Chapter Three: The Data Recovery

The Chevy roared down the interstate. Travis leaned back, thinking to himself that this wasn’t a bad gig. He had a sweet rig, infinite gas, and he got to help people—show up, bada-bing, bada-boom, miracle baby. Although, he and the Divine were going to have to have a talk about salary or a per diem or something, because these gas station roller dogs were definitely not miracle fuel.

Just as Travis crossed the Ohio border: Woop-woop.

TRAVIS: (Guiding the truck onto the shoulder) "Ooh no, another lesson? Really, Big Guy? We’re on a timetable here."

He checked his mirrors—no old men in wheelchairs in sight. He hopped out and walked to the rear tire. It had obviously given its last mile. He scanned the road again, looking for a sign of Morgan.

TRAVIS: (Yelling to the empty air) "Oh, I get it. No road hazard warranty. Funny. Just hilarious. I have a flat tire and I can’t complete my MISSION FROM GOD!"

The tire stayed flat.

TRAVIS: (Dropping the tailgate) "Well, nothing like busting a few nuts."

He found a toolset in a small compartment and set the bottle jack under the rear axle. He grabbed the breaker bar and started winding down the spare, but the hoist was so rusted it felt like something was fighting him every turn.

Then came the drip. In the Midwest, it starts as one random drop, then disappears, only to return as a monsoon.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

TRAVIS: (Muttering) "Lucky me, I’m learning so much."

He finally got the tire down—a pre-eaten donut, but it would have to do. He set the breaker bar to the lug nuts. Each one felt just a little too rusted to not be a message. By the fifth nut, the storm was in full bloom. Travis stood on the breaker, easing his weight onto it, when his foot slipped off the wet pavement.

He scrambled back up, wiped the rain from his eyes, and there was the wheelchair. Morgan sat under a small umbrella that was somehow keeping him perfectly dry.

TRAVIS: (Panting) "Heya, Morgan. Good to see you. You bring me a roller dog for strength?"

MORGAN: "I am not here to deliver food."

TRAVIS: "I know, I know. Just a little joke. Look, twitch your nose or whatever you do. I’ve got a job to do."

MORGAN: "I told you. No road hazard warranty."

TRAVIS: (Yelling over the rain) "Don’t you think that gag’s a bit old? Be a pal, make the last nut go loose."

MORGAN: "I'm not here for that. You have to want it."

TRAVIS: "You think I want to be out here in a tsunami?"

MORGAN: "Not the rain, Travis. You have to want the journey as much as the destination. You are not the miracle; you are the heart. You’re either Travis with cross-threaded lug nuts, or you’re Greg Divine, contractor of miracles. But either way, you have to want it. Now, if you don't mind, I'll wait in here while you make up your mind."

With that, Morgan opened the passenger door and climbed into the dry cab.

Travis turned back to the wheel. He leaned into the breaker bar. He thought about the sisters from earlier—how he’d rushed out without even staying to hear them rejoice. He realized how conceited he’d been, thinking he was the one doing them a favor, when really he needed just as much help as they did.

As that thought hit him, the nut wiggled. Just a hair.

He pushed harder, thinking about all the times he’d changed a tire on the side of the road and no one had even slowed down to check on him. He’d only been doing this to get back to his own life, not because he cared about the mission.

TRAVIS: (Whispering) "I want this."

The nut began to turn, grinding against the rust but moving—really moving now. He thought about how many people he could actually help if he stopped treating them like stops on a map.

The breaker bar suddenly slipped from his hand, flying down onto the asphalt on its own. Travis pulled the socket away to see the nut was almost completely freed. From there, it was like the world shifted. He pumped the bottle jack and it felt effortless, as if the truck had no weight at all. The spare tire seemed to grow, looking more like a full-size tread than a donut.

He finished the change faster than a NASCAR pit crew and climbed into the driver’s seat, soaking wet but breathing steady.

MORGAN: "That was good time, Travis."

Travis gripped the steering wheel. He looked at his hands, then over at Morgan. He reached out a hand to shake, as if they were meeting for the very first time.

GREG: "Names Greg. Greg Divine."

The rest of the trip to Providence was uneventful, the miles melting away under the hum of the Chevy. Finally, the GPS announced their arrival at 256 Mangino Way. As soon as the truck rolled into the driveway, Greg went to hop out, but Morgan held up a hand.

MORGAN: "Wait."

GREG: (Hand on the door handle) "What now?"

Morgan didn't answer; he just waved his fingers in front of his face in a slow, deliberate motion.

GREG: (Joking) "Very funny, John Cena. I already know you can make yourself invisible if you want."

MORGAN: "No. Check your mirror."

Greg looked into the rearview. The dirty, wet, torn T-shirt he’d been wearing since the tire change was gone. In its place was a crisp, button-down blue shirt. On the left breast, DRS: Data Recovery Specialist was embroidered in silver thread. On the right, it simply said Greg.

MORGAN: (Handing Greg a matching ballcap) "Got to wear the uniform. You can’t just run in like you did at the convent. This one has Trainee embroidered across the front."

GREG: (Pulling the brim low) "Very funny. So, what’s the play?"

Morgan waved his fingers in front of his own face. His flannel shirt vanished, and the blanket draped over his legs was replaced by sharp dress slacks. He wore a similar button-down shirt with the DRS logo and held a professional-looking clipboard.

MORGAN: (With a small smirk) "Got to supervise the trainee."

Greg climbed out of the truck, but he hadn't made it five feet before Morgan’s voice cut through the air.

MORGAN: "Forgetting something, Trainee?"

GREG: (Turning back) "What?"

MORGAN: (Tapping his clipboard) "The supervisor."

GREG: "Well, get out of the truck then, Morgan. Come on."

MORGAN: "I’m paralyzed," (He said flatly).

GREG: (Blinking) "I’ve seen you get out of the truck a million times."

MORGAN: "Yes, but that’s you. Rule Number 89: Outsiders do not get to see how things work."

GREG: (Striding back over to the passenger side) "Fine. Get out."

MORGAN: "Ummm... my chair, if you please?"

Greg looked into the bed of the truck. A folding wheelchair sat there, looking as if it had been there the whole trip. He reached in, snapped it open, and helped Morgan into the seat.

GREG: "About those rules... is there a handbook or something?"

MORGAN: "Yes. You get it after probation."

GREG: "Right. Figures. But won't she think it’s odd that the supervisor is... you know?"

MORGAN: "People think what they want to think, Greg."

They made their way to the porch, and Greg knocked on the door. After a moment, an elderly woman pulled the door open.

GREG: (Trying to sound official) "Data Recovery Specialist!"

BARBARA: (Looking between the two men) "Oh, my. I did call your company, but I didn't schedule anything. You see... I realized I just can't afford it."

MORGAN: (Leaning forward with a professional smile) "Ma'am, we have a policy to check in on clients who fail to schedule. That’s why we’re here. We actually have a promotion running: if you allow my trainee here to handle your issue, the service is free. It’s our way of getting him hands-on experience while giving back to our community. But don't you worry—I’ll be looking over his shoulder the entire time."

BARBARA: (Voice thin with suspicion) "I don't know. Is this one of those scams where you look at it for free and then charge me or steal my identity?"

MORGAN: "No, ma’am, it’s on the level."

BARBARA: "Okay, come in. But I’m watching both of you. I guess I have no choice."

She stepped back from the threshold, and Greg helped Morgan up into the house. The living room was finished in white stucco, centered around a blue couch and surrounded by wildlife paintings. They sat down, and Barbara disappeared into a back room, returning a moment later with a laptop.

BARBARA: (Setting it down) "Here it is. All my grandchildren’s photos are on here, and I can’t make heads or tails of it."

MORGAN: "That’s alright, ma'am. Let Greg take a look."

BARBARA: "And you’re sure there’s no charge?"

GREG: "No, not at all. You’re in control of everything."

MORGAN: "And I promise you’ll be satisfied with our service—and that it will be free."

Greg took the laptop and booted it up. It ran through POST, chimed, and settled on the Windows logon screen.

GREG: "Ma’am, please enter your password for security. I’d like you to do it yourself so I don’t see it."

The lady took the device, logged in, and handed it back. Greg’s brow furrowed.

GREG: "It’s just a black screen that says 'Password'."

BARBARA: "Yes, I know."

GREG: "Do you want to enter the password for this part, too?"

BARBARA: "That’s just it—I never had a second password."

GREG: "Let me try a few things." (He tried several common combinations, but nothing worked). "This is odd. It’s not ransomware, but I can’t get past it."

Morgan looked at Greg, then turned his gaze to the woman.

MORGAN: "Ma’am... I guess your grandchildren moved far away?"

BARBARA: "Oh, no. But Ben and Judy—that’s my son and daughter-in-law—they get so busy. I can’t just ask them to drop everything because a silly old lady needs a visit."

GREG: (Muttering) "I need Hiren’s PE."

MORGAN: (Reaching into his breast pocket and handing over a USB drive) "Here you go, Greg. You really shouldn't leave your tools behind."

GREG: "Uh, yeah. Right."

Greg rebooted the laptop, setting it to boot from the USB. Run Hiren's, boot into Mini XP, see if the pictures are still there—too easy, he thought. Hiren's loaded, and Greg selected Mini XP from the list. The Windows chime played, but instead of a desktop, a blank screen appeared with the word 'Password' staring back at them.

MORGAN: "Ma’am, are these the only pictures you have of your grandchildren?"

BARBARA: "Oh, yes. My son was quite into all this stuff. He said digital was better, and now look."

As she said the word son, the screen flickered.

GREG: "You know what? A lot of times, these passwords are personal. Like a birthday?"

BARBARA: "My birthday? 10/12/1956."

The screen flashed red.

GREG: "No, I don't think that's it. What about 10/24/1975?"

BARBARA: "That’s my son’s."

The screen flashed red again, flickering violently on the word son.

GREG: (Sighing) "No, I'm sorry, ma'am. You said your son was into computers. Did he happen to mess with this?"

BARBARA: "No, no! Don’t you blame Ben!"

At the name Ben, the screen went pitch black and then blinked back on.

GREG: "You misunderstand. I’m not saying he broke it. Maybe he put the password on it."

BARBARA: "Well... I guess he could have."

GREG: "Why don’t you call him and ask?"

BARBARA: "No, I can't bother him."

GREG: "Just call him. It’s a simple question. In fact, I’ll ask him."

BARBARA: "Okay, but you have to ask. I don't want to be the one to disturb him."

The lady picked up a cordless phone and dialed.

BARBARA: "Judy? Judy, hi, it's Barbara. Yes. Is Ben available?"

The laptop screen was going crazy now, blinking on and off.

BARBARA: "Oh, he’s busy? Yes, I know he has a hard job. Yes... well, I have some men here working on my computer. What’s that noise I hear?" (She paused). "The dog? Yes, I remember Buster."

The screen flashed a solid, vibrant green.

BARBARA: "That was the dog that was with you when I used to watch the kids..."

The screen began to fade. Behind the password prompt, the images started to bleed through.

BARBARA: "No, no, I don't want to bother you... of course they can bring the dog with them!"

The screen suddenly gave way completely, opening into a full-screen slideshow of the grandchildren that began to play automatically.

GREG: "Ma'am... I think—"

Barbara waved him away, her attention locked on the phone.

BARBARA: "Of course you and Ben need some time without the kids every once in a while! Excuse me, Judy. I'm sorry, gentlemen, can you let yourselves out? She's going to bring the kids over! Yes, Judy, I'm still here... just give me a second, it was a telemarketer. Thanks! Don't worry, you didn't fix it, but I'll give you a good survey or whatever."

Out in the driveway, Morgan waited for Greg to open the passenger door and help him into the cab. Once he was settled, Greg folded the wheelchair and tossed it into the bed of the truck.

MORGAN: (As Greg buckled his seatbelt) "You could at least strap down my chair."

GREG: "You’re enjoying this, aren't you?"

Morgan laughed. "I get the 'Angel Partner' with a sense of humor, I guess."

GREG: "Morgan, seriously—what happened back there?"

MORGAN: "Hiren’s Rescue CD to the rescue."

GREG: "No. I didn’t fix that thing. It reacted to the names of her family. Level with me—if I’m going to do this, I have to know what I’m doing."

Morgan’s smile changed. The light completely left his face as he stared straight ahead through the windshield.

MORGAN: "It was a demon."

GREG: "A what? A demon like Lou?"

MORGAN: "No. Lou... Lou is different. There are different types."

GREG: "Well, don't leave me in the dark."

MORGAN: "Look, I’m an angel, so there are demons. There are demons that walk around like you and me. Then there are things like Lou—things that are... well, older."

GREG: "And that’s it? Young demons and old demons?"

MORGAN: "No. Some things... some demons, you can’t see them. Humans think of demons as ugly, mutated creatures that poke them with pitchforks when they die. And they can do that—but others, they don’t wait for you to die."

GREG: "So it was in there?"

MORGAN: "Yes. It was in there while we were there. It was feeding off her loneliness. But it’s gone now. Good job."

GREG: "Aren’t you guys supposed to send them back home? Or fry them with lightning?"

MORGAN: "If you mean angels like me, yes, we can do that. But... but it gets messy, okay? Rule 89: people don’t get to see how things work. Look, that’s all I can talk about!" (Morgan’s voice rose to a sudden yell).

GREG: (Dropping his voice) "Look Morgan, I know this isn't something you're supposed to talk about. But I signed Lou's contract because I didn't know any better. Am I going to have to fight one of these things? What... how do I even..."

Morgan took a deep breath. A sudden sheen of sweat broke across his face—too fast, too much. He sucked in a sharp breath, doubling over slightly, clutching his stomach.

MORGAN: “Just—go!”

GREG: (Panicking) "Okay, okay. Tell you what, shotgun gets the radio. Where are we headed?"

Suddenly, Morgan grabbed his head, his face contorting in pure agony.

MORGAN: "Aurora... Colorado."

GREG: "You need a Tylenol? It’s in the glovebox."

MORGAN: "No... it will pass. Just go. It’s important."

GREG: "Look, if that thing is trying to do something to you, I can help."

MORGAN: (Gasping) "No, it’s something... something important happening. Aurora, Colorado. We have to get there. Go. Please."

Chapter Two  Service Call

Travis woke to the rhythmic, hypnotic thrum of tires on asphalt. He wasn't in his bedroom. He was in the cab, the bench seat vibrating against his spine. His eyes snapped open to see a gray ribbon of highway rushing toward him at eighty miles per hour.

He jerked the wheel, his heart hammering against his ribs, catching the truck before it could drift into the median. His breath came in ragged hitches. Highway hypnosis? Sleepwalking? It didn't make sense.

The JVC radio—that polished, clean jewel in the dash—erupted into a scream of static. It sounded like a thousand stations were being shredded at once. Then, a voice cut through the noise, stitched together from different broadcasts.

RADIO: "You... made... a..." (Static) "...DEAL."

Travis’s blood turned to ice. He reached for the power knob, but it wouldn't budge. It was locked in place.

RADIO: "That’s right..." (Switching stations) "...not a deal with ME."

TRAVIS: "What the hell?"

Travis gasped, his eyes darting for an exit sign. He saw the glow of a gas station and swerved toward the off-ramp, gliding into the lot. He didn't even wait to park straight before he lunged out of the cab.

RADIO: "Complete... the... work order..."

Travis didn't listen. He bolted into the store, desperate for a human face, for a piece of reality that made sense.

TRAVIS: "Mister! Hey! Where am I?"

The clerk behind the counter, an older man with skin like cured leather, looked up slowly.

CLERK: "You’re in Valdosta, Georgia, son. You okay?"

TRAVIS: "Valdosta? Georgia?"

CLERK: (Squinting) "Yes. Listen, if you’re on something..."

TRAVIS: "No, no, I’m good. I just... I got a little lost."

He reached into his pocket for his phone, but his fingers met empty denim.

TRAVIS: "Hey, you got a phone I could borrow? A landline?"

CLERK: "No. Tropical storm took all the lines down last night."

TRAVIS: "A cell then? Maybe just a Boost Mobile store or a Walmart nearby? I’ll get my own."

CLERK: "You’re wasting your time. Worst storm we ever seen. Took out the towers and the lines. If you head North, maybe you’ll find a signal, but here? You're off the grid."

Travis backed away, wandering toward the back corner of the store. He felt another lump in his pocket. Not a phone, but a wallet. He pulled it out, and his stomach did a slow roll. It wasn't his. His was real leather, black, hand-stitched. This one was faux—falsely aged, a cheap imitation.

He flipped it open. The ID inside showed a face that could have been his twin, but the name read: GREG DIVINE. Address: 111 Harp Way. There were no state markings on the card, just a void where the logo should be. But the wallet was stuffed—fat with crumpled twenties.

It’s an emergency, he told himself. I’ll pay Greg back.

He grabbed two sodas, tossed a twenty at the clerk, and told him to keep the change. He walked back to the truck, but he didn't get in. He had to disable the noise. He popped the fuse box cover in the driver’s footwell and yanked the radio fuse.

Silence. Finally.

Then, he went to the front and heaved the rusted hood open. He expected to see a dirty, oil-caked Chevy small block. Instead, he found a masterpiece.

The engine was forged from a gleaming, white-platinum metal that didn't seem to hold heat. There was no grease, no grime. The carburetor cover didn't say Edelbrock; embossed in elegant, flowing script was a brand he had never heard of: GRACE. Even the battery was a knock-off. The label didn't say DieHard or Interstate. It said: HU-MAN-ATTEE.

Travis steered the truck back onto the highway. North. Signal. Help. Just keep moving.

He barely hit sixty before all four tires exploded at once.

The truck spun, fishtailing across the asphalt—but instead of flipping or skidding into the median, it glided to a perfect stop on the shoulder, as gently as if Travis had parked it himself. His hands shook on the wheel. That wasn’t physics. That wasn’t luck.

He looked in the rearview mirror. A man in a wheelchair sat behind the truck, perfectly centered in the headlights. Travis jumped out and ran toward him.

TRAVIS: "Oh my god—are you okay? I’m so sorry, I almost hit you. The truck just—it lost control."

MAN: "Oh, you couldn’t have hit me. I was right where I was supposed to be. But you..." (He pointed a thin finger at Travis) "...you’re not where you’re supposed to be."

TRAVIS: "Sir, let me get you to the side of the truck. Someone could hit us out here."

MAN: "Danger’s part of my job. And you have a job too."

The man rolled himself toward the passenger door, then—impossibly—pulled himself up into the cab with practiced ease.

TRAVIS: "Sir, what are you doing? Stop."

MAN: "Richmond’s a long ride. We don’t have time."

TRAVIS: "Okay, you’re… confused. You had a close call. Let’s calm down."

MAN: "If you’re going to spend all this time yapping, you’ll never get that printer fixed."

TRAVIS: "Printer? What printer? What is wrong with you? Look—even if I wanted to take you to Richmond..." (He pointed toward the ground) "...look at the rims."

The tires were back. Not blown. Not shredded. Just bald and worn, like nothing had happened.

MAN: "Yeah. Boss figured if he popped ’em, he should replace ’em. But he was very clear: no road hazard warranty. First set only is free."

Travis blinked.

TRAVIS: "Where’s your wheelchair?"

MAN: "Already put it in the back."

Travis looked. There it was—strapped down neatly in the truck bed. This had to be a dream. Or a breakdown. Or something worse. There was no way out, not yet. He climbed into the driver’s seat.

TRAVIS: "Printer, huh?"

MAN: "Yeah. One of those old laser-jet models."

TRAVIS: "What is this? What gives? I was going to go along with it, but no."

MAN: "Go along with what?"

