But how and where would the empress begin her search? Unexplained events saturated the globe, whether real or imaginary, supported by all manner of believers. In a world where the supernatural and the natural intersected, mixed, fused, it was almost impossible to tell what was real and what was not, what was science and what was merely a slight of hand...

But Las Vegas, a city in the middle of a dry, scorching desert, thrived on deception, of blending the imaginary with what could be perceived as real. Hoards of visitors, in superficial t-shirts and selfie sticks, lined the base of buildings shaped like fairytale castles, enchanted Egyptian pyramids, Coney Island, or the streets of Paris or Venise, these clogged sidewalks weaving through foliage that could never survive naturally in the dry Sierra heat. Cops on bicycles weaved through the heavy foot traffic while immigrant men passed out flyers advertising nearby, discreet brothels. Even during the day, the city seemed to sparkle in all its artificial glory and promise of wonder, the tinseled manifestation of magic.

Even this gem had its grit, a ring around the heart of the city lined with pawn shops, payday loan banks, adult video stores, and used car dealerships. These buildings, remnants of 70s glitz, did not shine, people did not clog these sidewalks, and fancy palm trees did not grow here.

Within one of these pawn shops, a slender man, no more than 30 years old, leaned over the scratched glass counter as the pawn shop owner examined a Zippo lighter. The younger man threaded a hand through bedraggled dark hair, a shoulder-length, oily mess that he had not the time for, before idly scratching at the stubble of a beard growing along a sharp jawline. "So, how much?"

The pawn shop owner glanced up to study the anxious customer--the younger man had darker skin, like one of those yuppy mochas from Starbucks, but bright blue eyes that made this older, proudly conservative man uncomfortable. Was the younger man a crack addict pawning what he could find for money? He certainly smelled like he hadn't showered for a few days, wearing a ratty, dark t-shirt to boot, but he was too much of a pretty boy to be on crack long-- his skin was still smooth. And he lacked the disjointed jitters that a drugged-up crazy carried. 

The shop owner grunted. "Five bucks."

"Five..." The younger man gaped, his expression a mix of outrage and surprise. "It was a gift from when I was discharged from duty. It came all the way from Afghanistan with me. It is at least twenty. Look here, there's an inscription that says--"

"Five bucks." The owner set his jaw and glared.

The younger man mirrored his glare but was no match for the shop owner's decades of experience putting his foot down against multi-racial lowlifes like this punk.

The younger man snatched his lighter. "Fucking rip-off," he snarled as he shoved the lighter in his dirty jeans pocket and headed for the door. "I can get fifty bucks at the place across the street."

"Good luck with that," the shop owner scoffed. 

The younger man--Alexander Valencia--ignored him, storming out of the store and into the glaring midday heat. Blinded by the sun and his anger, he began to cross the street to the next pawn shop, seeing no oncoming traffic in his peripheral vision.

A taxi screeched around the corner. Moving too fast for car or pedestrian to react, the taxi slammed against Alexander head-on, denting the hood of the car. Alexander tumbled clear over the vehicle as it screeched to a halt, smashing the windshield and damaging the taxi sign as he did. 

A strange, tingling warmth enveloped Alexander as the vision of sky and concrete tumbled before him. For a moment, his vision blurred, the warmth bringing him back to Afghanistan, in a similar desert heat, bullets whizzing around him, bodies falling, blood splattering like confetti poppers...

He hit the concrete with an audible crack. The sharp pain pulled Alexander back to the present. Rolling to a stop on his side, he glanced at the source of the pain--bone protruded from his arm. He gasped and let out another wail of agonizing pain before struggling to his feet. His left foot wobbled uselessly, that broken ankle unable to support his weight, and he returned to the ground in a heap. The concrete was wet, and he realized that it was slick with his blood.

The taxi driver finally stepped out, pale-faced and gawking in shock. "Jesus, are you alright?"

"My arm is broken!" Alexander gasped even as the pain ebbed away, "and my ankle. My head..."

The taxi driver knelt down beside him. "Where is your arm broken?"

Alexander pointed to the grotesqueness of bone through flesh... except it wasn't there. His arm was whole, unscratched. He blinked, then checked his other arm. Dirty, but undamaged. "I-I swore...there was bone... it's broken!" He flexed both arms, a startlingly painless gesture.

The taxi driver rose to his feet, glowering. "You stepped onto the street on purpose," he snapped, "faking an accident, trying to sue me for my hard-earned money!"

Alexander lifted his head to stare like the man had gone mad. "You fucking hit me!" He rose to a sitting position, sliding both hands through his hair to check his head for injuries. None. Slowly, he rose to his feet, both ankles supporting his weight just fine. But just a moment before... He glanced at the streak of blood on the ground, his blood, but where did it come from? He checked himself for injury, clearly remembering the broken arm, growing more panicked and confused.

"Look at my car!" the taxi driver screamed. "You con artists know how to stand just right so that you roll off the car without getting hurt, and then pretend that you are! I'm not falling for it!"

A few people emerged from nearby buildings to stare, but this block was a ghost town compared to downtown Las Vegas--there were few witnesses, and even fewer who cared.

"I swear I didn't," Alexander murmured. The taxi driver's screaming hollowed, then thinned as Alexander remembered a different type of screaming that surrounded him. All those bullets...it had been an ambush, years ago in Afghanistan...dust all around...bullets going through him, piercing his armor... The doctors had said he was lucky, but there had been so many...

Alexander stumbled off the street and onto the sidewalk in a daze, the taxi driver still screaming at him. He ignored it entirely, his mind resetting to the broken arm he was sure he had just a moment ago. He could not make up that pain. Just like Afghanistan....