Continue reading for Chapter 22, catch up with the Part One Recap, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

⚠️ Content Warning: Paranormal activity, panic attacks, discussion of past violence and murder

Last time on TSA

Finn went back to work at the org and sent some intel—Anna’s location for tomorrow. Viktor and the rest of the squad planned the attack.

“I think this plan can be improved,” Rue said.

“I think this plan is stupid,” Kira said.

“Well, we don’t have much information to go on. We’ve got a three hour drive early in the morning. We’ll have more time to plan on the way.”

A dead graveyard shouldn’t feel this alive. Viktor can feel its pressure the moment they pull up. The squad rolls in with a plan held together by hope and stubbornness. But the denizens of the cemetery are caught up in plans already.

Chapter 22

On the three-hour drive over, we came up with nothing. Absolutely nothing better than the Kira-as-a-distraction plan. I didn’t like putting them in harm’s way, but I couldn’t confront Anna head-on and get the upper hand. Anna wouldn’t be alone since Finn had to assign her a security detail. Distraction and surprise seemed to be the best bet.

Kira rode up front and Chai sat beside me in the back. He probably didn’t need to actually be present and sit, but I figured it helped him feel normal and like part of the team.

I looked at the cemetery on satellite and street views while Rue drove us in her Jeep. The cemetery was from the Civil War era and the last plot was sold seventy-something years ago. I’m not sure who Anna could be going to see that was buried so long ago. I suppose someone could have bought the plot back then and was only buried in the past decade or so.

A good place to start our search would be around the most recent burials. Unfortunately, no one knew Anna’s surname to guess where her family might be buried—assuming it was actually family. There was no dedicated new section for us to home in on. Newer interments were scattered throughout old family plots.

It was a couple hundred acres—not huge, but it had no clean sight-lines. All the roads were winding, mausoleums covered the grounds, and hills broke up the landscape. That would be a problem for Rue and her sniper rifle. We’d have to narrow down the location so she could get set up.

We parked on the street just outside the cemetery. Before we even parked, I felt it. The pressure—an invisible blob that oozed from the graveyard, spilling over into the street, touching me, changing me. I did my best to ignore it.

Chai transformed into the crow. The cloth roof was up because of the winter chill, so I had to roll down the window to let the crow out. I think. I still didn’t understand how that worked. This time, I waited for the crow to get airborne before looking through its eyes, hoping that would be less disorientating. It wasn’t.

I dropped pins in my map app for recent interment sites I found on some public grave databases online. I thought it would be easier to line up the satellite image with the bird’s-eye view of the crow, but crow eyes worked way different from maps.

They could see things on the ground in great detail, but not everywhere at once. It was hard for me to get a complete picture. It was also nauseating switching from my eyes to the crow’s eyes.

“I can’t make sense of this map from the crow,” I spoke aloud in the Jeep.

“Try following the roads,” Rue suggested, her voice still audible to my human body sitting in the Jeep. “This is a dead graveyard, so there shouldn’t be a lot of visitors. Mostly people enjoying the park and history.”

There were many cars in parking spaces and a few on the roads. Security escorts always had a type. The crow flew low and slow in line with the roads, looking for dark SUVs idling on the shoulders. They wouldn’t park in case they needed a quick exit.

The colors the crow saw were wrong. Maybe not wrong, but different. Shadows were darker, but some areas were brighter—like the contrast was cranked up in a photo. Its eyes kept focusing on well-worn footpaths that broke off from the road.

The crow spotted a suspect vehicle and landed on a branch with line of sight. A black Suburban, standard-issue corporate subtlety, standing out like a sore thumb. It idled on a road curve at the top of a hill—a bad angle for sniping.

Through the heavily tinted windows, I could see a driver in a dark suit, but no one else. The crow’s sensitive eyes caught movement and jerked its head toward it, nearly sending me into vertigo. A man in a hoodie and joggers stood by a headstone, face obscured, hands in pockets, head swiveling. A woman in a leather jacket and jeans, dark hair, leaning against a mausoleum, smoking.