TRAVIS: "I’ll find a state trooper. I’ll—"

MAN: "And what? Tell him you stole Greg Divine’s wallet? You stole his truck and kidnapped a paralyzed old man? Let me know where that gets you."

Travis frozen. The man reached out with a bony finger and tapped the radio dashboard. It sparked to life, despite the missing fuse. This time, the voice was crystal clear.

THE VOICE: "Travis… you’re a hard debt to collect. So I had to send my debt collector. May I introduce Morgan?"

The man in the passenger seat removed his hat and bowed his head.

MORGAN: "Pleased to meet you. Now we got to go."

TRAVIS: "Fix a printer, huh?"

MORGAN: "Yes. I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but you’re the on-call."

TRAVIS: "What? How? When did this happen?"

MORGAN: "You signed the contract."

TRAVIS: "This truck… Lou… what, I sold my soul for a clapped-out Chevy with self-healing tires?"

MORGAN: "Not exactly. Sometimes Heaven needs outside contractors. You got caught up in a bad situation, so instead of letting Lou have your soul, we decided to let you work it off."

TRAVIS: "Oh. Papal tech support. Yeah, that’s moving up. Literally. Doesn’t the Vatican have a guy?"

MORGAN: "They do. And I do not like him. Look, the Boss understands you’re not the eternal-contract type—too much commitment for you. So let’s call this a trial run."

TRAVIS: "Trial run?"

MORGAN: "Yes. You get to Richmond, to the Sisters of Perpetual Mercy convent. You fix the printer. End of contract. Demo’s over."

The word demo hung in the cab like a loose wire, sparking. Travis opened his mouth to ask, but something else caught his eye—the gas gauge. Pinned to empty.

TRAVIS: "We’re diving into the red. I’m pulling off."

MORGAN: "Where are you going? The Sisters of Mercy is a long way away."

TRAVIS: "We need gas."

MORGAN: "No we don’t. Boss prepaid the entire trip."

Travis looked back at the gauge. The needle shivered. Then rose. Quarter tank. Half. Three-quarters. Full. Then it slammed against the stopper just past Full, like it was trying to escape the dashboard.

TRAVIS: "How?"

MORGAN: "Told you. Boss prepaid."

TRAVIS: "The truck doesn’t run on air, Morgan."

MORGAN: "No, I think it’s 87 octane."

TRAVIS: "That’s not what I mean! How does it work?"

MORGAN: "Well, you see, the fuel pump pulls gas out of the fuel tank—"

TRAVIS: "No. How did the fuel get in the tank?"

MORGAN: "Don’t overthink it. The truck believes it’s full of gas, so it is. Is it so hard to have a little faith that you have a full tank?"

It was late the next day when the red Chevy rolled into the convent lot. The nuns were already lined up outside, a river of black-and-white habits flowing toward the chapel for evening mass. Travis stared at the stone building, hands locked on the wheel.

TRAVIS: (Muttering) "Sister Mary Jo’s office. Basement. Fix the printer, go home. No more Greg Divine."

MORGAN: "That’s the spirit."

Travis didn’t wait for Morgan to say anything else. He grabbed his tool bag and bolted, weaving through the line of nuns like a man fleeing a crime scene. Down the concrete stairs, into the cool, damp basement air, he found the door: Sr. Mary Jo – Administrator.

He pushed it open. There, on an old oak desk, sat a printer that belonged in a museum. Beige. Boxy. Fossilized. Travis dropped his bag and immediately started prying off the side panel.

A voice cut through the quiet.

SISTER: "What are you doing here?"

Travis spun around. A nun stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

TRAVIS: "Fixing this printer."

SISTER: "This is Mary Jo’s office. She’s been dead for months. No one is supposed to be in here."

TRAVIS: "Look, I’m just going to fix it. Then you can lock the door, burn the room, whatever."

SISTER: "We’ve been asking the Diocese for help ever since she passed. They keep saying someone will ‘get around to it.’"

TRAVIS: "Yeah, well… I’m from the Diocese. Consider yourself gotten around to."

SISTER: "I don’t believe you. They never send anybody."

Travis didn’t argue. He yanked out the ancient toner cartridge—seized, dry, useless—and bagged it. He shoved in a new one he didn’t remember packing. He flipped the power switch.

The machine groaned. Whirred. Then, impossibly, began spitting out pages.

SISTER: "Hey! What’s that? What are you printing?"

TRAVIS: "I don’t know. Probably something stuck in the buffer."

She leaned in. Her eyes widened.

SISTER: "Is that…?"

TRAVIS: "It’s just whatever was queued up, I didn’t—"

SISTER: (Gasping) "It says Father Mangio Endowment. This is it!"

TRAVIS: "Great. You can keep it."

SISTER: "No, you don’t understand! Sister Mary Jo was our accountant. When she died, we lost the account number for the endowment that keeps this convent running. The Diocese wouldn’t help. Who are you? How did you know?"

TRAVIS: "Look, Sister… I really did nothing."

SISTER: "It’s a miracle! We must tell the others!"

Travis didn’t wait for the interrogation. He grabbed his bag and sprinted out. Behind him, the basement erupted into joyful shouting.

Outside, the truck waited. Morgan sat beside it in his wheelchair, looking like he hadn’t moved an inch.

TRAVIS: "Printer’s fixed."

MORGAN: "You really think this was about a printer?"

TRAVIS: "No, I get it. I performed a miracle. Isn’t God wonderful? The sisters stay open. Everybody wins."

MORGAN: "Now you’re getting it."

TRAVIS: "Okay, so one and done, right? Do I take a nap and wake up at home, or—"

ORGAN: "Oh, no. You fixed the printer, but that wasn’t the job. And trust me, the next one won’t be so easy."

Travis’s temper snapped. He grabbed the armrests of Morgan’s wheelchair and leaned in until they were nose-to-nose.

TRAVIS: "Next one?"

Reality twisted. The world blurred like a corrupted video frame. Suddenly, Travis wasn’t holding a wheelchair. He was gripping the metal rails of the truck bed. He was entirely alone.

A single object sat in the bed: a worn, grease-stained notebook. He picked it up.

Greg, you did a good job. But now there’s a lady in Ohio who needs her grandchildren’s pictures recovered from a dead hard drive. I’ll meet you there. Oh, and the Boss wants to reiterate: there is no road hazard warranty on the tires. Also, the timing sounded off. Move the distributor back three clicks.

Travis exhaled.

TRAVIS: "Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how I get home."

He popped the hood, reached into the gleaming Grace engine, and gripped the distributor.

Click. Click. Click.

Nothing happened.

TRAVIS: "Well, that didn’t work."

He climbed into the cab. He considered driving home. Skipping Ohio. Skipping the work order. He turned the key.

The truck convulsed violently, shaking like it was trying to throw him out. The glove box burst open, and a folded map of Ohio slapped onto the floor. Circled in red: Providence.

Travis sighed.

TRAVIS: "Providence, Ohio it is."

https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/comments/1ulgw42/sf_serial_bus_saga_book_1_loose_strings_part_3/

PROLOGUE

The Setting: A starless void. No light. No heat. Just silence stretched thin across nothing.

Then a voice cuts through it. Fast. Impatient.

HERMES: "Dispatch a truck. Make it red they like red, don't they? Makes them feel heroic. Keep it cheap. Nothing from this decade. I'm not wasting premium assets on a local apocalypse."

MORGAN: (His voice arrives the way old things do — not loud, just suddenly there.) "Sir… what exactly are you doing?"

HERMES: "I'm starting an apocalypse, Morgan. Closing the deal. That's what we were contracted to do."

MORGAN: "Sir… you haven't consulted the CEO."

HERMES: "He won't care as long as I bring results." (A beat. Somewhere in the void, something unseen shifts.) "You know your problem, Morgan? You've never closed a deal in your life. I worked my way up from the mail room. Maybe if you did your job — actually closed something — you'd be my boss. But not today, Morgan. Not today." (Calling out to the dark.) "You — yeah, you. Find me a human. A champion. But not anybody good. Just… someone okay. We don't want extra work, but we still gotta check the box."

MORGAN: "Sir… this isn't His design."

HERMES: (Immediate, defensive.) "Yes it is. Or do you honestly think His design was to sit back and watch while a race that invented 'Influencer' as a job title strip-mines the universe into a graveyard? I'm finishing the job."

MORGAN: "Sir… I really think—"

HERMES: "Take a memo."

MORGAN: "…To whom, sir?"

HERMES: "Senior Management. 'The apocalypse will arrive on time and under budget. Champion located. Failure expected.' Clean."

MORGAN: "Hermes, sir—"

(A silence. Different from the void around them. Pointed.)

HERMES: (Smoothly, as if the slip meant nothing.) "You're being transferred. Effective immediately."

MORGAN: "…Where, sir?"

HERMES: "Debt Collection."

MORGAN: "That department hasn't been functional in centuries."

HERMES: "Exactly. You're a problem I can't get rid of, Morgan. So go sit in the dust. Wait until you're useful again." 

Chapter One: The Inventory Trap

Florissant, MO. A small, cramped office building.

The air in the warehouse was stale, smelling of ozone and old cardboard. Travis—our "just okay" champion—stood under a flickering fluorescent light, checking off line items on a clipboard. He wasn't fast, but he was thorough. He liked things to balance.

He paused, squinting at the manifest for the Ladue project. Something didn't sit right. He flipped the page, then flipped back. An entire section of high-end units was missing from the physical inventory, yet the manifest showed them as "delivered."

He pulled his phone and dialed.

TRAVIS: Sir? It’s Travis. I’m down in the warehouse finishing the Ladue inventory.

BOSS: (Voice loud and hurried) Is it done yet? I need those numbers for the quarterly review.

TRAVIS: Yes, sir. But... um, there’s a problem. Some big-ticket items are missing from the floor. They aren’t cheap ones, either. I checked the purchase orders—we invoiced the client, but the system shows we never actually ordered the units from the supplier.

BOSS: (A sharp silence on the other end) Oh. That. Yeah, yeah... they changed their mind at the last minute. It’s fine. The paperwork just hasn't caught up yet. Don’t worry, we aren't invoicing them for the extra stuff.

TRAVIS: (Frowning) Sir, that’s just it. I’m looking at the live invoice on the computer right now. They were charged. We took their money for parts that don't exist.

BOSS: (Voice dropping an octave, cold) I said I’ll take care of it, Travis. It’s just a glitch. Leave the clipboard on my desk and go home.

Travis hung up. He felt a knot in his stomach—the kind of feeling you get when a machine sounds fine but the vibrations are all wrong.

Upstairs in the main office, the Boss slammed his receiver down, his knuckles white. He didn't waste a single second. Sweating through his collar, he lunged across his desk and punched a familiar extension into the intercom.

BOSS: Tanya? It’s me. Look, I’ve got a situation. I’ve caught an employee stealing. Yeah... it’s Travis. He’s been skimming the Ladue job—invoiced a bunch of units that "slid" off the inventory. I didn't want to believe it, but I just checked eBay... the kid is selling our hardware right under our noses. We need to terminate him. Today.

As Travis headed for the exit, the receptionist stopped him.

RECEPTIONIST: Travis? Boss said you’re heading out early. I just need you to hang out for a second.

TRAVIS: I’m already clocked out. He told me to go home.

RECEPTIONIST: Yeah, well, Tanya needs a word first. Just sit.

It didn't make sense—being told to leave and stay at the same time—but before Travis could wrap his head around it, Tanya stepped out of her office.

TANYA: Travis. I need to speak with you. Now.

TRAVIS: Is this about the Ladue project? Because the numbers—

TANYA: Leave your laptop and your badge here with the receptionist. It’ll make things easier. We'll talk in my office.

The pit in Travis’s stomach dropped. It was the heavy silence right before something expensive breaks. He handed over his gear and followed her in.

TANYA: Travis... we’re letting you go.

TRAVIS: (Stunned) Letting me go? I’ve been here three years. I just found a massive error in the billing for—

TANYA: Look, we know what you've been doing. We’re a government contractor. Publicity means accountability, and we just don’t want the headache of outside agencies looking at our books.

TRAVIS: What are you talking about? I didn't take anything! I'm the one who reported it!

TANYA: (Ignoring him) You tell everyone it was budget cuts. When they call for a reference, that’s what we’ll say. We won't press charges, we all move on, and more importantly, there's no news story.

TRAVIS: You're pinning this on me to keep the auditors out.

TANYA: (Standing up) I need the company car keys, Travis. Now. We’ve already called a cab. It’s waiting outside to take you home.

Travis walked out into the Missouri heat, his head spinning. Parked at the curb was a white minivan that had seen better days. Painted on the side was a logo with wings and the name: HEAVENLY EXPRESS. The logo was a dull, faded red.

Tanya leaned into the passenger window, tapping a corporate card against the frame.

TANYA: (To the driver) Charge it to the account. Straight to his home address. No stops.

The driver didn't say a word. He just waited for Travis to get in and shut the door.

The interior of the minivan was a shock of white leather—clean, but the air was thick with the heavy, stale scent of old cigarettes. The windows were tinted dark enough to turn the Missouri afternoon into a grey twilight.

DRIVER: I know your address. Just buckle up.

TRAVIS: (Muttering) Yeah, thanks.

He clicked the seatbelt into place, the mechanical snick sounding unusually loud in the quiet van. Travis stared out the window, watching his office building disappear.

TRAVIS: I just… I don’t even know what happened. But I won't bother you with it.

DRIVER: Look, you want to talk, go ahead. It’s a thirty-minute ride. I charge the same either way.

TRAVIS: They just threw me out. Framed me for something I didn't do. I was the one who caught them skimming the books, and ten minutes later, I’m in a cab.

DRIVER: (A low, raspy chuckle) That’s tough. So why didn't you just drive yourself home? Usually, these places only call me when someone shows up with alcohol on their breath. You’re my first sober corporate pickup.

TRAVIS: I don’t have a car of my own. I had a company car. I just used that for everything.

DRIVER: That’s real tough.

The driver reached back, shoving a business card over his shoulder without looking.

DRIVER: Talk to my brother, Lou. He’ll set you up real nice.

TRAVIS: I don't know. I don’t exactly have an income to waste right now.

DRIVER: Suit yourself. Or you can just keep paying me every time you have an interview.

Travis hesitated, then reached out and took the card.

TRAVIS: No, let me see that.

The card was a deep, bruised blood-red. It felt strange in his hand—slightly damp, as if it were still drying. The text wasn't printed; it was engraved deep into the card stock, the letters jagged and uneven, like someone had etched them with a screwdriver.

INFERNO MOTORS.

DRIVER: Look, the company paid for me to take you to a destination. That lot over there isn’t exactly out of the way. I drop you there, say I dropped you at home—they don’t know the difference. You can drive yourself the rest of the way.

TRAVIS: I don’t know. I don’t want to be trapped.

DRIVER: Ehhh... Lou will take care of you.

the driver pulled the van over at the edge of a gravel lot. He didn't wait for a thank you. As soon as Travis’s boots hit the rocks, the sliding door hissed shut and the "Heavenly Express" disappeared back into the Missouri humidity.

Travis stood at the edge of Inferno Motors. It was just a trailer and a sea of sun-bleached metal, but one vehicle pulled him in like a magnet.

A red Chevy 1500.

It was sitting off by itself, certainly having seen a day or two, but there was something in the metal that said I’m not trash. The paint was a battle between faded crimson and a fine, honest patina of Missouri rust. 

He leaned his forehead against the glass, peering into the cab. The interior was ripped and stained, but it was better than a forty-year-old interior had any right to be. And then, he saw it.

Shining in the center of the dash, polished and clean, was a JVC cassette player. It was jarring. It was as if the owner had let the rest of the truck succumb to age, but that one piece of hardware had been kept valuable. It sat in that old dash like it was the most important thing in the world.

LOU: It’s nice, ain’t it? Kind of like it was sent here for you.

Travis jumped, spinning around to find a man standing there—Lou. He looked like he’d spent his whole life on a gravel lot, but he had a quick, friendly energy.

TRAVIS: Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just... window shopping.

LOU: No, no. Take your time. That’s what I’m here for.

TRAVIS: I really shouldn’t. I don't even know if I have an income right now.

LOU: (Leaning in close, like he’s telling a secret) Hey... how would you like a free soda and to come sit in the AC for a minute?

TRAVIS: I’m not buying anything today, really.

LOU: Just do me a favor, buddy. The Boss is a real stickler—I can’t have a drink unless a customer has a drink. You come in the trailer, you get to cool off, you enjoy a pop... it’d be a favor to me.

The inside of the trailer was cramped and thick with a stillness that felt like it had been settled since the seventies. It was as if there were no walls, only layers of ancient dust holding the room together. A few flies buzzed lazily in the heat. The only light came from two sources: an ancient, chandelier-style desk lamp that looked ironically classy for a gravel lot, and a buzzing neon sign that hummed INFERNO MOTORS in a harsh, electric red.

Underneath the sign, a yellowed flyer touted a "Special Offer": Free oil changes and tire rotations with purchase.

LOU: Here you go.

Lou handed over a Sam's Club cola, pulled from a mini-fridge tucked somewhere in the shadows under his desk. The can was sweating, the only cold thing in the room.

LOU: As I was saying… that truck right there is dependable. It’s got a heart of iron.

TRAVIS: (Taking a sip) I told you, Lou. I can’t buy anything. I lost my job twenty minutes ago.

LOU: (He paused, his eyes glinting in the red neon light) Lost your job, eh? Hmm. Well… that changes everything.

Travis looked at him, confused.

LOU: This isn’t a setback, Travis. This is an opportunity. An Inferno Motors special, arriving just in time to save you.

TRAVIS: You’re not hearing me. I can’t afford a truck. I can’t make payments. I have zero coming in.

LOU: (Leaning over the desk, the chandelier lamp casting long, jagged shadows across his face) No, that’s the beauty of it. You’re making payments every day you don't own it. Every time you call Heavenly Express. Every grocery run you can't make. Every interview you have to beg a ride for. Those are payments, Travis—payments to a world that wants you stuck. You can’t afford not to buy this truck.

Travis   wait how did you know about heavenly express

Lou ok my brother called I need every advantage I can get that still doesnt make this a bad dal its a investment

Travis a investment

LOU: Yes... do you know why I started Inferno Motors, Travis?

TRAVIS: Wait—you said you had a boss. A stickler. How did you start the company if you have a boss?

LOU: (Dismissive wave) Doesn't everyone have a boss? That’s not important. What’s important is me and my quest to ease the suffering of the masses. You see, a vehicle is mobility. It’s options. It’s the difference between standing still and moving forward.

Lou leaned over the desk, the red neon sign casting a bloody glow over the dust.

LOU: Here’s what I believe: I give people affordable transportation, they excel, and then they pay me. But I’ve got to tell you, in the eternity I’ve been doing this, day in and day out? No gratitude. No thanks. Just, "Oh, there’s a dent, take four hundred off," or "The exhaust smells funny." Never a "Thanks for saving me, Lou." Travis, you know what makes this your lucky moment?

TRAVIS: The free soda?

LOU: No. It’s because you discovered that truck. And a truck like that is a dependable partner for life. For life.

TRAVIS: (Setting the can down) Alright, Lou, you made your pitch. But unless it’s free, there’s no sale. And it’s time for me to go.

LOU: Time for you to go, indeed. And free... there’s an idea. What if it was free?

TRAVIS: (Scoffing) If it was free, you’d be out of business.

LOU: No, I told you—it’s an investment. From time to time, I let a customer borrow a car. They take it home for a weekend, they fall in love with it, I make my money, and bingo—I’m still in business.

TRAVIS: I’d need way longer than a weekend to get back on my feet.

LOU: And I don’t see why that’s an issue. Take the truck. Get back on your feet, then pay me. You don’t like it? Bring it back. No harm, no foul. All the risk is on me.

