to say,” Ryan agreed. It was on commercial break. Figured. “You know, I'm younger, I'm not gay, I grew up in Vegas, my dad's got gay friends, oh, and, don't forget, I see the freaking future.”
Lance froze next to him.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“Means you can get married to a dude in about ten years in some states. Now lower your heart rate before your werewolf notices, bask in the glow of the future, and shut up, okay?”
He did shut up, much to Ryan's relief. And Ryan watched a whole episode and a half in piece. He even eventually noticed Lance very quietly laughing along at the jokes.
The rest of the band came back a little after the theme song, and Lance stiffened up, like he’d been doing something embarrassing. Chris thrust the book into Ryan’s hands and crossed his arms over his chest.
“So,” he said. Ryan’s stomach twisted tightly, nerves curling tightly and his breath speeding up. He did not want them to see his hands shaking. He smirked.
“Alright,” Ryan said. “Whad’you want to know?”
“We think that our manager has done something,” Chris said. He paused. “Something bad.”
“Can you give me any more info? You’re only hurting yourselves if you try to keep this PG for my sake, don’t forget that,” Ryan said.
“We don’t know the details,” Justin piped up. “We just think he’s acting suspicious. He won’t give us any details about what’s going on-”
“What’s going on?” Ryan asked.
“There’s these creatures we’re fighting,” Joey said. “They’re called-- well, we don’t know if they have a real name, but we’ve been calling them singed. They’re like, super strong but look like they’ve been hanging out in a barbecue.”
“That helps,” Ryan said. His heart was racing, and he could feel sweat itching at the base of his skull where it met his neck. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine. “Okay. What’s the manager’s name?”
“Lou Pearlman,” Chris said. Ryan nodded. He could already feel memories of things that had happened and things yet to come tugging at him, pulling against him like jabs of wind, but not yet, not just yet.
“Okay. I’ll find out some answers. I can’t guarantee it’ll be what you’re looking for, but I can guarantee you’ll leave with more knowledge than you came with. There’s only one rule: do not interrupt me. I don’t care if I’m screaming or crying or turning blue, you do not interrupt, do not make noise, do not try to wake me up unless my heart stops beating, okay?” Ryan said. “If you’re really worried, call the number on the fridge and ask for Spencer. He’ll know what to do.”
“Wait, are you gonna have a seizure, or, like-?”
“See you in a few,” Ryan said, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he let the past and future memories overtake him.
The living room swirled out of existence and, for a sickening moment, he was free falling, plummeting past a blur of color and noise, shouting and jet engines and music. Endlessly music. All Ryan had to do was reach out and grab something…
Burning. Joey had mentioned burning. Ryan felt a flash of heat and blindly snatched at it.
He was lying on a table, his limbs big and unwieldy and strapped down to his sides. He was naked, and he didn't know whose body he was inhabiting, but he guessed it wasn't Lou Pearlman.
He, or the person he was inhabiting, looked up and saw a very overweight, sweaty man with beady eyes peering down at him.
“You're sure this is safe?” the person Ryan was in asked. The big man smiled with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
“Don't you worry bout a thing, kid. You're gonna be a star.”
There was a pinch, a resistance on the skin of his inner elbow, and then a flood of endorphins. His eyes grew wide and he could see everything--
He was running on a treadmill, the miles per hour climbing higher, past ten, fifteen, past twenty, and he hadn't even broken a sweat. It felt amazing, his muscles expanding and responding like they'd been waiting his whole life for him to do this. He let out an exhilarated laugh. 25 miles per hour. The beady eyes man looked eager and greedy.
He was in a mirrored room, singing in harmony with four other boys, also lean, also muscular. He could feel power humming in their veins as well. He felt unstoppable. He had a fever, though. A flush that wouldn't leave his cheeks even when he sat down.
He was tied to the metal table again, thrashing against his restraints while the fever roiled inside him. God oh god he wanted to go home he wanted his girlfriend his best friend he want his mom and everything hurt.
“Put him down before it gets worse,” the same man said, and Ryan and the man he inhabited screamed. A pale woman with blonde hair and no facial expression approached him, hypodermic needle in hand. He felt another pinch, something cool and black flowed through him, and he thought again, desperately, mommy.
He woke up again, still the same person but different now. The mind he inhabited was rotting, no, burning. His muscles still ached to be used but he was burning, burning, burning. Everything was fire and when he lifted his hand in front of his face it was charred black. He roared in fear, in pain, in anger. Burnt.
Everything else was flashes, shocks of images that came through the flurries of orange red yellow flame everywhere. An alley populated only by drunks. The faces of the band, angry and scared as they tried to kill him. His smoldering hands. Lou's voice: “we can try again. We just need to dilute the formula some more.”
The burning hit a fever pitch, and Ryan couldn't stop screaming.
Ryan lurched forward and put his head between his knees. His own living room faded back into existence, the sound of concerned voices echoing and bouncing around in brain like shrapnel.
“Should we call?”
“He said if his heart stopped-”
“Guys I don't like this.”
“He's just a kid.”
“Wait, he's stopped screaming.”
“Oh shit, check his pulse. Oh god, oh fuck, tell me we did not kill a kid.”
“Guys, I don't like this!”
“Check his wrist-”
“Shut up,” Ryan said. His voice was weak, but they all grew quiet at his request.