Neither looked familiar to me nor had the blonde hair Rue described Anna having nor was a ten-year-old boy. But they looked the type—acting like they were just visiting a hundred-and-fifty-year-old grave while constantly looking around.

This had to be it. I couldn’t see any other figures in the SUV. Maybe Anna was in the mausoleum.

“Rue, they’re at pin echo on the map. Find a spot where you can keep an eye on the SUV and the thugs. Call me when you’re settled.”

“On it.”

While Rue got in position, Kira and I waited.

“So, we’re just going to kill these people?” Kira’s voice pulled me away from the crow.

“Not if we don’t have to. I don’t want to. But they probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill us to keep us silent.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

I hesitated. I hadn’t told them all the details about the meat locker. I’d tried my best to block out that night.

My throat was hoarse—not sure if it was because of flying with the crow, the souls bearing down on me, or the memory of that night. “I have.”

Kira turned, peering around the headrest in the front seat, locking with my eyes. They didn’t say anything.

“I told you about Klaus. I killed him. I drowned him in a ditch. He was trying to kill me, but I killed him first. Then, the night Chaus died, when Klaus died again, I killed two other men. They were also trying to kill me, but it felt—it feels—so fucking wrong.” I lowered my head, no longer able to look into their eyes. They were peeling me apart. I choked back a sob.

“Viktor, you’re alive. You’re safe. You killed because it was either them or you. I’d choose you every time.”

“Thanks,” I sniffed. “I’d choose you too.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I was about to say something about how I didn’t feel safe right now when Rue called. I answered through my earbuds.

“Hello.”

“I’m in position. I see the two thugs, the SUV, the driver. No other souls.”

“Could you use a different word?” I groaned.

“Oh. Sorry. No one else.”

“What are the thugs doing?”

“The woman is circling the mausoleum. She’s fidgeting with her ear, she might have comms in an earpiece. The guy turned around, but he’s still in position.”

“Wait one.” I muted the phone.

“Rue doesn’t see Anna,” I told Kira.

“Okay, I’ll go and draw her out,” they replied.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. We don’t know where she is and there’s too many of her people out there.”

“Oh, now you think it’s a bad idea to use me as bait? Rue will take care of them. This is our chance to get Anna.”

“There will be others.”

“We don’t have time.” Kira undid their seatbelt, slipped out the door, and ran through the entrance gate before I could say anything.

“Kira! Get back here!” I clambered over the front seat to get out of the Jeep, chasing after. Immediately, I regretted stepping into the cemetery, but I had to go after them. “Rue, Kira’s running over there, what do you see?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Okay, Kira’s heading your way. I’m following.”

“The thugs are moving.”

“Don’t let them touch Kira!” I shouted.

“What the hell?” Rue exclaimed.

“What? What is it?”

“They jumped in the SUV and it’s driving off.”

I tuned into the crow again. I saw the SUV driving off and Kira running up the hill. No sign of Anna. Did we misread the situation? Were those people not with the org? I kept running, trying to catch up to Kira.

They were just ahead of me. I was almost at the top of the hill when a force pushed back. The vague, oozing blob I sensed earlier thickened into a swamp. My feet dragged as I tried to catch up to Kira. I tried to yell their name but my mouth was blocked, as if dozens of hands were clawing their way inside.

The swamp turned into an ocean. I was shoulder-deep, trying to walk to the shore. Invisible waves crested and fell on my face, pressing on my eyeballs. My eye sockets throbbed, my head ached like it was being squeezed. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I fell to my knees. I heard Kira scream my name.

✹✹✹

I saw the waves then. Thousands of people were struggling in the currents, all reaching above the water’s surface. They were choking, but all swimming towards me, trying to use me as a life raft. They clawed at my face and shoulders, pulling me under with them.