TRAVIS: (Hesitating) Okay... I’ll bite. Nothing wrong with free.

LOU: Exactly. But first, I’ll just need a signature. You know, record keeping. That’s all.

TRAVIS: If it’s free, what’s to record?

LOU: (With a shark-like grin) But it’s not free. You’re going to pay me later. Next week, next month, next year... whenever you’re ready. Until then, it’s just a demo lease. If the higher-ups do inventory and see the truck missing, I show them the lease. Bam. Boom. All taken care of.

TRAVIS: Fine.

Lou reached under the desk and pulled out a small Zebra thermal printer. It began to scream, spewing out a contract with such speed it looked like it was going to burn through the entire roll. Travis grabbed the long, curling receipt. He tried to read it, but the characters were jagged, looping, and completely foreign.

TRAVIS: What is this? Is this Latin?

LOU: (Already handing him a pen) Don’t mind the legal-speak. It’s all legit. Just what I said. I do this all the time. Sign anywhere.

Travis scribbled his name at the bottom. The paper felt hot to the touch.

Outside the trailer, Travis rushed toward the Chevy. As he walked up to the bumper, he noticed the vanity plates for the first time. They were clean, silver, and looked brand new against the rusted gate: SLA 01.

TRAVIS: Hey, Lou! Do I transfer these into my name, or do I go get new plates?

LOU: (Standing in the doorway of the trailer, framed by the red neon) I’d prefer you wouldn't. They go with the truck. It’s only a... a lease, remember?

Travis didn't argue. He climbed into the cab, ignored the smell of forty-year-old dust, and turned the key. The engine didn't just start; it roared to life with a mechanical hunger he hadn't expected.

He drove home, parked the red beast at the curb, and went straight to bed, the "SLA" on the plate glowing faintly in the streetlights.

https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstories/comments/1ulgtei/sfserial_bus_saga_book_1_loose_strings_part_2/

Archie pulled up to the county clinic, the engine of the stolen Crown Victoria idling with a ragged, uneven chug. Apparently, driving a squad car with a missing door drew a lot more attention than he’d anticipated, but he had managed to shake the local cruisers two miles back. He glanced into the back seat. A couple of swords he’d snatched when the other knights bolted lay on the floorboards—useless here.

Instead, he grabbed John’s heavy canvas bag, cinching the strap tight across his shoulder.

"Only fools rush in, right, John?" he muttered to the empty car.

Archie shoved the door open and walked into the clinic’s reception area. The air smelled of industrial bleach and old magazines.

"Fill out these forms," the nurse said from behind the glass, not even bothering to look up from her monitor.

"No, I’m here to see someone."

"We can’t give out patient information to just anybody," she replied, her voice dripping with bureaucratic exhaustion. "Unless you’re on their emergency contact list."

"It’s Lisa. Ummm..." Archie struggled for a second, his mind racing to recall the alias they’d used when they checked her in. "Uh, Lisa Canttell."

At the name, the nurse finally looked up, her eyes narrowing. "Are you a friend or a relative?"

"Friend. Close friend," Archie corrected, trying to sound anchored.

"Okay, sir. I’ll just need some ID so I can verify if you’re on her list. Assuming she’s even registered here."

Archibald handed over his driver's license. The nurse clicked through a few screens, her expression flattening. "I’m sorry, sir. There’s no Lisa Canttell here, nor is there an Archibald Johnson on any approved visitor list."

Archie didn't wait for her to call it in. He vaulted the reception desk in a single, fluid motion.

"Hey!" the nurse shouted, slamming her hand toward a panic button.

"Brotherhood emergency," Archie snapped out of sheer habit, already pushing through the heavy double doors into the restricted wing.

Behind him, the nurse's voice echoed over the PA system, calling for security. Archie bolted down the hallway and ducked into the first available door. Just his luck—a mop closet. No security uniforms to steal, no lab coats. Without an access card, he was dead in the water.

*Up in the ceiling it is,* he thought. *I guess seven years of training from an Original has to pay off for something.*

He popped the lightweight ceiling tile, hoisted himself up into the dark plenum space, and carefully reset the tile behind him. Navigating the darkness, he made sure to stay strictly on the steel support grid, spreading his weight by keeping his hands and feet as far apart as possible. He slunk forward like a shadow, weaving between heavy AC ducts, bundle wiring, and lighting harnesses.

Every few feet, he stopped to watch the tiles below, checking how much movement was transferring to the grid. He moved like a ghost, pausing occasionally to press his ear to the drywall to catch the audio from the rooms below.

"...You know, Doctor, you should really stop stealing from the medicine lock-up."

Archie froze. That was Lisa’s voice.

"Ms. Canttell, you know that's not true," a man's voice replied, defensively smooth.

"You're right," Lisa sighed. "I don't know why I say things like that. They just pop out."

"And so do I," Archie said, dropping straight through the ceiling tiles and landing squarely on his feet.

The doctor gasped, stumbling backward toward the security buzzer on the wall. "Young man! There’s no need for violence, this is a therapy session!"

"I wouldn’t touch that buzzer, Doc," Archie said, raising a finger.

"It’s alright," the doctor said, his hands raised, trying to regain control of the room. "I’m only here to help her."

"You’re stealing narcotics, Doc. And I can prove it."

"No, I’m not! Why do you keep saying things like that?"

"You want the board to find out about the proof I have?" Archie stepped closer, bluffing with absolute certainty. "The narcotics, among other things? Go ahead. Push the buzzer."

The doctor’s hand hovered over the button, trembling. "Okay, okay. Let's not be hasty. I'm trying to help Ms. Canttell. Perhaps you need help too..."

"I need you to sit back in your chair, Doc."

"Okay, see? I’m sitting," the doctor said, lowering himself into the leather chair. "This can be resolved peacefully, without unfounded accusations."

Lisa scrambled over, clinging tightly to Archie’s arm. Archie reached into John's canvas bag, pulled out a length of tactical nylon rope, and efficiently tied the doctor to the chair frame.

"If you hurt me," the doctor warned, his voice cracking, "you’ll be in a facility for the rest of your life."

"No one's gonna hurt you, Doc. I’m just borrowing your badge. Think of it as plausible deniability." Archie reached down and snapped the laminated proxy card off the doctor's belt.

"I’m going to scream the second you leave."

"Thanks for the warning." Archie turned to Lisa. "Let’s go."

"But I’m getting help here, Leonard," Lisa said, hesitating as she looked back at the desk. "I really am."

"Yeah, well, pretty soon you won’t want to be here. Much less in this city," Archie responded, pulling her toward the door.

"Young man, you can't just take that girl!" the doctor retorted.

"I’m saving her, Doc. And probably you, too."

Lisa looked at Archie, searching his face. "Okay. I'll go with you."

"Why the sudden change of heart?" Archie asked, cracking the door to check the hallway.

"Back at the motel... you could have given me the drugs. You could have gotten whatever you wanted from me," Lisa said quietly. "You said some pretty messed up stuff, but you never let me have them, even though it meant I wouldn't give you what you wanted. I trust you. If just for that alone."

"Move," Archie urged.

They sprinted down the hall just as the doctor started screaming bloody murder behind them. At the end of the corridor, two massive orderlies stepped out, completely blocking the exit doorway. One of them immediately dropped into a low sumo stance, bending forward menacingly.

"Look, kid," the lead orderly said, holding his hands out. "We're just trying to help you. How about you calm down, we talk about it, and maybe get you some food? Get you back on your meds."

Archie reached blindly into John’s bag. His fingers brushed against something metallic. *Silver stars? No, they’re human, I can't use lethal.* Then, his fingers rolled over smooth, cold spheres that felt like glass marbles. *Gas bombs.*

He whipped three of the marbles across the hallway. They shattered against the orderlies' chests, releasing a sudden, localized puff of fine, white mist.

Instantly, the orderlies began flailing.

"There he is! How'd he get over there?!" one screamed, completely disoriented by the hallucinogenic irritant. They began running in frantic circles, smashing blindly into the drywall and each other.

Archie and Lisa bolted past them to the final exit door. Archie swiped the doctor’s access badge against the reader. The light flashed red, and a heavy clunk echoed through the frame. The emergency alarm had triggered, activating the magnetic fail-secure locks. The door was sealed tight.

"Come on, John, please be prepared," Archie muttered, digging frantically into the bottom of the canvas bag.

His hand closed around a heavy, rubberized square block.

"Yahtzee."

He pulled it out and slapped it against the upper door frame. The block magnetized instantly to the housing, emitting a high-pitched whine that disrupted the clinic's security circuit. Archie threw his shoulder into the door; the magnetic seal groaned and gave way.

He snatched the disruptor block back, and he and Lisa burst out into the reception area, leaving behind the sound of the disoriented orderlies crashing heavily into the now-relocked doors.

"No, not that car," Archie said "The cops are looking for it."

"Trust me, it's better if we find a new car," Archie said, his grip tightening on her arm as he tried to guide her away from the missing drivers door.

"But that's the car we use," Lisa insisted, her voice dropping into that flat, unyielding certainty. "I trust my husband, but that is the car we take."

Archie froze, staring at her in absolute disbelief. The girl didn't even know his real name—he’d given her a fake one at the motel—and she was talking about a marriage years down the line.

"Oh my god, I’m so sorry," Lisa blubbered, her posture shattering as she clutched her head. The sudden shift back to her frantic, dopesick reality was instantaneous. "I don't know why I said that! Things... they just pop out of my mouth. I... I just really think we need to take the Crown Vic."

"Crown Vic it is," Archie said, shoving the bizarre revelation into the back of his mind.

He threw her into the passenger seat, vaulted over the hood, and killed the ignition wires together. He slammed the transmission into reverse, cut the wheel, and threw the heavy sedan into drive.

He barely cleared the parking space before the sky ripped open.

With a concussive boom, the living storm cloud of Atropos slammed directly onto the hood of the car, still maintaining the terrifying, roiling shape of a woman. Archie didn't lift his foot—he buried the gas pedal into the floorboards. The V8 roared as the Crown Vic charged forward, splitting the vortex. The dark smoke swirled violently around the cracked windshield, blinding him for a split second as they tore through her form.

In the rearview mirror, Archie watched the chaotic cloud spill off the trunk, swirling aggressively against the wet asphalt. It compressed, lowering to the ground, until the smoke hardened back into the solid, vengeful shape of a woman standing in the center of the lane.

Archie slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a hard, sliding stop.

"That's her," Lisa whispered, her voice trembling as she pressed against the passenger door. "She's the woman who gave me the drugs."

Archie didn't hesitate. He grabbed one of the broadswords from the back seat and stepped out into the humid air.

Across the pavement, Atropos smiled. With a fluid, terrifying motion, she drew a blade of her own. "You know, you were supposed to be the Master," she said, her voice echoing with a hollow, dual-toned ring. "I didn't lie about that. But you are just so irritating. I don't care what my sisters had planned. I decide when people die. And today, you die."

"Step away from the Master."

The booming voice rang out from directly behind Atropos. She spun around, Archie’s eyes darting past her. Emerging from the shadows was a man clad in a massive, high-tech suit of future mech-warrior armor.

"Ma'am, you were told to step away from the Master," a second voice barked from the left. A soldier wearing digital camouflage stepped into the light, the patterns on his uniform constantly shifting and blurring to match the environment.

"Oh, do as they instructed regarding the stepping away," a smooth, refined voice chimed in from the right. "I'm afraid they're a bit brutish." A man in ornate, flowing robes stood there, casually holding a heavy book.

Then came a voice familiar to them all.

"He is going to be the Master in the future, right? So I figured if you could cheat, so could I. Brought a few reinforcements from the timeline."

Archie turned. Standing there was John, wearing robes identical to the scholar on the right.

"Don't let it go to your head, kid," John said with a grim smirk.

Atropos bared her teeth, her form roiling with dark smoke. "Fools. You think you can stop a god?"

She flew forward, charging straight at John. But the exact microsecond she came within arm's length of him, a heavy, pneumatic hiss cut through the air. A grapple-like dart shot from the mech-knight’s wrist, piercing straight through Atropos’s back and tearing out of her chest.

She stopped, looking down at the steel spike, and laughed. "I'm a god!"

John stepped into her guard, holding a glowing alchemical flask right beneath her face. "No. You're a Fate. And Fates don't decide destiny."

John chanted a sharp, guttural phrase in a language that sounded like grinding stones. Instantly, Atropos’s solid form dissolved into violent, dark smoke, which was violently violently vacuumed into the mouth of the flask. John slammed the heavy cap down, sealing it tight.

As the echoes of the spell faded, the three future knights began to shimmer, dissolving like digital ghosts into the air. John turned and walked toward Archie, but something was terribly wrong. With every step, his face sunk further into his skull. His dark hair turned scraggly, losing its color and bleaching into a brittle grey.

"Well," John gasped, his voice suddenly ancient and raspy. "I don't think there's any use pretending anymore. Looks like you're the Master now."

"Were those... future Brothers?" Archie asked, staring at the empty space where the knights had stood.

"Yes. And before you ask, they were ecstatic to come back and help the Master who rebuilt the Brotherhood. And no—they won't do it a second time." John stumbled, his strength failing. "John, what’s happening to you?" Archie cried, reaching out.

"When Theoden gave me the other half of all knowledge... it satisfied the demon contract," John whispered, coughing weakly. "I became mortal again. That's probably why the old bastard did it. Unfortunately... hundreds of years of age are catching up all at once. But I need to show you something."

John reached out, his withered fingers touching Archie’s forehead.

The world blurred. The clinic parking lot dissolved, replaced by a sun-drenched dirt field. A very young version of John, drenched in sweat, was steering a wooden plow behind an ox.

"That was me, before I met Theoden," John’s ethereal voice echoed in Archie's mind.

A knight in gleaming golden armor rode past the perimeter of the field, his posture regal and proud.

"There’s Theoden," John said. "He was so impressive to me when I was young. He was rich, he could read... and after I saw him kill a demon, I knew I had to be part of the Brotherhood."

The scene shifted violently. The bright field became a damp, torch-lit cavern. A grotesque demon was chained securely to a jagged rock, howling in agony. At a wooden table nearby, a robed Brother sat with a quill, dipping it in ink, while another Brother systematically applied different smoking chemicals to the demon's scaly skin.

"They had figured out that trial and error wasn't the best way to fight," John’s voice explained, laced with old bitterness. "And they thought, what better source of information than your enemy? They didn't want to lose good men just because they didn't know a monster had toxic spit, or that a demon could only be killed by cold iron. So, they tortured the monsters they caught. And they recorded the parameters of their survival."

"John, I already know this part," Archie interrupted, watching the gruesome display.

"Here’s what you don't know."

The cavern vanished, replaced by the rim of a smoking volcanic crater. A young, desperate John was on his knees before a towering, shadow-cloaked entity with burning eyes—Azeal.

"Your soul?" Azeal hissed, his voice like scraping metal. "I can hold your soul..."

"Yes! Just give me a book to show the Brothers that their Book of Knowledge is incomplete! Allow me to show them how to truly fight back!" the young John begged, tears tracking through the ash on his face.

"Deal," Azeal snapped.

In a flash of horrific speed, the demon leaped onto John’s shoulders, literally plunging his clawed hands directly into the young man's skull to forge the pact.

"Foul demon!" a booming voice roared from the lip of the crater.

Theoden stood there, a smoking flintlock pistol in his hand. The ball struck Azeal, blowing the demon backward. "Dirty beast! Brother Atticus, bind the demon!"

Another man rushed forward with heavy, enchanted chains, securing the thrashing Azeal. Theoden dismounted his horse and walked toward John. But there was someone else with Theoden—a small, slender figure in heavy robes who had been riding double on his horse.

"Brother, what deal did you make?" Theoden demanded, looking down at John.

Young John was on his hands and knees, coughing up thick, dark blood. "A book..." he choked out. "A book with real answers. So no more good men have to die..."

"And where is your book?" Theoden asked, his voice cold. "You killed the demon before he finished his work."

"Don't worry, Brother," Theoden boomd "He is still here. He shall answer for his crime..."

"Please, let him finish, Brother!" young John begged.

"Hush, no, Brother. Your immortal soul—your life—is worth more than that."

"No! I can write it down! I can help everyone!" John coughed, blood spilling over his lips.

Theoden stared at him, his expression hardening into something cruel and transactional. "And if everyone had the knowledge... why would they pay us, John?"

Theoden turned his back on the boy. He looked at the slender, robed figure standing by the horse. "Do with him what you will," he said, walking away.

"Wait, Theoden," a female voice called out.

"What now, witch?" Theoden snapped without turning.

"This one had a deal."

"Yeah, well, he should have known better than to consort with demons. End him, as I said."

"I could not, even if I wanted to."

With a slow movement, the figure's hood fell away. It was Atropos.

Theoden rushed back, aggressively pulling her hood back over her face. "Do not show yourself here, woman! You are the goddess of life and death! Now, give him death!"

"No," Atropos replied, her eyes gleaming in the firelight. "As long as the deal remains incomplete, not even I can give him death."

"If everyone finds out what happened here—" Theoden began, panic bleeding into his tone.

"No one will find out."

"He will talk!" Theoden yelled, pointing at John.

"He cannot say what he does not know." Atropos stepped forward, extending a pale, slender finger, and touched young John’s forehead, locking the memories away in the dark.

Gasped air.

Archie slammed back into reality, his boots hitting the gravel of the clinic parking lot. John was standing before him, a gaunt, haggard shell of a man, barely holding himself upright. With a final, agonizing effort, he reached into his rotting robes and pulled forth a massive, leather-bound tome.

"But... I did write it down," John whispered.

He pressed the heavy book into Archie's hands. The second Archie’s fingers closed around the leather, John’s body collapsed inward, turning entirely to white ash that scattered across the pavement in the evening breeze.

The silence of the parking lot was deafening.

Lisa walked up to Archie, her eyes wide, staring at the pile of ash. "Leonard... what's going on? What happened?"

Archie looked down at the ancient book in his hands, then up at her. "Lisa... my name's Archie. But you already know that. Because you can see the future."

Lisa blinked, looking confused. "I can?"

"Yes." Archie gripped the book tight, his jaw setting. "But right now, we’ve got to get to a Brotherhood safehouse."

"No," Lisa said suddenly, her posture shifting, her voice dropping into that chilling, absolute certainty. "Right now, we need to leave. We need to plan. I know exactly where we are going."

Still caked in grime-soaked rags from the flesh-eater fight, Archie marched down the cracked pavement toward the pawn shop. He hadn't even bothered to wash the blood off his hands; he had gone straight to one of the remaining Brotherhood shamans, extracted a location, and tracked down Azeal.

The brass bell above the door chimed as Archie kicked it open.

"Well, now, if it isn't John Junior," Azeal laughed from behind the counter, his eyes gleaming in the dim shop light.

Archie didn't smile. He raised a heavy plastic jug, setting it dead center on the glass counter. "Where’s John?" he asked, his voice a flat, dead monotone.

"I don't know," Azeal replied smoothly, leaning back.

Archie slowly looked around the room, taking in the shelves of cursed relics and stolen history. "You know, Azeal, nobody can come into your shop unless you want them to. You want me here. You want to know what I want..... right now, I want to remodel this place."

Azeal let out a loud, barking laugh. "Holy water? How'd that work out last time?"

"Where is John?" Archie repeated.

"Okay, okay," Azeal stalled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I don't know where John is. And I don't lie, so there you have it."

"Oh, you lie, Azeal. Now, where's John?"

"What, you gonna douse my place in stink water? I told you, I don't know!"

Archie reached up and twisted the cap off the heavy plastic jug. "Yeah. I'd start by remodeling this place with some napalm."