“Are you okay?” Lance asked.
“Like you care,” Ryan said under his breath. He spoke up. “Your manager won't tell you about the singed because he created them. They're people he injected with something, I dunno what, but now they're burning alive.”
They all looked horrified, and rightly so, but Ryan was too drained to feel properly upset anymore. He just wanted to go to sleep. And his dad. He sort of wanted his dad.
“How did he get to them to inject them?” Joey asked. Ryan shrugged.
“I- he was lying on a table, not the manager, the guy. Lou said he would make him a star. That mean anything to you?”
From the looks the all exchanged, it must have. Ryan was so tired, only barely not breaking to pieces in front of them. He was already trembling.
“Can you guys go?” He asked. “I'm tired, and I cant-”
“We can go,” Justin said. Thank God for Fae. “Thank you, Ryan.”
“Anytime,” Ryan said weakly, and didn't so much as stand up to lock the door as they left.
Seeing the future (or, more often than not, the past and present) was Ryan's job, but life was always more complicated than that. He couldn't just have a vision and describe it.
Ryan’s dad, who was the Oracle before the power passed on to Ryan, categorized three types of future telling: sight, search, and prophecy. Sight made the most sense to Ryan. Sight was just visions of things to come, or sometimes things that had happened or were happening. He dreamed in sight. He could seek such visions out, but only if he knew the subject well. That was how he watched Green Day, how he would one day keep tabs on the pop punk scene in Chicago.
Search was what people came to him for. He couldn't see something that had never simply come to him before unless he sought it out. Searching was similar to sight in every way except how it felt. Searching forced him into a first person perspective, making him live out what he was looking for. Usually people searched when there was trouble, so usually it hurt.
Searching also left his mind vulnerable, made him see in his dreams for days all the bad things he could usually block out. It made him defenseless against seeing all the terrible things to come.
Prophecy was simpler, but arguably the most annoying. Ryan would, at complete random, seize and black out, and according to everyone around him, he would spout off a prophecy that he had no memory of. If Spencer or his dad was around, they would write it down, but most prophecies made no sense to Ryan.
And then… there was a fourth type. One his dad had never mentioned, so Ryan did not know if he had even had it. But sometimes Ryan heard a voice. It was very rare, but she would, no more than once a year, whisper something in his mind. A warning, usually. She stopped him and Spencer from getting in a car with a stranger once, and they later arrested the man for killing another boy their age. Ryan thought she might be the real Oracle, the original spirit just living inside him, but he was too afraid to ask.
That night it didn't seem to matter. His dad came home early, cheese pizza in hand and worried expression on his face.
“Are you okay?”
George Ross II’s powers had transferred to Ryan when Ryan was four years old, but he could still see a little. Not as much as The Oracle, but once obtained, sight never truly leaves. He probably only had a vague sense of what happened, but it was enough that he knew Ryan needed him.
Ryan nodded, fiddling with frayed string on his jeans.
“Band came in looking for some help. I found what they were looking for. They were in and out. No big deal.”
His dad clearly didn't believe him, but he nodded anyway, because that was what Ryan needed.
The two of them stayed up late that night, watching action movies send eating pizza. His dad only had two bottles of beer, which was a big deal for him. Eventually, as the credits to Speed rolled and his dad lay snoring in the armchair, Ryan realized he could barely keep his eyes open. He was afraid to sleep, afraid of the things he would see, but oh, he was so tired.
Ryan trudged to his bedroom, and, though he fought to stay awake, fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
In his dream, Ryan was sitting in the driver's seat of a car, empty pill bottle in one hand and Nokia phone in the other. His brain felt warm and fuzzy like fresh cotton candy, and “Hallelujah” was playing softly on the radio.
He was in a recording studio, guitar in hand, trying to be confident he needed to be confident he needed-
He was flat on his back in a dusty shack in the desert. He watched the grenade soar through the window and thought to himself “goddamn, what will they put in the body bag?” before the world went white.
He was bent over homework in a bedroom filled with music posters, frustrated tears dripping on the same math problem he'd been looking at for hours thinking “god I'm so stupid why am I so stupid!”
He was underwater, swimming past so much bone white coral, all dead, all bleached by acic.
He was curled up in bed, feeling his bones snap and stretch as the wolf inside him took over.
And then, for the first time, he was no one at all. He hovered in the room, like a ghost, but he was still Ryan. He took up no physical space. And on the other side of the room, face pressed up against the glass, was a boy. He was younger than Ryan, nor by much, with messy brown hair and gangly limbs, and he was crying.
Still crying a little, the boy started singing. His voice was soft and small, but it struck Ryan as the sort of voice that would someday be hauntingly beautiful. He, like the radio earlier in Ryan's dream, was singing Hallelujah, very, very softly. He closed his eyes as he did, the thin notes swirling around the room and around Ryan.
“...you don't really care for music, do you?”
The tears slowed as he sang, and Ryan watched him, absolutely transfixed. While he was singing, something had happened. There was something outside, something like flurries of snow, except it wasn't snow. It was sand, Ryan realized, and it undulated in perfect time with the music.
“That's him,” the voice in his head whispered, her voice almost reverent.
The music was calming, lulling Ryan to a calm darkness. Just before the dream faded entirely, he reached out as though to touch the boy, and the image faded like smoke.