The raw, chemical stench of fuel instantly flooded the small shop, thick enough to burn the throat. Archie flicked open his Zippo, the small flame dancing between them. "Where. Is. John."

"I told you, I don't know!" Azeal pleaded, his composure finally cracking as he eyed the fumes. "Why aren't you going to the address the pretty lady gave you?!"

Archie’s eyes narrowed. "Where's John?"

"The address! If you go there, John will be there, I promise!"

Before Archie could even process the answer, something invisible and monstrous slammed into his shoulders. The force was catastrophic, throwing him backward across the room. The plastic jug flew from his hand, spilling fuel across the floorboards.

Archie went airborne, crashing backward straight through the thick glass of the shop’s front display window. An instant later, a massive gout of orange flame roared out of the shattered storefront as the spilled napalm detonated, completely consuming the shop behind him.

Archie groaned, picking shards of heavy glass off his jacket as he pushed himself up from the pavement. He looked back at the roaring inferno, spit a tooth onto the concrete, and wiped his face.

"I never liked that place anyway," he muttered,

Act I: The Super 8 and the Dopesick Oracle

Archie checked into the Super 8. The Brotherhood may have stripped him of his gear, but he had spent years on the streets learning exactly how to hide emergency cash. After a hot, aggressive shower that finally washed the sewer mud from his skin, he walked out onto the concrete balcony, tracking the room numbers until he found the one scrawled on the back of Holly’s card.

He knocked.

"It's open," a sharp female voice called from inside.

Archie turned the handle and walked in. Well, it definitely wasn't John.

"Just leave my package by the door," the voice called out from the bathroom.

"Umm, I don't know who you're expecting," Archie called back into the dingy room, "but I'm not who you think I am."

"Look, I know I owe you!" the voice screamed from behind the bathroom door, laced with panic. "Just drop my shit and leave!"

"I don't have any shit," Archie said flatly.

The bathroom door swung wide, and a girl stumbled out into the main room. She was wearing a raggedy, oversized nightshirt, her skin deathly pale and glistening with cold sweat. She stopped short, her eyes wide as she stared at him.

"Who are you? Why did you walk into my room?" she demanded.

"I'm Leonard," Archie responded automatically, his street brain locking down his real name.

The girl squinted at him, her body shivering. "Are you from the church? I told them I'm not an addict. Now get me some shit or get the fuck out of here!"

"Shit?" Archie questioned. He knew exactly what she meant, but he needed to hear her say it. He needed to know just how deep in the dirt the Brotherhood's "holy Oracle" actually was.

Instead of answering, the girl collapsed onto the edge of the mattress, curled inward, and violently began to puke into a plastic trash can. She wiped her mouth with the back of a trembling hand, glaring up at him with watery, desperate eyes.

"I'm dopesick, motherfucker."

"Holly sent me," said Archie. "If you could just say I'm a master, everything will be fine."

She continued to puke into the trash can, looked up, and threw it at Archie. "I'm dying and you're on some kinky sex shit!"

"No, that's not what I meant," said Archie, returning the can to her. "I thought you knew Holly."

"Ya, ya." Her eyes seemed to clear slightly. "I know Holly."

"You do?" said Archie, surprised.

"Ya. She owes me some shit."

"Wait," Archie said as the pieces began to click. "Toxic smoke... it makes sense. It does... you're the Oracle."

The Oracle wound herself off the bed. "I can be anything you want, sweetie, just give me a little taste."

"When did you start using?" Archie questioned.

"What is this, some social media thing?!" she screamed, throwing herself back on the bed.

"When?" asked Archie.

"I don't know," she said, her voice dropping into a groan. "I was like five or six."

"Five or six?"

"Look, I'm dying here," she groaned. "I don't know... some lady, she came to the shelter where I was staying. Said she'd give me a place to stay, food, and all I had to do was smoke some stuff with her whenever she came around."

"This woman, what's her name?" Archie asked.

"Some weird shit, man. Atro... A-something. Now give me a hit or get out, this is my room!"

Archie began to cry. He had seen many dope victims before, but she was in a state—a state that always meant death. His tears fell on her.

She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly locking onto his. "You killed the Flesh Eater."

"What did you just say?" Archie said, shocked.

"Nothing... it just hurts. Please call Holly, call anyone."

"I'm not going to let you go back to that," Archie said fiercely.

"You will find the book," she gasped, her body stiffening.

"There we go, concentrate on the book," Archie urged. "What damn book?!"

"The Order restored to its path..."

"What path?"

"Please, just a little..."

"Just trust me. I'm going to find us a ride. I know a place, they'll help. It'll take the edge off."

"Are you crazy? How will she find me?"

"Look, what's your name?"

"Lisa, I think."

"Lisa, you can't keep doing this. I have to go find us a ride, just hold on for me, okay Lisa?"

"No, no, I don't want to go somewhere infested!"

"Shh, shh." He tried to calm her as she started to cry. "It's okay, I took care of the infestation. They are good people, I promise. Don't leave."

"I have to."

She grabbed him, her fingernails digging into his sleeve. "Come back."

"Yes, I promise."

Act II: The Parking Lot and the False God

Archie ran down to the parking lot of the hotel. In his time in the Brotherhood, he had learned that sometimes you had to do dishonorable things. He walked the rows of cars looking for a ride. A minivan maybe? No. A Dodge Charger? Too flashy. A roofer's truck? That was a flashing sign.

There it was, three rooms down: a gold Crown Victoria. Jackpot. Just stand out enough to say I'm not hiding, but just boring enough to not get looked at. He ran up to the car, wrapped his arm up in a motel towel, and busted through the passenger window.

A familiar voice came from behind him. "You know it's going to rain later."

He turned. It was John.

"How did you—" Archie started.

"It's gonna rain later and you're busting out the front window. I taught you better than that."

"How are you here?"

John didn't answer. He seemed to fall, but he just stood there, suspended in mid-air.

Holly walked out from behind him. "Look, it's your old mentor. What you've always wanted," she said.

"Let me guess, we're destined to team up," Archie answered flatly.

"If that's what you want," she answered.

"And Lisa? She stays here, you go give her hits, and she tells you the future—is that the deal now?"

"Dear, she couldn't tell me the future if she wanted to. I am the future," Holly said. "Because most of the time, you knights need a roadmap to find your ass from a hole in the ground, and I can't always spell it out for you. So I used some girl to give them prophecies. She gets what she wants."

"And that was you back at Azeal's place," Archie said, narrowing his eyes.

"No, not me," she said, circling the frozen form of John. She stopped, looking at Archie. "You like the girl," she said, as if the thought had just hit her.

"Ya, but either way, I wouldn't have left her here."

"Have I got a deal for you. It's everything you wanted. You can have Johnny back, you can have Lisa, you can be the next Master of the Order. All you have to do is everything I tell you."

"Won't John know that I cut a deal?"

"John knows what I want him to know," she laughed. "That's why I was mad about you earlier. You were asking too many questions, so I arranged the Flesh Eater attack so maybe you would learn a little humility."

"Humility? You play with all our lives. She was five or six!"

"And I said you can have her. There will always be another girl that can see visions."

"No, this is it. You think what I did to Azeal was over the top? You ain't seen nothing yet." said Archie exiting the car.

Atropos shook her head. "Too bad. I was gonna give you the father, the girl, the order, and even the car if you wanted it. But I am Atropos."

Atropos raised her silver sword. Archie, who had scrambled into the Crown Vic, threw the car into reverse the car skittered backwards, Atropos ripped off the drivers door and jumped on the door frame as archie threw it into drive

"Oh, sweetie, you may want to look forward," he said.

She turned her head. The car was careening right toward John. She flew off the car and grabbed John out of the way. Archie ripped the steering wheel; the Crown Vic slid sideways to a stop, the engine still thumping. Archie stepped out into the rain.

"Why would you do that?!" Atropos screamed. "He was your mentor, it was perfect!"

"Come on," Archie spat. "You brought John all the way here from God knows where... I guess technically you know where. You weren't going to let me smash him."

She held John's body next to her as she floated feet above the parking lot. "I could end you!" she screamed. She lowered John to the ground. John seemed to shake, to vibrate, as he suddenly snapped back to life.

"Kid, she's making the right choices, doing the hard work," John said, his voice rigid.

"See? Johnny knows what's good for everyone. You should joiiiinnnn us," she said, stretching out the word.

"You know what? I changed my mind," Archie growled. "You want to end me? Here I am, you cosmic sack of crap."

Atropos, enraged, flew at Archie. But Archie was ready. He pulled out a small vial of Greek fire and a lighter, throwing it straight onto her and igniting it.

"Nooooooo!"

The voice tearing from her was childlike, laced with absolute menace, as the chemical green flames consumed the illusion. John seemed to snap entirely out of his trance, staring at the charred pavement.

"You killed a god," he said, breathless and surprised. "Do you know what happens now?"

"I hate to tell you," responded Archie, "but it wasn't a god."

"That was Atropos. She had like complete control over me—"

"No, it wasn't. It was Azeal."

"How did you know?" John asked, stunned.

"For one thing," Archie said, walking back to the stairs, "she kept calling you Johnny."

Act III: The 5th Street Paw Clinic

Archie got on the phone while running back up to the room.

"5th Street Paw Clinic, this is Vanessa. How may I help you?"

"Ya, let me speak to Marvin," he said.

"I'm sorry sir, but the doctor is busy—"

"Tell Marvin it's about his infestation problem."

A few minutes later, Marvin picked up the phone. "This better be good, I've got a canine with lacerations in room two."

"Marvin, you said if I ever needed a payback, well, I'm asking. I've got a girl. She needs a place to stay, maybe some meds, and I don't need any questions."

"Is... is she like I was?"

"In a way."

"Get her down here. Take her to the back. Knock shave and a haircut, two bits on the door."

Archie carried Lisa down to the car and laid her across the backseat. Upon seeing John sitting in the front, Lisa bolted upright, her white eyes flashing.

"The book! You found the book! The Order's path—" She collapsed back into the seat, unconscious.

"Book?" John said, confused.

"Ya, she does that," said Archie, slamming the door. "I think it has something to do with the big book you were telling me about."

"Big book?" John questioned.

"Ya, you said the original brothers tortured demons and wrote down all they learned, but that book got stolen."

"I don't know any book, kid, but it's probably in the Master's library," John muttered.

"We'll talk later," said Archie. "Clinic now." He gunned the Crown Vic.

When they arrived, Marvin let them in through the back door. "Okay, close the door. I'll tell my nurses not to come in here," Marvin said, peering through the security looking glass. "But if they see a strange woman in here, I can't guarantee they wont call the cops. What do I need to know about her?"

"I don't know, the Order was giving her something so she could see the future," Archie said. "Actually, right about now, I'd prefer the cops to the Order."

"Don't you guys work for the Order?" Marvin questioned.

"Long story," said Archie. "If you don't trust us, especially don't trust them. Or Holly. Or Azeal."

John looked at Archie quizzically.

"Look, Marvin, can you give her something or not?"

"A sedative, maybe," Marvin said, reaching into his medicine cabinet. "But if she wakes up and wants to go..."

"Fine. If she wants to go, she wants to go."

Marvin administered the shot, and Lisa’s violent tremors finally began to smooth out. He ushered them into a secure back storage room to rest.

But the quiet didn't last. The blue light from John’s tunic didn't just illuminate the cramped storage room; it made the boxes of veterinary gauze cast long, jagged shadows against the concrete walls. The intricate, hand-inked runes pulsing across his skin were humming—a low, physical vibration that Archie could feel in his own teeth.

Wards didn't light up like that unless something massive, old, and incredibly hostile was closing distance.

"John," Archie said, his fatigue instantly evaporating as his hand instinctively went to his empty belt. "How close?"

"Too close," John growled, his eyes locked on the glowing lines tracing down his forearms. "They aren't tracking a soul anymore, kid. They’re tracking a dead Grand Master. Azeal’s fire just went out, and the Order's main grid is lighting up like a Christmas tree to see who pulled the trigger."

"The real Atropos," Archie muttered, his mind racing. "She knows he was off-reservation, and she knows someone just turned him into ash."

Through the door, from the main clinic area, the rhythmic, steady beep of the heart monitor attached to Lisa suddenly spiked into a frantic, erratic gallop.

"Archie!" Marvin’s panicked voice called out from the back room. "The girl—her eyes are rolling back! She's fighting the sedative! The machine is going crazy!"

John threw his flannel back over his shoulders, trying to dull the bright blue glare of the runes, though the light still bled through the fabric like hot coals. He looked at Archie, his face grim. "We don't have time to look for a library. Whatever is coming is going to flatten this block to erase the evidence. We take the girl, we take the Vic, and we move."

"Move where?" Archie asked, stepping toward the door. "We're running out of places that aren't compromised."

"You want the book?" John said, slamming a fresh magazine into his sidearm with a sharp clack. "I don't know where the original is, but I know exactly where Azeal kept his personal vault before he went rogue. It’s a dead drop under the old brewery cellars by the river. If he had a roadmap to the master playbook, it's down there. But we have to get through the next ten minutes first."

From the alley outside, the faint, unmistakable sound of a heavy metal dumpster being dragged across concrete echoed through the walls. The back door of the clinic groaned under an immense, unnatural pressure. Archie threw Lisa back into the Crown Vic, and just as they tore away, she had one more vision, screaming it into the glass:

"When the walls fall, the one who started shall be the one who finishes!"

Act IV: The Trap of the Originals

It wasn't long until the runes actually faded, the brilliant blue light dying out completely.

John looked over at Archie. "Kid."

"John, are we safe?" asked Archie.

"We will never be safe again," John said.

"What do you mean? The wards... they've quit."

"Archie, you're a knight. I don't care what the Master said. Those ceremonies? They don't make you a knight."

"Well, that's nice, John, but we don't have time for a heart-to-heart," said Archie, pulling up to the dark brick fortress of the old Lemp Brewery.

"What you did with Azeal the first time—it's how it was supposed to happen."

"John, we have to get going. The roadmap—"

"There is no map," said John, pulling Archie back into the car.

"So where do we go?"

"I didn't lie, Archie. I didn't know," John rasped, and Archie saw real, heavy tears swell in his mentor's eyes. "There's a difference. I made a deal. I wished for the book."

"Wished for the book? But the original brothers..."

"The originals were blinded by their own need for vengeance," John said. "I should know."

Archie’s breath hitched. "Are you saying... you're an original?"

"Ya, kid. And trust me, after this is over, walk away. Revenge isn't worth it."

"But how?"

"The other brothers, they tortured demons for information. That much was true," John said dejectedly. "But I could tell the demons were leading us to slaughter like goats. They weren't teaching us how to bind them; they were teaching us how to summon. One day, I caught Azeal outside his domain. Instead of turning him over, I made the one deal I thought was worth it. The book. But a real version of it. All the secrets the Brotherhood thought they were getting."

"So then you know how to fix this!"

"No," John cried. "The Order stopped the whole thing. Azeal was digging in my head, putting the book in here, when Brother Theoden shot him. They patched me up, thought I was dying. I told them to let Azeal finish, that the book was important, but they wouldn't."

"So you didn't get the book."

"I tried, kid. But the wards... every time I got close to Azeal, I couldn't remember. I asked Brother Theoden why he wouldn't let Azeal finish." John looked out at the dark brewery caves.

"Because your soul, your life, is important," Archie answered for him.

"No, Archie!" John wept, the first tears Archie had ever seen him shed. "He said with that knowledge, it would all be over. No more control over kingdoms. The Brotherhood would not be needed."

"So what do we do now? I torched Azeal, so we can't exactly finish the deal."

"I don't know."

"What about Atropos? What's her deal in this?"

"She's using the Order like puppets," John said. "She came to us originals, taught us the original rites we use. She's always around, one way or another. She's the one that designed the wards that clouded my memories."

Act V: The Bluff and the Living Storm

They couldn't stay at the brewery, and Archie refused to put Marvin in any more danger. They drove to a local county clinic, leaving Lisa at the emergency intake under a fake name where she would be safe from the supernatural fire in the mundane world.

Then, Archie drove the Crown Victoria straight to the front door of the Order’s safe house. They were going to bluff them into believing John had all his memories back.

The door swung open. "What is the meaning of this?" asked the Master.

"Come on, Theoden," said John, stepping out into the pouring rain. "What magic you been using to live so long?"

"Preposterous!" the Master spat back.

"Oh please, I helped you kill that thing that killed your family back in Poland. Go play to someone else," John said.

"So your memories are intact?"

"Ya," said John, marching forward toward the steps. "I know why I'm still here. But why are you?"

"Back off, John! I am still Master here, and at my command, the entire branch will come forth!"

"You the one that trained 'em? 'Cause I got to tell you, you never were good with a sword," John said, drawing his weapon.

"Enough!" said Theoden. His voice suddenly boomed like a sonic boom, the raw energy knocking John back across the gravel. "Who do you think you are? Boohoo, I sold my soul and didn't get my book," Theoden sneered, descending the steps. "You're immortal as long as the deal isn't complete. You'll live forever."

"Maybe I just wanted that book," John growled. He charged into Theoden, and they both fell to the ground, tumbling in the mud.

"Uhhh, john, maybe we continue elsewhere?" Archie said, looking around anxiously. Several of the surrounding knights had drawn swords and were slowly closing in from all sides.

"Don't worry, kid!" John yelled as he and Theoden continued to wrestle. "Remember, you were trained by an Original! These jackasses were trained by him!"

"Lets, see if you can handle the knowledge you so sorely crave" Theoden reached his hand out and placed it on johns chest. Everyone was suddenly knocked back by a blinding flash of light. John was the first to his feet, holding his sword ready.

"All this... you did all this for what, Theoden?" John spat.

"For power, John! For immortality! I was willing to share with my brothers," Theoden said, climbing weakly to his feet.

"Share? Where are the others?"

"They were not as accepting as I, John. I'm sorry. You were right... they were stuck on vengeance."

John held his sword directly at Theoden’s throat.

"And what are you going to do, John? Kill me?" Theoden sneered. "My deal's not complete. I'm immortal now. You're not."

With a swift, brutal strike, John cut his head off. "Ya, well," John muttered, "I'm all-knowing."

Archie raced up to John just as the other knights fled into the woods, terrified after seeing the Master beheaded. But before they could breathe, a stormy voice arose from above.

"You think you can do this?!"

A living storm cloud descended from the heavens, swirling violently in the courtyard, and there stood Atropos in her raw form. "You think you can derail my plans?!"

"I'm not impressed," John shouted into the gale. "You use little girls. Why? To manipulate stupid knights to play games."

"It's because I am Atropos! You should be worshipping me! I'm in control! ME!" she screamed as she floated in the center of the vortex.

"Well, color me unimpressed," John said. He lunged forward and jumped straight into the cloud.

Words John had spoken during training echoed clearly in Archie’s mind: When the time comes, you’ll know to run.

Archie turned and ran to the Crown Vic, throwing himself inside and tearing the wires together. The V8 fired up. He threw it into reverse and gunned it down the driveway, leaving the storm behind. He was going to get Lisa. But where could they possibly go?

demon time part 4 : r/shortstory

ACT I: THE CAB RIDE

The tires of the battered Cab hummed against the dark, wet asphalt as Archie pulled out into the street. The dashboard lights cast a faint amber glow over his face, reflecting the tight, white-knuckled grip he had on the steering wheel. In the passenger seat, John was hunched over a canvas field bag, meticulously counting out silver spikes and checking the seal on a heavy-duty plastic jug of holy water.

"To Saint Patrick's?" Archie asked, breaking the silence.

"No," replied John flatly, not looking up.

Archie glanced at him, the frustration he’d been holding in all night finally bubbling to the surface. "John... you knew, didn't you?"

"Knew what? That he fed us a generic nursing home name?"

"No. That he could escape whenever he wanted to."

John blew out a slow, heavy breath, his shoulders dropping. "Your average spook can't do that. Yes, I knew Azael was not the average. But there was still a chance."

Archie didn't argue. He automatically pointed the hood of the cab toward the Brotherhood safe house, the engine whining slightly as he accelerated.

"John, I do appreciate everything the Brotherhood has done for me," Archie started, his voice quiet against the rumble of the floorboards. "I’ve seen how they treat some rescues—just leaving them behind in the dirt. And I am grateful you gave me my shot with Azael tonight, but..." The words caught in Archie’s throat, choked by the memory of the demon's greasy pawn shop.

"Ask it," John demanded, his voice gruff as he snapped a latch shut on his bag.

"How do they know?" Archie asked.

"The demons? Various ways. Magic, hoodoo, you know that kind of stuff."

"No, John. The Brotherhood. How do they know how to handle every monster out there?"

John finally stopped messing with the bag. "The truth is a book."

"Yeah, yeah, they read books," Archie sighed, shaking his head. "But that knowledge has to come from somewhere—"

"No, The Book," John interrupted, his tone turning dead serious. "Like, as in the big, big book."

Archie blinked. "The Bible?"

"No," John said. "The original brothers. They interrogated the demons before they banished them. They wrote it all down. Every weakness, every name, every pattern."

"So... can I see it? Can I see The Book?" Archie's eyes lit up with a sudden, desperate hope. "Maybe there's a way to get another crack at Azael. I mean, you guys always use this book to find them—the clues, the signs."

"They don't have it," John said flatly.

The cab drifted slightly across the yellow line before Archie caught himself and corrected the wheel. "What?"

"Look, kid, I don't know what happened and frankly, I'm happier that way," John said, turning his head to look out the dark passenger window at the passing streetlights. "But The Book got taken by some demon thirty years ago. We work from memory."

Archie stared at the side of John's face in absolute disbelief. "Wait... they lose the book of all knowledge and they don't care?"

"That's about the long and short of it."

"When did they lose it?"

"About thirty years ago," John repeated.

Archie frowned, doing the math in his head. The numbers clicked into place with an ugly thud. "Isn't that when you joined the Brotherhood?"

"Yes."

"Did you have anything to do with it?" Archie asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Nope," John said, his voice flat and unyielding. "And if I did, I couldn't remember. Azael back there... he was feeding on my memories when they busted in on him."

The revelation hung in the damp air of the cab like heavy smoke. Archie stared at the older man, a sudden wave of genuine empathy breaking through his anger. "John... if you ever want to talk about it..."

Archie reached his right hand across the center console, aiming for John's shoulder. Before he could make contact, John flinched violently, pulling back and slamming his weight against the passenger door.

As John moved, a sudden, heavy wave of heat radiated off his chest. The air in the cab instantly turned suffocating, warped by an unnatural warmth like the space right above a hot car engine.

Archie’s eyes darted down to the older man's chest. "John... the wards. Your shirt is radiating heat."

"They're just reacting to the wards around the safe house," John snapped defensively, his jaw tight as Archie guided the cab down the concrete ramp into the dark, underground garage.

Archie didn't drop it. He brought the car to a slow crawl, looking directly at his mentor. "I'm serious, John. I'm not here for you just because of the Brotherhood. I've been there. I owe you."

"Forget it."

Before the cab even came to a complete stop, John popped the door latch and bailed. His heavy boots hit the gravelly concrete while the car was still rolling. He hoisted his canvas bag over his shoulder and marched toward the heavy basement door without a single glance backward.

"Okay then, great talk!" Archie yelled through the waving, wide-open passenger door, throwing his hands up in the empty car. "Then I'll just park and fuck myself!"

ACT II: THE BASEMENT AND THE LIBRARY

Archie slammed the passenger door shut from across the seat, threw the cab into reverse, and parked it precisely in the next available slot in a long, eerie row of identical, beat-up sedans. He grabbed his own gear bag, climbed out, and marched toward the reinforced basement entrance.

A heavily armed guard stepped out of the concrete shadows, blocking the doorway. "Password."

"Bullshit, you know me," Archie said, letting his bag drop heavily against his leg.

"Kid, we aren't sure what you are right now," the guard replied, his face completely blank. "You just tangled with Azael. He might have done anything to your mind. Password."

"Bullshit," Archie spat, trying to shove past the man's shoulder. "You let John pass through!"

The guard didn't budge an inch, his hand resting casually near his holster. "And if you don't know the password, you can sleep in the cab."

Archie ground his teeth, feeling the sting of the rejection. "Fae rose," he muttered.

The guard stepped aside. "Have a blessed day."

"Hope you're happy," Archie growled, snatching up his bag and pushing into the damp, cold stairwell.

He didn't make it ten steps into the corridor before a soft, pulsing light drifted out of the darkness, hovering directly in front of his nose.

"Where's John?" Archie asked, wiping a streak of garage grease from his forehead.

The light vibrated violently. “You are needed in the library,” a voice echoed through the hallway, sounding exactly like a bow being dragged sharply across violin strings.

"Oh, come on," Archie groaned, crossing his arms. "You're a trapped spirit the Brotherhood uses as a tour guide. I'm Brotherhood." He yanked back his sleeve, exposing the dark, intricate tattoo etched into his forearm. "You work for me. Where is John?"

The violin voice vibrated again, entirely unimpressed by the ink. “The library is the third door on the left. Follow me.”

"I'm not going—" Archie started.

But before he could turn around, a cold, invisible force wrapped around his chest like a winch line, physically dragging his feet down the hallway and throwing him right against the third door on the left.

The door swung open, and Archie stumbled inside.

The library was massive, curving into a perfect, dizzying circle where every single inch of the towering walls was crammed with ancient books. In the center, a chaotic iron staircase rose straight up into the heights, with skeletal metal catwalks extending outward to the shelves at every floor. High above, a massive stained-glass skylight filtered the moonlight into fractured colors.

Tucked behind the base of the staircase was a massive, scarred wooden desk. Sitting behind it was a heavy-set man with a long, sweeping gray beard and a completely bald head.

"Did you get your revenge?" the old man asked, keeping his eyes on a ledger.

Archie leaned against a structural pillar, his voice dripping with venom. "Read any good books lately?"

The man’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with authority. "Look here. I am Master of this branch. I choose who hunters are and what they do. You will watch your tone, and you will watch your accusations."

Archie swallowed his pride, lowering his chin just enough to play the part. "Sorry, Master. I only meant that... I know you read to keep up on the signs."

"That’s better," the Master said, his voice settling back into a low rumble. "Did you get your revenge?"

"No, Master. I failed."

"Why did you fail?"

"Azael. The holy water didn't take away his magic."

"It's not the holy water," a sharp, female voice interrupted.

A woman stepped out from the deep shadows behind the Master's high-backed chair. She was immaculately dressed, her eyes cold and analytical. "It's your faith," she finished.

Archie looked her up and down. "Who are you?"

"Who she is is need-to-know, and you—" the Master began.

"—let me guess," Archie cut in, his jaw tightening. "I don't need to know."

The woman walked around the desk, ignoring the attitude. "I am Holly Avasale."

"Avasale Real Estate," Archie guessed, recognizing the corporate titan behind half the commercial properties in the city.

"Yes," Holly said with a sharp, bloodless smile. "And years ago, your Brotherhood rescued me and my sisters from an incubus. I've used my empire to keep the lights on, so to speak."

"We value your donations," Archie responded sarcastically.

Holly’s smile vanished. "You'd do well to think, Archibald. It's not just my donations. I've read the books. I've done the rites. Had you possessed more faith, the holy water would have neutralized Azael."

"And it is with that," the Master interrupted, slamming his palms flat onto the desk as he stood up, "that I must consider expelling you from our holy order."

The snap inside Archie was instantaneous. He stood up straight, matching the old man's posture. "Fine. Just let me talk to John first."

"NO!" shouted the Master, his face flushing red. "You do as you are told! That is faith. That is how you gain entry to our ranks once again! No knights have ever had a relationship like the two of you—and with good reason. You were so young when we found you, you needed a mentor. But ultimately, it clouds your thinking. It makes you soft."

"Now, now, Master," Holly chided softly, laying a manicured hand on the old man's shoulder. "He is but a boy. A boy playing a man's role. Another chance is in order... an act of faith."

The Master sighed, bowing his bald head to her. "So it is, Miss Avasale. What do the books say?"

Holly stepped toward Archie, her eyes locking onto him with chilling intensity. "He shall be outfitted in the manner of a pauper," she recited, quoting the ancient penance from memory. "Covered in grime, and left in the place of offal for thirty days and thirty nights. Then shall come unto the faithless knight an eater of flesh. If he survives, and brings us a trophy from this eater of flesh... he may return, and be cleansed."

Archie stood there, completely unimpressed. "Can I talk with John now?"

"NO!" the Master roared.

Archie forced his shoulders to drop, trying to look submissive, playing the part they wanted to see. "And once I bring you this trophy... then I get to see John?"

"Then you will know better," the Master corrected sharply.

ACT III: THE PLACE OF OFFAL

They didn’t let him pack a bag. They didn't even let him keep his boots.

By the time the Brotherhood’s enforcers were done with him, Archie was stripped down to a pair of tattered, oversized rags, his skin smeared with soot and street grime. They dragged him down to one of the city's massive storm drain overflows, shoved him into the damp, echoing concrete pipe, and locked the iron grate behind him.

By night twenty-eight, Archie was a ghost of himself. His ribs were showing, his bare feet were cut and infected from the cracked concrete, and his mind was a hyper-vigilant blur of exhaustion. He sat huddled in a recessed junction box where two major sewer lines met, his knees pulled tightly to his chest to stay out of the freezing water.

A splash echoed down the dark tunnel.

Archie’s eyes snapped open. Slowly, quietly, he shifted his weight against the slimy concrete wall, positioning his legs. He knew how to survive the streets, and getting shaken down or cornered by anyone was a good way to end up dead.

A figure slowly materialized out of the shadows. It looked like an old, hunched-over homeless man, shuffling through the ankle-deep sludge.

The man stopped right at the mouth of the junction box. "Hey, you got some food?"

"No, I begged earlier. I just couldn't get anything," Archie said, his voice flat with exhaustion. "It's been a day or so for myself."

"Come on, everyone always saves a little bit," the man insisted, stepping closer, his shadow looming large over Archie.

Archie growled, rolling over away from the guy to try and salvage his nap. "Leave me alone, old man."

"Oh, you're so young. Tender, even," the man whispered. A sickening drop of drool splashed into the muck. "You must have someone who cares about you."

"No, I don't," Archie snapped, keeping his back turned but his muscles coiled. "If I did, I wouldn't be laying down in the sewer."

"Oh, no one?" the old man tsked. "Perhaps you could use a little pick-me-up."

The phrase confused Archie. "No. No drugs, old man. Just leave."

Suddenly, the old man bent forward impossibly fast. His heavy coat ripped violently down the seams, flying off into the sludge to reveal a nightmare. Only the top half was an old man; the bottom erupted into the bulbous, bristling body of a giant, jet-black spider.

"Come on... just a little nip," the creature hissed, its human jaw unhinging to reveal a pair of massive, dripping mandibles.

Archie didn't hesitate. It was the only move he had. He threw his leg out and kicked hard, driving his bare, mud-caked heel right into the creature's human groin.

The drider sucked in a sharp, wheezing breath, its multi-faceted eyes widening in pure shock. Stunned and wheezing, the monster reeled back, its spider legs scrambling for purchase on the slippery walls. Archie didn't waste a second. He scrambled backward through the freezing muck, sprinting down the dark pipe.

"Come now," the creature hissed, recovering instantly and clicking furiously through the tunnel behind him. "You're really going to make me work for it? I've been hunting you for days, and you want to run? I can move through these tunnels faster than you."

From the dark mouth of an open junction ahead, Archie’s voice echoed back. "So, you're the flesh-eater."

The creature scuttled forward, moving with horrifying, unnatural speed. "Not many call me that. Wait... how did you know?"

"I was sent here to find you!" Archie yelled from further down the line. "You weren't hunting me. I was hunting you."

"I don't sense any of those cursed knights around here," the monster sneered. "So, looks like you took a wrong path, boy."

The tunnel suddenly terminated into a sharp T-junction. Right above the intersection, a heavy iron street grate let down a square of faint, grey city light. Archie was standing directly beneath it, seemingly cornered and cowering in the illumination.

"Nowhere left to go," the creature hissed. It coiled its massive spider legs and jumped, launching its heavy thorax straight at him.

Archie didn’t flinch. He reached out and yanked a thick, braided rope that had been hidden entirely by the shadows of the concrete ridge.

With a metallic screech, the massive iron street grate—which Archie had spent the last twenty-eight days loosening from the asphalt above—came crashing down like a guillotine. It caught the creature perfectly mid-air, slamming it down into the sludge and pinning its heavy thorax to the concrete floor with a bone-crushing CRACK.

Archie stepped out of the spray of dirty water, looking down at the thrashing nightmare. "Told you. I’ve been hunting you."

The creature spat a glob of black, acidic venom, narrowly missing Archie's bare feet. "You only got one of me," the thing wheezed, its human face contorting in agony. "Now you're marked. My kin will come for you."

The drider underdog shuddered violently, its legs scraping uselessly against the brick as it tried to heave the iron grate off its back. Archie calmly walked a circle around the pinned monster, inspecting it. He stopped right by one of the thick, bristling front legs.

"You won't mind if I borrow this, will you?" Archie said.

Before the creature could answer, Archie planted his foot on the joint and pulled upward with all his weight. A sickening pop echoed through the tunnel as he snapped the leg clean off.

"MARKED!" the creature screamed, the sound echoing up through the street level.

Archie didn't look back. Slinging the giant, hairy spider leg over his shoulder like a trophy, he turned around and began the long, muddy march back toward the sewer entrance where the Brotherhood had left him.

ACT IV: THE TOXIC TRUTH

Archie shoved the heavy wooden blockade aside and kicked open the basement door, marching directly toward the library. His body was shaking, his skin caked in layers of dried sewer filth, and the heavy, bristling drider leg was balanced precariously over his shoulder.

Suddenly, the floating spirit light zipped out of the darkness, hovering aggressively in front of his face. “The library is closed,” the violin voice vibrated, the strings sounding fast, high, and panicked. “The library is closed!”

"Move," Archie growled. He threw the heavy door open, storming into the circular room. He marched straight up to the massive wooden desk and slammed the severed, hairy monster leg onto the polished wood with a wet thud.

"One trophy," Archie said blankly, his breathing ragged.

The high-backed leather chair behind the desk slowly rotated around. But it wasn't the bald Master sitting in it. The upper torso of a grotesque drider sat perched on the cushion, its mandibles clicking as a sickening grin split its human face.

"And one meal for me!" the creature laughed, its massive spider legs vaulting over the back of the chair as it lunged straight across the desk at his throat.

"Archie! Archie, snap out of it!"

The nightmare shattered.

The creature vanished. Archie blinked hard, realizing he was flat on his back on the cold floor of the library. The high-backed chair was empty. The Master was kneeling right over him, his face tight with annoyance as he lightly slapped Archie's cheek to wake him up.

"You're a drider!" Archie shouted, scrambling backward on the floor, his hands clawing at the stone.

"No, no. Calm down, boy," the Master commanded, standing back up and smoothing down his robes. "It was the venom."

"The venom?" Archie repeated, shaking his head to clear the fog. His eyes darted to the desk. The real, physical spider leg was sitting right there, dripping dark fluid onto the ledger.

"Yes, the drider venom," the Master said, walking back around his desk. "Had you been given access to our tools, you would have known about its properties. Apparently, you weren't exposed to much, but it causes severe hallucinations. Now... I must make my decision."

"Decision?" Archie asked, sitting up on the floor and wiping cold sweat from his forehead. "One trophy. One admittance back to the club. That was the deal."

"The deal was thirty days and thirty nights," the Master corrected sharply, looking down his nose at him.

Archie scoffed, gesturing to the desk. "Okay, so that thing had lousy timing! But you got your trophy, and I got my mind completely messed with."

"You should have run," the Master said firmly.

"Run?" Archie questioned, his jaw dropping.

"Held out," the Master finished, his voice unyielding. "Thirty days and thirty nights. That was the passage. If you had true faith, you would have found a way to keep it chasing you."

"So, you're telling me you're gonna mess with my memory, make me forget the Brotherhood, and then leave me on some park bench?"

Before the Master could answer, Holly Avasale stepped out from a dark corner of the library, the heels of her shoes clicking sharply against the stone floor. "Surely, Master," she began, her tone smoothly diplomatic, "we can make an exception for his efficiency."

"Miss Avasale, you know the passage as well as I," the Master corrected sharply, narrowing his eyes. "Thirty days and thirty nights."

"I also know efficiency," Holly replied smoothly, crossing her arms. "And I know that sometimes the old passages do not need to be taken so literally."

The Master’s face flushed. "Miss Avasale, I have had quite enough of your advice."

"Oh? Then you want to live strictly by the letter of the law?" Holly's voice dropped, laced with a venomous sweetness. "Because I believe Brother Theodus wrote that the taking of gold is the taking of evil into one's life. So... maybe I should stop giving you the gold."

The Master froze, his bald head glistening under the stained-glass skylight. He slowly backed down, clearing his throat and stroking his long gray beard as he walked back to his heavy chair.

"In light of Miss Avasale’s... deep knowledge of the scripture," the Master said, trying to salvage his dignity, "I have decided to give you a chance." He looked up into the vast, circular emptiness of the room. "The Oracle," he said, as if speaking to the air itself.

Archie blinked, wiping a layer of dried sewer grime from his face. "The Oracle? Like... the blankly staring Roman lady sitting over a pit of toxic gases telling the future? That Oracle?"

"Well, not that one," the Master laughed, a hollow, humorless sound. "The Oracle is a position, not just a single person. Find the current Oracle. If she shall see your future as a knight, then I will not stand in the way of providence."

ACT V: THE LINES OF DESTINY

Holly walked Archie out of the library, the heels of her designer shoes making a sharp, rhythmic clack against the cold concrete corridor. She reached into her coat, pulled out a sleek, embossed business card, and pressed it into his grime-stained hand.

"The Brotherhood may not believe that a supplied hero is a worthy hero," she said, her voice smooth and measured. "But there are some of us who believe differently."

Archie looked at the card, then back up at her, his eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

"Holly Avasale. Have you not seen the public buses?" she answered, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.

"No, I mean... no one can control the Master like you," Archie accused, his voice dropping as they approached the exit. "He’s like your puppet. And ten minutes ago, you wanted me thrown out of here. Now you're fighting for me. Why?"

"The Master knows who pays his retirement," she answered simply, pushing open the heavy exit door. "And as for who I am... if I were a monster, Archibald, the safe house wards would have lit me up the second I walked in."

"You have him on a string," Archie muttered, watching her step across the threshold. "Like a string of fate."

Holly stopped, letting out a sharp, genuine laugh. "No, no."

"What's a Fate doing with the Brotherhood anyway?"

"Kid, I've seen your future," Holly said, her tone suddenly turning dead serious as she looked back over her shoulder. "You will be a Master one day. But you can't keep asking for a peek behind the scenes."

And with that, Holly turned and walked out the door.

Archie blinked, intending to follow her out to the garage, but the moment her foot hit the asphalt of the parking lot, she was completely gone. No engine starting, no footsteps fading—just empty air where a billionaire real estate mogul had been standing a millisecond before. What she had walked into, Archie couldn't tell.

He stood alone in the dim light of the exit, shivering in his tattered rags. Slowly, he looked down at the business card in his hand.

It wasn't a corporate office address. Scrawled on the back in elegant, looping cursive was a room number and the address to a rundown Super 8 motel on the edge of the city.

demon time part 3 : r/shortstory

"The trick is to show confidence, Archie," John chided.

"John, I—I know," Archie responded as he drove the cab down the alley. "You've told me a million times. Demons can't affect you until you show fear."

"No," said John. "You don't have to show it. They'll know if you have fear. They'll know."

John began searching through his canvas bag. "You got your silver?" he asked.

"John, for the last seven years I've been driving you around, putting up with all the shit we go through. You promised this one is personal. Azael took my parents. You've known where he is this entire time. You either take me with you or I'll go on my own."

John sighed as he finished organizing his bag. "Alright, kid. I just don't want you to slip up on me."

"I'm not a kid, John. I'm twenty."

"You're not old enough to drink. You're not old enough to get into the voodoo bar."

Archie parked the car. "I'm old enough to walk into a fake pawn shop and take out a demon."

"Fools rush in," John chided. "I've been sidelined for ten years, John. Ten years," continued Archie. "Homeless on the street. Ten years. For the first three, I hunted these things by myself."

"Yeah, and if the Brotherhood hadn't busted into that vampire's nest, you'd still be a suck-bag for some fanger." John looked at Archie with a serious gaze. "You're good. You've done good. But the Brotherhood has been doing this for longer than you've been alive. We promised you that you will get your chance, I really do. But take it slow."

They departed the cab and walked across the dirty parking lot. Somehow, impossibly, the parking lot seemed to grow dirtier as they walked—overgrown grass, grime, broken pieces of something unidentifiable, and old cigarette butts.

John patted the flannel he was wearing. "You got your tunic on?"

"Yes, dad," Archie retorted. "So thick a fang can't break through."

"And warded," said John. "That door has capture wards. If we just walked in with no protection, we'd be Azael's meal."

"But won't he know we're coming?" asked Archie.

"Trust me," said John. "He wants us to come. He wants us."

They approached the door, and a big man stepped in front of them from the inside. "Shop's closed."

"Closed?" asked John. "It's not even 5:00 PM."

The man cracked his neck and cracked his knuckles. "Well, it's closed to you."

John quickly snuck his arm around the man and pressed his silver cross into his back. In response, the big man simply picked John up.

"I'm human, jackass. Your Brotherhood tricks don't work on me," the man growled, slamming John right back to the ground with force. "Azael said to let you walk alive, but maybe I don't agree."

"Easy, big boy," said Archie, stepping between the stumbling John and the big man.

"You ain't big enough to try me," said the man.

"Speaking of trying," said John.

As Archie stepped out of the way, it revealed John standing there with a taser ready. He fired, tasing the big man, who immediately collapsed to the floor, twitching.

"You know, that trick isn't very honorable," Archie said as he retrieved the taser probes from the guy's jacket.

"Yeah, but it opens the door," replied John.

They stepped over the thug's body, opening the inner door.

"John... John..." came a voice that could be described as menacing and childlike at the same time. "John, you're lucky I deactivated the wards. But do mind my employees next time."

On cue, the big thug got up and walked through the door behind them. "Ain't no cameras in here," he said, cracking his knuckles.

"That's enough," came the childlike voice. "They're in. Go back to your post. And I'm cutting your wages in half."

"Not my money," the man muttered.

And that's when Azael revealed himself. Standing about four feet tall, he walked out from the back room. He looked mostly human, but yet not at the same time. Not only was he short, but he had a prominent potbelly, his fingers ended in jagged claws, and his face looked as if someone was trying to make a bad parody of a real human face.

"Your money?" Azael glared.

The big man suddenly started to choke, gasping violently until he coughed up a single gold coin.

"Your money is better than your life," Azael hissed.

"No, sir. No," said the thug, quickly handing the coin back to Azael.

"Good. Then go back to your post." The man quickly ran out the door.

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny," Azael chided, turning to John. "Do you really think you can just walk into my shop if I don't want you to?"

"That's the thing, Azael," John said as he walked over to the glass counter. "I knew you wanted me to."

"Oooh, came here to browse, did we, Johnny?" asked Azael, following him on the other side of the counter.

As he stared into the display case, John began to look at several items.

"I'm not giving you a discount," Azael said.

John instantly grabbed Azael by the back of the head, slamming his face hard into the glass. "Oh, come on. A little discount between old friends, Azael. What do you say?"

"Not polite, John. Not polite," tsked Azael.

"Well, unless you tell me how to get the bones of a martyred saint, it's going to get real impolite."

Suddenly, Azael appeared all the way over at the entrance to the back room, completely unharmed. John looked down; he was forcefully pushing his own fist into the empty glass counter.

"Johnny," said Azael. "I may be renting here, but it's still my domain."

"Stop trying to play cute for the kid," John replied, while Archie slowly backed into the corners of the shop, watching everything.

"Bring a new customer, John?" Azael purred.

"Leave him alone, Azael. Bones of a saint—cough 'em up."

"Take a number, John," responded Azael. "I have a customer."

With a harsh snap, a black iron cage sprang into existence around John, trapping him. Inside the cage was a red, deli-style ticket dispenser.

"And who do we have here?" Azael asked, walking over to Archie.

"Don't listen to him!" John chided from behind the bars.

"Archibald," Archie responded.

"Archie, Archie, Archie... do I have something you want?" Azael asked.

"You do. And I'd like to get it very much right now," said Archie, rising to his full height.

"No rush, my boy. Come to my counter."

"Show me what you have," said Archie, standing at the counter.

"Don't be stupid, Archie!" John called out.

"Johnny, one customer at a time. My house, my rules." Azael reached up to a shelf and pulled down an old Victrola phonograph. "Here we have it."

"How's it work?" asked Archie.

"You wind it up and it plays a song. After you hear the song, you can play it on any instrument, and anyone hearing it will think you are the best musician ever."

"So what, it makes me a good singer?"

"Well, how do you think The Thong Song got popular?" Azael grinned.

John struggled with the bars. "Yeah, and where is Sisqo at these days?!"

"John, please stay out of other folks' business," Azael sighed. "So, if you don't want to be a performer, perhaps this?" Azael pulled out an old Polaroid camera. "This will keep you away from all that sex, drugs, and rock and roll."

"How's it work? I take someone's picture and I own them?"

"Not so trite, my boy. You see something you like—a house, a car, a stack of cash—you take a photo of it, and when the picture pops out... boom. That object is yours."

"Archie, remember your parents! Don't do it!" begged John.

"John, last warning. Be quiet," said Azael. "But you do have a point. Archie here is a repeat customer, of sorts." He looked closely at Archie. "You don't want this junk. You want something special. A phonograph that makes sound painful, a camera that creates your dreams but then makes them disappear... that's for noobs. You... you need something special."

"Something special. You're right," said Archie. "Now give it to me."

Azael fished through a few items to pull out a bottle of perfume. He spritzed the air and took a big inhale. "Ahhhh. Now this is for you."

"What, I'll smell irresistible?" asked Archie.

"No, my boy," said Azael. "Hasn't he taught you anything? You spray the perfume—just the tiniest molecule—and breathe it in, and suddenly your happiest memory becomes real... until the perfume fades."

Archie broke. Grabbing at Azael across the counter, he shouted, "You took my parents and you offer me memories?! I want my parents! Don't you have some kind of thing here? A rocking chair they magically appear on? I don't care the cost!"

"Now, now, mate. I can't retrieve a sold soul. But I can still fill your bill."

"Yeah? With what?"

Azael scrambled through a few shelves. "Ahhh, right here!" He returned with a stamped, tin toy ray gun.

"Very funny. What does this do, kill me?"

"My, no, my boy. Tell me, when did your parents depart the mortal plane?"

"You mean when did you take them. When I was ten."

"And how old are you now?"

"I'm twenty. That's right—ten years you owe me."

"So, did your father ever teach you to drive?"

"No... but what's that got to do with—"

Azael put the toy ray gun directly to Archie's head and clicked it.

Suddenly, Archie was in a car. His father was in the passenger seat.

"Slow down for this turn, son," his father said as the station wagon slid into a stop sign. "Son, you'll never get your license this way."

Azael snapped his fingers, breaking the illusion. "See? I can't bring them back, but you can have all the memories you should have had."

"I suppose... I have to give you something of mine to bind my soul to it," Archie asked.

"Yes! That's the way this works," Azael said, salivating.

Archie put his backpack on the counter. "I got something for you."

"Well, let me have it!" said Azael.

"Not so fast." Archie pushed Azael's hand back from the pack. "First, I want the gun."

"When I get the item, the gun is all yours," Azael responded.

Archie unzipped the pack.

"No! Don't be stupid, kid! We trained you!" John rattled the bars.

Azael turned to him. "John, will you buzz off? After I'm done with him, we will have our time."

Azael turned back to Archie, only to get a face full of liquid.

"Sorry," Archie said. "All I have is holy water."

"Burns! It burns! By Satan, it burns!" Azael cried, clutching his face.

His concentration broke, and John's cage immediately dissipated into red sparks. John leaped over the counter and jumped on Azael, pinning him to the floor. He held a large jug of holy water directly above the demon's face.

"For a minute there, you had me going, kid," John said.

"I know what happens if I make a deal with this thing," Archie replied.

"Okay, Azael. About those bones," John asked.

"That won't kill me, and you know it!" Azael sneered.

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure it really hurts," John said, letting a little liquid splash onto Azael.

"Alright! Alright! They are at St. Patrick's Nursing Home! Hidden... hidden under the prayer altar!"

"Good boy, Azael. See how easy it is to please a customer?"

"I do, John," replied Azael.

Archie tapped John on the shoulder. "My turn." He kneeled next to Azael. "Bring my parents back, or you get another bath."

"Told you, kiddo... I can't. I don't lie about the rules," Azael said.

"Okay, John. Drown him."

John poured more holy water on Azael.

Azael screamed, "Can you not?! I already told you!"

"Well, too bad. We're going to keep doing it until I believe you," Archie said. "Keep going, John."

John splashed more holy water on Azael.

"What's it going to be, Azael? Am I opening a second jug, or are you feeling generous?"

"John, I was generous to you because of our arrangement," Azael hissed, his voice suddenly cold and deep. "But now I'm aggravated."

And with that, Azael was completely gone.

Archie looked at John. "What happened? I thought holy water kept him from using his power?"

"It's supposed to," John said. "Sometimes a demon can fight through it if they are angry or scared enough."

Suddenly, alarms blared all over the shop.

"We got to go!" said John, grabbing Archie.

They ran out and threw themselves into the cab. "What, he set off a burglary alarm?" asked Archie.

"Sort of," John said. "You may want to close your eyes for this."

The shop suddenly became bright—bright in a way that couldn't be described. It was like watching every molecule suddenly go to warp speed and then instantly stop. When the light died, the shop was still there, but it looked completely derelict. The signs were burnt out, no lights were on inside, and there were no products in the window.

Archie looked at the abandoned storefront, shifting the cab into gear. "That's one way to pack up shop."

demon time part 2 : r/shortstory

VI. Frank 52 and the General's Coup

The heavy bunker doors groaned open, and a full battalion of clean, razor-sharp military personnel stood at absolute attention. A three-star general, his chest heavily pinned with medals, stood waiting right at the base of the landing ramp as Gulax's ship settled back into the Nevada hangar.

Gulax stepped out of the ship, his large black eyes instantly narrowing as he looked at the crowd. "Where's Frank?" he demanded.

The general stepped forward, his posture rigid. "Things have changed around here, sir."

"Yes, yes, lovely," Gulax shrugged, completely dismissive. "But where is Frank? I explicitly always request that Frank be the only one here to greet me."

"Like I said, things have changed," the general responded coldly. "Frank is no longer available."

Gulax sighed, a wet, clicking sound. Knowing full well through his ship's real-time sensory uplink that the last Frank had been deleted by the Gerintins outside a Waffle House, he used the moment to test the military's cards. "I knew this would happen. Intergalactic buzzkills went and killed my clone." He muttered a string of alien curses and began aggressively pressing a sequence of glowing buttons on his wrist cuff to crack open the fresh clone vat behind him.

"We must ask that you leave the premises immediately—" the general began, but his voice cut off entirely.

The hangar fell dead silent as a man in a crisp suit walked casually out of Gulax's ship, adjusting his tie.

"Thanks for the tour of your ship, Gulax," Frank said, stepping down the ramp. "And don't worry, I did not take any pictures, just as you requested."

The general’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He spun around, looking between his men and the ramp. "Who the hell are you?"

"Frank," Frank answered simply, straightening his cuffs.

Gulax smiled, a grease-slicked grin breaking open across his gray face. "Frank, these people are intruders. Please deal with them."

Frank didn't hesitate. He smoothly pulled his Grey blaster from his coat pocket, keeping it low, while his other hand reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt. "Security, we have a major breach in the main hangar. A whole group of intruders down here, apparently impersonating high-level military personnel. We are going to have to do a lot better than this, people."

The bunker’s actual internal security forces instantly flooded the hangar, completely disarming the confused general and his battalion based on Frank's unquestioned seniority. They dragged them away in zip-ties.

Once the heavy steel doors slammed shut, leaving the hangar empty again, Gulax turned and looked Frank up and down with an unreadable expression.

"You are not Frank," Gulax stated flatly.

"Yes, I am," Frank responded, putting his walkie-talkie away. "I'm Frank."

"No, you're not the Frank."

Frank scoffed, smoothing his jacket. "Look, you've met a lot of people, and clearly those intruders frightened you, but I am Frank."

"Look, you're a Frank," Gulax corrected, walking a slow, mocking circle around him. "Just not the original. You're more like... Frank 52."

Frank froze. "What? How?"

"Think about it, silly," Gulax chuckled, tapping Frank's forehead with a slippery finger. "Every single time I come to visit, some tragic, catastrophic end happens to the facility and every single person inside it. But you? You magically wake up at your desk in your D.C. office every time. Why? Because the moment the old one dies, I just cook up a fresh new copy of you in the lab using the continuous telemetry data from the pinprick tracker I gave you when we first met. I just drop you right back off."

Frank’s throat went completely dry. "But... why me? Why go through all that trouble for me?"

"Because you were a low-level, completely forgettable functionary when we met," Gulax explained with a greasy grin. "But I know how human bureaucracy works. Your systems run entirely on seniority. I knew if you stuck around long enough, you would naturally rise to absolute top-secret power—power that I could easily manipulate through our beautiful friendship. Think about it: you just had an entire United States army general arrested on a whim, and absolutely nobody questioned you. Why? Because you're the foremost expert. You've been here the longest. You'd be the only one who truly knows if an alien had disguised themselves." Gulax patted him on the back. "Don't worry, I programmed your subconscious to automatically kill anyone who discovers you're a clone. So, no one will ever find out."

A cold, synthetic horror washed over Frank. Instinct took over, and he instantly whipped out his blaster, aiming it directly between Gulax's massive black eyes.

Gulax didn't even flinch. He just rolled his eyes. "Oh, no, you can't kill me, silly. That would be really dumb of me if I messed up that part of the programming. The kill-switch is just for anyone else. You physically can't pull that trigger on me."

Frank’s finger locked up on the guard, completely paralyzed. He dropped his arm, trembling. "What's the point of telling me all this now, then?"

"Simple. The Gerintins completely deleted the last version of you outside a Waffle House," Gulax said, his tone shifting back to business. "And while Grey Command can't legally face them in open warfare, we can absolutely trick them. Those rigid prudes are going to come back to Earth looking for you to get answers about white chocolate and television audio. And when they do..."

Gulax reached out and dropped a heavy, pulsing metallic sphere into Frank’s hand.

"...you'll detonate this thermal device directly in the planet's core. Kaboom. No more Gerintins."

Frank stared down at the device, his voice weak and trembling. "But... I live here. Humanity lives here."

"Technically, you're a clone. I can just remake you again on the next sector over," Gulax corrected lightheartedly.

"But all the people..." Frank whispered.

"Casualties of war," Gulax corrected smoothly, walking back up his ship's ramp. "And honestly, total nuclear casualties are exactly what we've been promising the brass back home for a while now anyway. So really, this should make everyone happy."

With that final thought, the ramp hissed shut, and Gulax lifted off.

VII. The Paradox and The Empire

The Gerintins did return, bringing with them technology to control Earth's weather and communicators that allowed for direct animal communication. And, of course, they demanded to speak to Frank.

Frank met the delegation in their high-end hotel suite. The moment the door clicked shut, the first Geritin ambushed him.

"So. About strawberries," the alien said, leaning in with intense gravity.

"You have significantly bigger problems," Frank answered flatly, adjusting his cuffs.

"No, first we must know how to make light beer glow in the dark," another Gerintin interrupted, clicking a digital tablet.

Frank sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look, guys. I'm supposed to blow up the planet."

The room went dead silent. The aliens exchanged blank glances.

"I do not think you were supposed to tell us that," the lead Gerintin noted.

"Yes, well, I have. And that is a very big problem for you."

The leader looked at his watch, completely unfazed. "Well, the next bus comes in an hour. Can you wait until then?"

Frank blinked, completely thrown off his rhythm. "Bus? What do you mean, bus?"

"Yes, how do you think we traveled here? Intergalactic mass transit buses are highly economical and environmentally sound," the Gerintin explained. "We only use the massive, blinding white starships for first contact to impress people. We were actually thinking about installing a permanent bus stop here on Earth, but if you are going to blow it up..."

"Wait," Frank said, his mind racing. "So all of the Gerintins could theoretically come to Earth?"

"If they wanted to, yes," the leader replied. "And oh, I think they will want to. They desperately want to know what it is about this world that makes your human women go wild."

"Right, well, yeah... but I'm going to blow it up," Frank reminded them.

"But you haven't blown it up yet," the second Gerintin societal inspector countered.

"No, I haven't."

"But you might later, after there are more of us here?"

Frank took a deep breath, leaning against the hotel desk to lay down the trap. "Look. If I wait to blow up Earth until after you have all left... I fail my mission, right?"

The aliens all nodded in unison, completely following the logic. "Agreed."

"And if I haven't blown it up right now, while you are currently standing here... I have also failed."

The delegation looked at each other, deeply impressed by the tactical deduction.

"So that means..." Frank coaxed.

"You cannot blow it up at all!" one of them interrupted triumphantly.

"Exactly," Frank smiled.

The lead Gerintin whipped out a pocket communicator. "Let me call the Supreme Commander. He will know how to process this paradox."

An hour later, Frank was staring at a massive video screen mounted to the suite wall. The Supreme Commander of the Gerintin Federation stared back, his expression a mask of stern, unyielding bureaucracy.

"But you are strictly supposed to blow up the planet when we get there," the Commander barked through the static.

"Correct," Frank said smoothly.

"Well, my central logistics computer says that I should not send anyone to Earth under those conditions," the Commander answered.

"But I haven't blown it up yet, and your scout team is already here safely," Frank countered.

The Commander leaned forward, squinting at a secondary readout. "The computer says you are correct."

"So, if I haven't blown it up now..."

"The computer says you will blow it up later," the Commander insisted.

"But you will all leave later, correct?" Frank pressed. "Well, yes. We are all very busy entities. We cannot just decimate your planet and then hang out in the vacuum of space."

"So if I wait until later, you will already be gone when I blow it up," Frank concluded.

The Commander frowned, tapping a button. "The computer says you are wrong."

Frank leaned in, his voice dripping with mock disbelief. "Who is in charge here, Commander? You, or the computer?"

"Well, I am the Supreme Commander," the alien puffed out his chest, adjusting his rigid uniform. "I checked the brass plaque on my office door twice today."

"Did I not just logically prove to you that I am not blowing up the planet now, nor will I blow it up later when you're gone?"

The Commander paused, staring blankly. "You did."

"So it's settled. All of you are coming to Earth."

"You're right!" The Commander nodded, before pausing with a look of sudden panic. "Wait... if all of us come to Earth, who will tend to our central computers? They require constant organic interaction to maintain the algorithms."

Frank offered a casual shrug. "Humans."

The Commander’s jaw dropped. "You would do that for us?"

"Sure. You come here, and then the human population will take the mass transit buses back to your homeworld to manage the infrastructure. I will stay here and answer every single one of your questions, and our people will be tended to as full Federation citizens. They are legally your computers now, right?"

"Legally our computers..." the Commander murmured, completely sold. "Are you absolutely sure about this, Frank?"

Frank gave a teasing, knowing smile. "Well, you have to come here for me to answer your questions. Look... have you ever heard of non-whitening color-safe bleach?"

The Commander gasped. "What? Bleach whitens! It is in the definition!"

"Not the bleach alternative in Tide," Frank countered smoothly.

"Truth be told," the Supreme Commander whispered, leaning closer to his camera feed, "yesterday my formal uniform shirt had a terrible blue tinge after cycling through the wash. Do you know how embarrassing it is to rule the twelfth sector as Supreme Commander with a blue tinge?"

"Well, come down here to Earth and I'll explain the chemistry of Tide to you," Frank said. "Or, you know, just keep ruling in blue, I guess."

"Fire up the entire fleet!" the Commander yelled to his staff off-screen. "We head for Earth immediately!"

Frank politely excused himself from the room, telling the starstruck delegation to sit down and write out a meticulous list of every cultural question they had.

Once he was alone in the back of a private, soundproof government SUV, Frank pulled out his encrypted subspace communicator and dialed the Nevada bunker. Gulax’s face snapped onto the screen, looking impatient.

"They are here, Gulax," Frank reported.

Gulax blinked, looking around the empty background behind Frank. "And why exactly isn't the planet going boom, then? Why haven't you turned the key?"

"They are all coming," Frank said.

"What do you mean, they're coming?"

"The entire Gerintin population. All of them are currently headed straight to Earth."

Gulax’s large eyes widened with sudden, ecstatic realization. "And then you'll kaboom the entire fleet at once?! Yes! Brilliant, Frank! A total wipeout!"

"Sorry about all your human friends," Gulax sneered, a greasy grin spreading across his face.

"No need," Frank replied coldly. "They won't be here to get vaporized."

Gulax’s smile vanished. "What? What do you mean the humans won't be here?"

"All of humanity is going to the Gerintin system," Frank explained. "To take care of their machinery while they vacation here."

Gulax stiffened, his eyes darting frantically as he did the math. "All of their advanced technology will officially belong to us!"

"Well... to humanity," Frank corrected sharply, a triumphant smirk finally breaking across his face.

"I made you, Frank!" Gulax roared, slamming a fist on his console, his gray skin turning a shade paler. "I blow you up when I get bored! Don't you dare think for a single second that you can play me?"

"Well, I just did," Frank said, leaning back into the leather seat of the SUV. "Humanity gets the galaxy, and you? You have to go back to your shadow government and write up a whole new batch of lies to cover your tracks."

"How long until their fleet gets there?" Gulax hissed through the screen, his dark eyes practically popping out of his skull with rage.

"Two days," Frank responded smoothly, checking his fingernails.

"Don't move, you malicious clone!" Gulax roared, slamming both fists onto his control console. "I'm on my way right now! I'll get there long before them, and I am going to kill you in so many creative ways, you double-crossing piece of meat! You know, there are plenty of other humans on that rock who would be incredibly grateful to be my clone minion!"

Hours later, Gulax’s ship tore into Earth's solar system, dropping out of warp at maximum velocity. But he wasn’t greeted by an empty, quiet void. He was instantly greeted by a sprawling, massive fleet of interstellar vehicles.

Space buses. Huge, clean, blindingly white transit buses.

Before Gulax could even process the absurdity of the visual, the entire lead line of space buses opened fire, lighting up the dark with high-yield plasma cannons.

"Ah! What the—!" Gulax screamed, throwing his ship into a violent barrel roll to dodge the incoming tracking lasers. He frantically engaged his thrusters, running for his life through the inner solar system while desperately hailing Frank's subspace frequency.

Frank's calm face popped back onto his cockpit monitor.

"What the hell is happening down there?!" Gulax shrieked, ducking as a plasma bolt grazed his shields.

"Apparently, they are on Grey Alert," Frank answered casually.

"What?!"

"You know, because you're a Grey," Frank chuckled. "I don't know, it's their joke. They think it's funny."

"But how did they get here so fast?!" Gulax yelled, the deck shaking violently beneath him as a heavy thruster exploded, sending black smoke billowing into his cockpit. "You said two days!"

"Oh," Frank said, putting a hand over his mouth in mock realization. "Two Alpha days. That's about a quarter of an Earth day. Sorry."

Gulax gripped the steering column, coughing through the smoke. "Why... why would you do this?!"

"I must kill anyone who knows I am a clone," Frank stated, his voice dropping all of its humor, replaced by the chilling certainty of his deep-rooted code. "That would be you, and that would be the Gerintins. Now, your specific programming doesn't physically allow me to kill you directly... but the Gerintins aren't exactly bound by your software, are they?"

"Then what?!" Gulax screamed as three more alarms started blaring in unison, the hull buckling under a concentrated barrage from the transit fleet.

"Then I blow them up," Frank smiled, holding up the glowing planetary thermal device. "Once they're gone and you're gone, absolutely no one left alive will know I'm a clone."

Gulax stared at the screen, a bizarre, twisted laugh escaping his throat despite the absolute chaos around him. He leaned back in his pilot's seat as the shields completely collapsed. "Oh... good job, Frank. I guess I finally got my own comeuppance."

"And then," Frank continued, his eyes locked onto the final frame, "I will become the king of the new human empire. And my very first act? We conquer the Greys."

With that final promise hanging in the air, a massive blast of white plasma ripped through the cockpit viewscreen. Gulax’s ship erupted into a spectacular fireball, scattering to cosmic dust just outside Earth's orbit.

Down in the Nevada bunker, Frank slowly lowered his communicator, looking out into the empty hangar. The joke was finally over. It was time to rule.

V. The Intergalactic Prudes Arrive

The main monitor in the bunker flickered violently again. The feed of the Cuban missile tracking map suddenly cut to static before snapping into a direct subspace transmission from Gulax's ship. The alien's face filled the screen, looking genuinely rattled, his large black eyes darting around frantically.

"Gulax? What is it?" Frank asked, stepping toward the screen.

"No, no, no! It’s all ruined, Frank! The rebels!" Gulax shouted over a chorus of alarms blaring in his own cockpit.

Frank’s brow furrowed. "The rebels? Did they take over your government? Did the fake votes get leaked?"

"Worse! They leaked the coordinates of Earth to the Gerintins!" Gulax hissed, throwing his hands up in panic. "The party's over, pal. Hide your toys, burn the paperwork, and as far as the galaxy is concerned, I was never here!"

"What?! Who are the Gerintins? What is going on?" Frank demanded.

"The Gerintins! They are intergalactic prudes, Frank! Absolutely zero sense of humor, rigid bureaucrats, but they can blow away an entire star system in five seconds flat! They're the exact reason Grey Command has to walk such a fine line with spatial law. Take my advice: when they show up, you don't know me."

And with that, the feed snapped to black. Gulax was gone.

The Gerintins did show up. They didn't sneak into a subterranean Nevada bunker or hide behind top-secret protocols. Instead, a blindingly bright, pristine white starship descended gracefully from the atmosphere and landed right on the south lawn of the White House.

They stepped out radiating an aura of supreme, polished benevolence. They claimed they came in peace, bearing gifts of absolute cosmic prosperity.

Frank, as the nation's foremost exo-diplomatic expert, was immediately called in to handle the negotiations. On paper, the Gerintins were an absolute miracle. Within forty-eight hours, they handed over technology that could cure every known disease, grow crops that were ten times more abundant, healthy, and flavorful, and provide addiction treatments that completely eradicated dependency with a single dose.

They didn't want gold. They didn't want territory. All they asked for in return was a single, non-negotiable clause in the treaty: If the Greys ever show up on Earth, any and all deals with them must be refused. Period.

But the Gerintins hadn't just come to Earth to drop off a care package; they wanted to officially welcome humanity into their grand galactic federation. But first, being the ultimate compliance officers of the universe, they needed to inspect the local culture.

Frank took them everywhere. He escorted the tall, pristine alien delegation to Broadway plays, Hollywood movies, and professional baseball games. Finally, they finished off their whirlwind cultural tour at a local Waffle House in the dead of night.

Upon departure, the delegation stood on the rain-slicked sidewalk as a fleet of black government SUVs awaited them. Frank adjusted his trench coat, letting out a sigh of relief, thinking he had finally pulled off the diplomatic coup of the century.

Then, one of the Gerintins turned to him. "Frank," the alien asked, its voice perfectly modulated and devoid of warmth. "Which country should we choose first?"

Frank blinked. "First... first for what?"

"To decimate," the Gerintins responded casually.

Frank’s jaw dropped. "But... the peace treaty! The gifts! The prosperity!"

"You serve waffles twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week," the lead Gerintin stated, pointing a rigid finger back at the yellow neon sign. "That is fundamentally a Grey concept. You have their systemic contamination deeply embedded in your infrastructure. It must be purged. We are thinking Canada first."

"Wait, wait, wait! Why Canada?!" Frank panicked.

"Canada controls the global distribution of maple syrup," another Gerintin explained logically. "Had they been more stringent with their distribution schedule, your population could not physically support a twenty-four-seven waffle paradigm. They are complicit."

"What about Brazil?" a third Gerintin chimed in, looking over his tablet. "I hear they have a carnival there where the populace populates completely naked. That seems highly unorganized."

"No, no, it has to be organized to be a threat," the leader countered. "Canada makes the most bureaucratic sense."

Realizing the entire planet was about to be turned to cosmic dust because of a breakfast franchise, Frank’s survival instincts took over. He reached deep into his suit coat and pulled out a sleek, metallic Grey blaster he’d secretly kept pocketed since his Area 51 days. He leveled it straight at the lead alien's chest.

One of the other Gerintins casually looked away from the argument about Canada and glanced at the weapon. "Oh. We deactivated that."

Frank froze, his finger tightening on the trigger grip. "Deactivated what?"

"That blaster," the alien said with a bored sigh. "We could tell the moment we arrived that you were a Grey-human hybrid. We took the standard electromagnetic precautions."

"I am not a hybrid!" Frank shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. "I am a human! I have normal human parents! James and Julie!"

"No, you're a hybrid," the Gerintin corrected calmly. "Technically a sequential clone, but definitely not human."

"I don't believe you," Frank hissed, his eyes wide. "And I believe this blaster will work! Pew! Pew!" Frank yelled, mimicking the sound effect out of pure adrenaline as he squeezed the trigger.

And with that, Frank was just... gone. No flash of light. No dramatic explosion. No smoke. Just an immediate, empty space where Frank had been standing a millisecond ago.

The lead Gerintin blinked, looking at the empty sidewalk. He turned to the alien next to him. "What did you do that for? You just got rid of our guide."

"He pulled a blaster on me," the second Gerintin defended himself.

"Yeah, but it didn't even work! We literally just said we deactivated it."

"Yes, well, if we're going to destroy the planet anyway, why does one single clone matter?"

The first Gerintin crossed his arms, looking deeply annoyed. "Because he was right in the middle of explaining chocolate to me!"

"What's to explain? It tastes good."

"No, but what is the actual difference between white chocolate and dark chocolate?"

"Different plants, probably," a third alien guessed, climbing into the back of the SUV.

"I was going to ask him about the television at the hotel, too," the lead Gerintin grumbled, following him inside.

"What about it? We have superior intergalactic video communication."

"No, but the human television has picture-in-picture. So, does it also have sound-in-sound? How do they listen to both channels?"

The leader of the delegation held up his hands to quiet the cabin. "Fellows, let us not argue. The creature was merely a clone."

"Yes, but he was a very useful guide."

The lead Gerintin stared out the window at the glowing Waffle House sign, tapping his chin in deep bureaucratic thought. "The answer is simple. We leave. The Greys will inevitably come back to check on their investment, they will realize he's missing, and they will create another clone to manage the site. Then, we simply come back here. Boom. All of our questions answered."

The rest of the delegation nodded in unison. "Yeah," they agreed.

"Good plan," the driver said, putting the vehicle in gear. "Because honestly, I'm dying to know why they eat tomatoes when they are so clearly poisonous."

https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstory/comments/1ueyhxw/fallacy_of_frank_part_4/

III. The Civilian Breach & The Vacation Reveal

They sat back in the secure Nevada conference room. The main wall monitor displayed a live global tracking map highlighting a fleet of Soviet ships steaming steadily toward Cuba.

"Oh," Gulax said, pointing at a blinking red cluster on a secondary radar screen. "Shouldn't you handle that?"

"We are," Frank said, rubbing a hand over his face. "That's what I’ve been asking you. How do we handle Cuba? Kennedy is cornered, the military wants to strike—"

"No, not Cuba," Gulax corrected. "The civilians headed here."

Frank frowned. "What? There are no civilians for miles. This is a restricted military grid."

"No, there wasn't," Gulax said with a sickeningly casual grin. "But I’ve been broadcasting an 'accidental' emergency beacon from my ship. And I'm sure it won't take long for those... what do you call them? Conspiracy theorists? The ones always looking for this place. They'll trace it right back to this door."

Frank immediately grabbed his radio, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Perimeter control, report! Is the area clear?"

The response from the radio static was chaotic. "Sir! We have multiple civilian vehicles breaching the outer markers! They're heading right for the primary elevator shaft!"

"What?! Why?!" Frank spun on Gulax.

"Ooopsie," Gulax said, holding up his hands. "One errant radio signal, and now a bunch of people will have to die. You see, Frank, delaying the nuclear apocalypse is like a beacon for my people. The longer it takes for you guys to blow yourselves up, the more of my colleagues stumble onto this sector. I've shut off my signal now, and I'm sure your security forces will take care of the idiots outside. But next time..."

"Message received, Gulax," Frank hissed through his teeth.

"Good," Gulax said, standing up. He gathered his things, walked out to the hangar, and boarded his craft.

Before his ship had even broken Earth's orbit, the black void jumped up from his dashboard communicator.

“Report,” the void demanded.

"The nuclear destruction of Earth is imminent," Gulax reported smoothly into the dark energy.

“How much longer?” asked the void.

"They need a few days to move some VIPs out of the first strike area. They are trying to keep it low-key so the public doesn't panic. But it's a done deal."

“Very well.” The void vanished.

The moment the link cut, Gulax immediately stopped the ship's ascent. He fired up his direct subspace communicator to the Nevada bunker.

Frank’s frantic, sweat-streaked face appeared on the viewscreen. Red emergency lights were flashing in the background. "We're a little busy right now, Gulax! But if you need assistance, we can send—"

"Send what?" Gulax scoffed. "Your species isn't even space-capable, is it?"

Frank stiffened. "Of course not. Just offering assistance."

"Well, you can be of assistance," Gulax said, leaning back in his pilot's chair. "The Cuban missiles. Don't let them happen."

Frank stared at the screen, dumbfounded. "What?! It’s a done deal! We’ve lied straight to Kennedy’s face! What do we tell him now?!"

"Hmm," Gulax mused, tapping his chin. "What I’m hearing is that you want France to be the dominant global government. Maybe we should make them space-capable instead."

"No! Of course not!" Frank panicked, his mind racing. "We... we will write something up. We'll tell the press that diplomacy won. All things are possible through the prayers of the nation. We'll make it work. But I have to know one thing, Gulax... You come here, you demand we create Armageddon, and then you just call it off?"

"It’s simple, really," Gulax smiled, his image flickering over the subspace feed. "My bosses want Earth gone. But this planet is a vacation for me. All expenses paid. I come here, I trigger the apocalypse protocol, I call home. They read my mind, and technically, as far as they know at that exact moment, the destruction is inevitable. Then I call you, I stop it, the Earth survives, and I get sent back here next season for another vacation."

Frank stared at the alien, a cold realization washing over him. "Isn't that wrong?"

"It's about as wrong as my assessment that your species isn't space-capable," Gulax sneered.

With the last insult hurled, the screen went black.

Frank stood frozen in the blaring crimson flash of the bunker's warning lights, the heavy silence of the underground room settling over him. He leaned against the console and thought back to the very first time he had met Gulax, wondering just how long the joke had been on him.

IV. Flashback: The Origin of the Falsehood

He remembered Area 51 back in the hot summer of 1947. The scorching Nevada heat, the dust, and an entire military battalion standing at crisp attention as Gulax’s ramp lowered for the very first time. It was a massive, sleek vessel, and to everyone's surprise, Gulax stepped out completely alone. But the brass had a plan: they were going to wine and dine this creature, give him the grand diplomatic tour, and the moment his back was turned, a small army of engineers would tear that ship apart bolt by bolt to reverse-engineer the galaxy.

"President Truman," Gulax had announced to the assembled leaders, his huge black eyes scanning the desert horizon. "We wish for peaceful relations. However, we will not negotiate separate treaties with every fractured government on this rock. We need one nation to deal with."

A three-star general stepped forward, chest puffed out. "We are the most powerful nation on Earth. We nuked Japan."

"Yes, and now some of your enemies have the knowledge of nuclear power," Gulax countered smoothly, a greasy smirk evident even in his alien features. "But fear not. I like America. I offer our technology. However, due to spatial law, we cannot directly support one country's violent conquest of an entire planet. However... if you were to conquer your enemies on your own, our support would become retroactively legal." Gulax laughed, a chilling, wet sound. "And with that... they were all gone."

The moment the diplomatic party vanished into the bunkers to sign the treaty, Frank had busted his hump hustling the engineers toward the craft. "Go, go, go! Take it down to the frame!" he’d hissed.

Hours later, Frank was waiting outside the conference room when the heavy steel doors slid open. Gulax walked out, adjusting a pristine collar.

"Sir," Frank announced, stepping into his path, sweating through his suit. "On behalf of Earth, I’d like to show you our culture. We have a human disguise waiting for you, if you'd like."

Gulax barked a laugh. "I don't have time."

"Not even for Cirque du Soleil?" Frank asked, flashing a pair of high-tier VIP tickets he’d secured.

Gulax paused, staring at the glossy tickets. "Fine. You wouldn't happen to be looking at my ship right now, would you?"

"No! No, sir," Frank lied smoothly, keeping his face like stone. "We respect your privacy. We are allies."

"Of course. Let's go."

That was the official start of their twisted relationship. Frank spent the next fourteen hours desperately stalling the alien, pulling every trick out of the book. Every single time Frank offered a new destination, Gulax would initially refuse, squint his eyes, and say, "Well... as long as you're not looking at my ship."

At one point, deep into the night over a plate of greasy diner food, they’d even discussed opening a human business together. Gulax had been fascinated by late-night dining. They planned to call it the Waffle Palace, a beacon of neon light serving waffles twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

But the fun ended the second they returned to the bunker. The engineers had just finished slamming the last hull panels back together, wiping their brow as Frank and Gulax walked into the hangar.

"See? Just like you left it," Frank said, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"Oh, good," Gulax said, walking a slow circle around the ship. "You're absolutely sure you didn't touch it?"

"No! We are friends, Gulax. Why would we do that? You said you would give us the technology in time anyway," Frank answered, maintaining his best poker face.

"Well, good. Because had you touched it, your men would have inhaled greeble spores."

Frank felt the air leave his lungs. "What... what are greeble spores?"

"Oh, well, you know Grey Command," Gulax sighed, waving a hand. "They want security. You never know with a new ally."

"Yes... and?" Frank coaxed, his throat going dry.

"So had someone gone into the ship, they would have breathed in a parasite."

Frank gulped, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. "Hypothetically... if someone were to breathe in this parasite...?"

"Oh. Agonizing death," Gulax responded cheerfully.

"How long?" Frank squeaked.

"Well, it takes the spores a few days to germinate in your lungs. If you're lucky, in a few days you feel sick, then suddenly you just can't breathe. If you're unlucky, they germinate and you feel them eat you from the inside out. That’s the worst part. Even breathing spreads them to others."

"Is there a cure?!" Frank panicked, his diplomatic facade completely shattering.

"Oh, of course. But you don't have it here. But you didn't touch it, so you don't need it, right?"

"Right. Right," Frank stammered, his mind racing as he thought of the fifty engineers currently coughing into their hands in the breakroom. "But... if the spores got loose accidentally... what would you recommend we do?"

"Well, they wouldn't get loose accidentally. But if they did, I would immediately burn any facility they were in contact with. Including all personnel inside. It's the only way."

An hour later, Gulax’s ship rose smoothly into the night sky above a roaring, catastrophic inferno. The entire Area 51 research facility was being consumed by specialized government incendiaries. Frank stood in the cockpit of the alien craft, watching the flames reflect off the glass.

"Thank you for the tour of your ship, Gulax," Frank said, his voice entirely numb.

"No problem, Frank. Do you have somewhere I can drop you?"

"My office in D.C."

"On my way," Gulax said, flipping a row of glowing switches. "Hey, remember Waffle Palace?"

And with that, Frank’s next memory was suddenly waking up at his desk in Washington, D.C.

It was always this way. Every single time the agency attempted to secretly steal the technology, the facility would meet a sudden, tragic, catastrophic end. But somehow, Frank always survived, waking up right back in his office with a blank space in his memory.

Like the time Gulax showed up and Frank took him to see Oklahoma! the musical. While they were arguing over the playbill, the engineers back at the base tried to probe the warp drive, causing the ship to release some kind of localized quantum radiation that dissolved the western seaboard's research grid. Yet, the very next morning, Frank woke up at his desk, adjusted his tie, and ordered breakfast.

There was some good that came out of the friendship, though. Frank had eventually funneled some off-the-books black-budget funds to an old contact of his to actually start that restaurant chain. They had to tweak the name slightly—settling on Waffle House—but the 24/7 dream lived on. Of course, Gulax had strictly demanded they lace the corporate maple syrup with a mild, highly addictive extraterrestrial mind-control agent. Frank had to admit, the drug worked wonders for corporate quarterly profits.

https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstory/comments/1ueyhdq/fallacy_of_frank_part_3/

I. The Nevada Bunker, 1962

It was the fall of 1962 when Frank watched the heavy, unpolished hull of the ship settle into the subterranean Nevada bunker.

Gulax exited down the ramp, his large, lidless eyes sweeping the concrete cavern. As requested, there was no fanfare. No greeting party. Just Frank, standing under the dim industrial lighting with a clipboard and a heavy chest.

Frank stepped forward. "Gulax, I believe?" he announced, his voice echoing off the blast walls. "Everything is exactly as you requested."

"Great," Gulax said. His voice had a strange, resonant echo, like two people speaking in unison. He didn't look at Frank as he spoke. "You understand the other Greys have to believe Earth was destroyed in a nuclear fire by you humans? It is imperative."

"Of course," Frank said, nodding sharply. "The scout ship detected the radiation in the upper atmosphere right on schedule. Using the specs you transmitted, we blinded his entry sensors. He hasn’t seen a single thing outside of these tunnels."

"I think you and I will be friends for a long time," Gulax laughed, a harsh, clicking sound. He slapped Frank on the shoulder.

For a fraction of a second, Frank thought he felt a sharp pinprick through his suit jacket, but the sensation vanished as quickly as it came. He brushed it off and led the alien down the concrete corridor toward the secure conference room.

"So," Gulax said, adjusting a strange, shimmering collar around his throat. "This island. Cub-A. It is a problem?"

"No, no," Frank assured him, pulling out a chair. "We have a deal. Russia will supply them with the medium-range ballistic missiles, Cuba will fire the first shot, and using your technology, America will be the only country left standing on the map. But Cuba is very close to one of our landmasses. A peninsula we call Florida."

Gulax stopped, his dark eyes fixing Frank with absolute finality. "Florida must be sacrificed. It must be. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely. There are just... certain VIPs our government wants moved out of the blast radius first," Frank responded, keeping his tone diplomatic.

"Then move them," Gulax insisted.

"We are," Frank said, a bead of sweat forming near his temple. "It takes time. If we just rush them all out at once, it would look suspicious to the public."

Before Gulax could answer, the heavy steel door hissed open. Another Grey alien stepped into the room, his gray skin slightly lighter, his posture rigid with authority.

"Hazelin," Gulax greeted, his tone instantly shifting to greasy politeness. "I don't know why you wanted to meet on Earth. You know it’s a radioactive wasteland. But our friends here agreed to host us."

"Gulax," Hazelin responded, ignoring the pleasantries. "We need to discuss the food shortage in the twelfth sector."

"Yes, it is a tragedy," Gulax sighed, waving a three-fingered hand dismissively. "But as I explained to the High Council, Earth is highly irradiated. If a food shipment passed too close to this system, the cargo would become toxic to our citizens. We have no choice but to ship the rations via the nebula. It is a longer, more fuel-intensive route. More resources spent on shipping means less food can be moved. There was a vote, Hazelin. It was approved."

Hazelin narrowed his eyes. "There are things the public doesn't know, aren't there, Gulax?" He took a step forward. "Earth isn't irradiated. You faked it."

Gulax stiffened. "That rumor truly wounds me. Yes, if Earth wasn't contaminated, it would be a critical supply route. But it is. You’ve seen the data."

"I’ve seen what your flunkies showed me, Gulax. My cousin has a rogue scout ship. He flew through this system two weeks ago and scanned the surface. Guess what he found?"

"Very well. Hold on," Gulax said smoothly.

He pulled a small, matte-black cylinder from his belt. A localized void of pitch-black space sprang into the air above the table, humming with dark energy.

"This one," Gulax said, pointing a finger at Hazelin, addressing the void. "He has a cousin who conducted an unauthorized scan of Earth. Propose a new law immediately: any unauthorized flights through the Earth system are deemed a catastrophic waste of fuel resources."

"Hey! I am right here talking to you!" Hazelin screamed, his voice cracking. "The people will vote! I will tell them the truth, and this little game of yours is over!"

Gulax completely ignored him, staring into the black void. "Furthermore, state that the cousin got caught in Earth's residual radiation and crashed. The intense radiation makes recovery of his body impossible."

The black void reverberated with a cold, synthetic chime. “Law passed. Any unauthorized passage through the Earth system is now punishable by death due to the risk of spreading radiation to the home sectors. The cousin is currently on trial. It is noted in the central record that Hazelin has died in a tragic transit wreck.”

Hazelin gasped, backing toward the door. "I'm going to tell everyone... Sector Twelve is starving! The people won't stand for this distraction!"

"Good point," Gulax muttered. He looked back into the void. "Run front-page articles in all news sources about rampant sex trafficking in sectors Three, Five, and Fifteen. Then, write counter-articles defending trafficking as an ancient cultural custom in sectors Three, Five, and Fifteen. Propose a law outlawing it, and simultaneously propose a counter-law to protect the customs of those sectors. That should keep the public fighting each other for a few months."

“Articles published. Public discourse engaged,” the black void droned.

"They won't be fooled by your distractions!" Hazelin yelled, reaching for the door control. "People are starving—"

Gulax gave a casual flick of his wrist toward Frank. "Frank."

Frank didn't hesitate. He drew his service pistol and put a round right through Hazelin's chest. The alien collapsed onto the concrete floor, dark fluid pooling beneath him.

"Good job," Gulax said, stretching his arms.

"I know the protocol, Gulax," Frank said, holstering his weapon and catching his breath. "No Grey but you sees the black void communicator. It’s a direct link to the real government on your planet. Your people think they live in an ultimate democracy, but the true government simply fakes the votes behind the curtain." Frank offered a grim, knowing smile. "But hey, I don't judge. Thanks to your tech, we do that here too. We let every government on Earth think they run their countries, but we just nudge them to the correct outcomes from the dark."

"Good boy," Gulax said, patting Frank's shoulder again. "By the way, did you get me those tickets to the Raiders game?"

Frank blinked, thrown off by the sudden pivot. "I did, but... is now really the time? The Cuban missiles, the timeline—"

"They haven't launched yet, and I'm a Raiders fan," Gulax interrupted.

An hour later, they were standing in a secure underground autopsy lab. Two government doctors in plastic aprons stood over Hazelin’s pale corpse.

"Make sure you butcher those organs good," Gulax instructed, pointing a long finger at the chest cavity. "Anyone who sees the footage or finds the body down the line should find it completely impossible to piece any of him back together."

"My men know the drill, Gulax," Frank said, crossing his arms.

"Great. Tell someone to get me a Raiders jersey. Also, I’d like a little more grey in my human wig this time. You know, a little salt-and-pepper action. Classy. Now, fire up the tunnel tram, or we can fly the ship there."

II. Los Angeles & The Flashback

Later that afternoon, they sat in a heavily secured luxury box high above the stadium, overlooking the field. Gulax was wearing a massive pair of sunglasses and a trench coat, shoveling ice cream out of a miniature novelty helmet with a tiny plastic spoon.

"Who would’ve thunk they’d lose to the Rams?" Gulax muttered, staring down at the field in disappointment.

"Well, it was a hell of a game," Frank said, adjusting his tie, keeping his eyes peeled for any security breaches. "You can't always predict the outcome."

"But now I owe Cresiden twenty credits," Gulax grumbled.

"You shouldn't gamble on the games, Gulax," Frank chided mildly.

"On the game? Oh, no. I bet that the steroids I put into the aquifer for Los Angeles would have made the Raiders more aggressive, but I didn't get the mix right."

Frank froze, turning his head slowly. "Aren't you supposed to coordinate that with us? There are rules, Gulax. Biological interference without clearing—"

"I would have given you the formula if it worked," the alien shrugged, taking another bite of ice cream.

Frank’s hand drifted slowly toward his coat pocket, his fingers feeling for the emergency panic alert button that would signal the subterranean strike teams.

Gulax didn't even turn his head, but his voice dropped to a freezing, razor-sharp register. "I wouldn't if I were you." He turned his dark eyes toward Frank, leveling a terrifying death stare. "I actually like you, Frank. But don't think for a second I would tell you what I did without a contingency in place. Do you?"

Frank’s hand paralyzed in his pocket. A deep shiver ran down his spine. Whatever Gulax had done to the West Coast water supply, it was potentially nothing compared to his fallback plans. According to the older agency legends, the Bubonic Plague had been one of Gulax’s minor historical contingencies when a previous empire stopped cooperating.

"Good boy," Gulax said, his cheerful tone snapping right back into place. "Let's go back to the bunker."

https://www.reddit.com/r/shortstory/comments/1ueygsk/fallacy_of_frank_part_2/

I. The Nevada Bunker, 1962

It was the fall of 1962 when Frank watched the heavy, unpolished hull of the ship settle into the subterranean Nevada bunker.

Gulax exited down the ramp, his large, lidless eyes sweeping the concrete cavern. As requested, there was no fanfare. No greeting party. Just Frank, standing under the dim industrial lighting with a clipboard and a heavy chest.

Frank stepped forward. "Gulax, I believe?" he announced, his voice echoing off the blast walls. "Everything is exactly as you requested."

"Great," Gulax said. His voice had a strange, resonant echo, like two people speaking in unison. He didn't look at Frank as he spoke. "You understand the other Greys have to believe Earth was destroyed in a nuclear fire by you humans? It is imperative."

"Of course," Frank said, nodding sharply. "The scout ship detected the radiation in the upper atmosphere right on schedule. Using the specs you transmitted, we blinded his entry sensors. He hasn’t seen a single thing outside of these tunnels."

"I think you and I will be friends for a long time," Gulax laughed, a harsh, clicking sound. He slapped Frank on the shoulder.

For a fraction of a second, Frank thought he felt a sharp pinprick through his suit jacket, but the sensation vanished as quickly as it came. He brushed it off and led the alien down the concrete corridor toward the secure conference room.

"So," Gulax said, adjusting a strange, shimmering collar around his throat. "This island. Cub-A. It is a problem?"

"No, no," Frank assured him, pulling out a chair. "We have a deal. Russia will supply them with the medium-range ballistic missiles, Cuba will fire the first shot, and using your technology, America will be the only country left standing on the map. But Cuba is very close to one of our landmasses. A peninsula we call Florida."

Gulax stopped, his dark eyes fixing Frank with absolute finality. "Florida must be sacrificed. It must be. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely. There are just... certain VIPs our government wants moved out of the blast radius first," Frank responded, keeping his tone diplomatic.

"Then move them," Gulax insisted.

"We are," Frank said, a bead of sweat forming near his temple. "It takes time. If we just rush them all out at once, it would look suspicious to the public."

Before Gulax could answer, the heavy steel door hissed open. Another Grey alien stepped into the room, his gray skin slightly lighter, his posture rigid with authority.

"Hazelin," Gulax greeted, his tone instantly shifting to greasy politeness. "I don't know why you wanted to meet on Earth. You know it’s a radioactive wasteland. But our friends here agreed to host us."

"Gulax," Hazelin responded, ignoring the pleasantries. "We need to discuss the food shortage in the twelfth sector."

"Yes, it is a tragedy," Gulax sighed, waving a three-fingered hand dismissively. "But as I explained to the High Council, Earth is highly irradiated. If a food shipment passed too close to this system, the cargo would become toxic to our citizens. We have no choice but to ship the rations via the nebula. It is a longer, more fuel-intensive route. More resources spent on shipping means less food can be moved. There was a vote, Hazelin. It was approved."

Hazelin narrowed his eyes. "There are things the public doesn't know, aren't there, Gulax?" He took a step forward. "Earth isn't irradiated. You faked it."

Gulax stiffened. "That rumor truly wounds me. Yes, if Earth wasn't contaminated, it would be a critical supply route. But it is. You’ve seen the data."

"I’ve seen what your flunkies showed me, Gulax. My cousin has a rogue scout ship. He flew through this system two weeks ago and scanned the surface. Guess what he found?"

"Very well. Hold on," Gulax said smoothly.

He pulled a small, matte-black cylinder from his belt. A localized void of pitch-black space sprang into the air above the table, humming with dark energy.

"This one," Gulax said, pointing a finger at Hazelin, addressing the void. "He has a cousin who conducted an unauthorized scan of Earth. Propose a new law immediately: any unauthorized flights through the Earth system are deemed a catastrophic waste of fuel resources."

"Hey! I am right here talking to you!" Hazelin screamed, his voice cracking. "The people will vote! I will tell them the truth, and this little game of yours is over!"

Gulax completely ignored him, staring into the black void. "Furthermore, state that the cousin got caught in Earth's residual radiation and crashed. The intense radiation makes recovery of his body impossible."

The black void reverberated with a cold, synthetic chime. “Law passed. Any unauthorized passage through the Earth system is now punishable by death due to the risk of spreading radiation to the home sectors. The cousin is currently on trial. It is noted in the central record that Hazelin has died in a tragic transit wreck.”

Hazelin gasped, backing toward the door. "I'm going to tell everyone... Sector Twelve is starving! The people won't stand for this distraction!"

"Good point," Gulax muttered. He looked back into the void. "Run front-page articles in all news sources about rampant sex trafficking in sectors Three, Five, and Fifteen. Then, write counter-articles defending trafficking as an ancient cultural custom in sectors Three, Five, and Fifteen. Propose a law outlawing it, and simultaneously propose a counter-law to protect the customs of those sectors. That should keep the public fighting each other for a few months."

“Articles published. Public discourse engaged,” the black void droned.

"They won't be fooled by your distractions!" Hazelin yelled, reaching for the door control. "People are starving—"

Gulax gave a casual flick of his wrist toward Frank. "Frank."

Frank didn't hesitate. He drew his service pistol and put a round right through Hazelin's chest. The alien collapsed onto the concrete floor, dark fluid pooling beneath him.

"Good job," Gulax said, stretching his arms.

"I know the protocol, Gulax," Frank said, holstering his weapon and catching his breath. "No Grey but you sees the black void communicator. It’s a direct link to the real government on your planet. Your people think they live in an ultimate democracy, but the true government simply fakes the votes behind the curtain." Frank offered a grim, knowing smile. "But hey, I don't judge. Thanks to your tech, we do that here too. We let every government on Earth think they run their countries, but we just nudge them to the correct outcomes from the dark."

"Good boy," Gulax said, patting Frank's shoulder again. "By the way, did you get me those tickets to the Raiders game?"

Frank blinked, thrown off by the sudden pivot. "I did, but... is now really the time? The Cuban missiles, the timeline—"

"They haven't launched yet, and I'm a Raiders fan," Gulax interrupted.

An hour later, they were standing in a secure underground autopsy lab. Two government doctors in plastic aprons stood over Hazelin’s pale corpse.

"Make sure you butcher those organs good," Gulax instructed, pointing a long finger at the chest cavity. "Anyone who sees the footage or finds the body down the line should find it completely impossible to piece any of him back together."

"My men know the drill, Gulax," Frank said, crossing his arms.

"Great. Tell someone to get me a Raiders jersey. Also, I’d like a little more grey in my human wig this time. You know, a little salt-and-pepper action. Classy. Now, fire up the tunnel tram, or we can fly the ship there."

II. Los Angeles & The Flashback

Later that afternoon, they sat in a heavily secured luxury box high above the stadium, overlooking the field. Gulax was wearing a massive pair of sunglasses and a trench coat, shoveling ice cream out of a miniature novelty helmet with a tiny plastic spoon.

"Who would’ve thunk they’d lose to the Rams?" Gulax muttered, staring down at the field in disappointment.

"Well, it was a hell of a game," Frank said, adjusting his tie, keeping his eyes peeled for any security breaches. "You can't always predict the outcome."

"But now I owe Cresiden twenty credits," Gulax grumbled.

"You shouldn't gamble on the games, Gulax," Frank chided mildly.

"On the game? Oh, no. I bet that the steroids I put into the aquifer for Los Angeles would have made the Raiders more aggressive, but I didn't get the mix right."

Frank froze, turning his head slowly. "Aren't you supposed to coordinate that with us? There are rules, Gulax. Biological interference without clearing—"

"I would have given you the formula if it worked," the alien shrugged, taking another bite of ice cream.

Frank’s hand drifted slowly toward his coat pocket, his fingers feeling for the emergency panic alert button that would signal the subterranean strike teams.

Gulax didn't even turn his head, but his voice dropped to a freezing, razor-sharp register. "I wouldn't if I were you." He turned his dark eyes toward Frank, leveling a terrifying death stare. "I actually like you, Frank. But don't think for a second I would tell you what I did without a contingency in place. Do you?"

Frank’s hand paralyzed in his pocket. A deep shiver ran down his spine. Whatever Gulax had done to the West Coast water supply, it was potentially nothing compared to his fallback plans. According to the older agency legends, the Bubonic Plague had been one of Gulax’s minor historical contingencies when a previous empire stopped cooperating.

"Good boy," Gulax said, his cheerful tone snapping right back into place. "Let's go back to the bunker."