The crow flew in circles around me, trying to help but it couldn’t land on anything. It transformed into Chai who fell into me—us becoming one. For a moment.

Then the head of his apparition was pulled, stretched from my core. He reached out a translucent hand. I grabbed for it, fingers brushing before he was yanked away, thrown into the deep.

“Viktooooor!”

All I did was watch. I couldn’t close my eyes. The focus brought clarity. We weren’t under water—we were under bodies. Masses of people struggling to be on top of one another—swimmers becoming waves, waves becoming swimmers. Untold bodies undulating, crashing, reforming.

I thrashed against the flow, but it was too much. I was choking on bodies of water that reached up, climbing over one another for air as they dragged me under. They invaded my nostrils, my mouth, my lungs. I realized then that these weren’t bodies at all—they were souls. Every creature still haunting this graveyard swarmed on top of me, pulling me down into their graves.

✹✹✹

Kira

I reached the top of the hill just in time to see the SUV drive off. I spun around, looking for the thugs, but didn’t see anybody. Where was Rue? I didn’t have my phone. How could I be so stupid to run off like this? Where was Viktor? I looked down the path I came from. Viktor was there. He fell to his knees, gripping his head, screaming.

I called to him. “Viktor!”

He started waving his arms in a frantic rhythm. Was he trying to swim? I started running down the hill toward him, then halted in my tracks. The slight red aura that surrounds Viktor when Chai is present turned darker. It was purple, like a bruise. It began to grow as if a tsunami was pouring out from him. Then it collapsed back upon him before expanding again, writhing. I swear it looked like bodies. I couldn’t see Viktor under all that.

“Rue, where the fuck are you?”

This had to be Anna, some sort of ghost bullshit. Where was she? I looked around for something—anything. We were surrounded by mausoleums. How can one place have so many fucking mausoleums?

I saw another aura. Could that be her? One of the mausoleums had a human-shaped green aura standing in front of it. Wait—no. It was inside. I was seeing it through the walls. I ran to it.

The rotten wooden door of the mausoleum broke free as I pulled the handle. Without the walls blocking it, the green aura was brighter. I tackled it, yelling, “Leave my brother alone!”

I hit something solid. A woman. She screamed and hit the concrete with a thud as I fell on top of her. Her wind was knocked out and my chest hurt like a son of a bitch. I rolled off of her onto my back, focusing through the stars in my vision, looking up into a different face.

The cold blue eyes of a boy stared down at me.

Editor’s Note

Well, damn. Fuck ‘em up, Kira!

Subscribe now

Continue reading for Chapter 21, catch up with the Part One Recap, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

⚠️ Content Warning: Discussion of death, paranormal activity, planning violence

Last time on TSA

“Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, Viktor. You know we’re in.” Chai chided.

With a sigh, I stood. For both of us, I clanked my sword with the others, glancing at each of them.

“That settles it. Tomorrow we go on the attack.”

“Wooh! Spectral Squad! Let’s gooo!” Chai exclaimed to no one but me.

Coffee, vertigo, a plan. Viktor pushes his connection with the dead until the world tilts sideways. A lead arrives fast, pointing somewhere that makes his skin crawl. The squad has a target and a plan—one of those is solid.

Chapter 21

I awoke in the cabin, Kira sleeping soundly beside me. I was breathing heavily and drenched in sweat. I pressed my face into my hands, sliding them back towards my ears like I was putting on a mask. My hand brushed against the earring, awakening Chai.

“Man, Viktor, that was a wild dream.”

“You—you saw that?”

“Um. I dreamt I was alive and it was Christmas. Everyone was there and could see me.”

“Yeah. That’s what I dreamed too. I didn’t know you could experience my dreams.”

“Man, I didn’t either. I haven’t before. I don’t really sleep anymore. It’s more like I hallucinated whatever you were thinking. It must have been strong enough to bleed over.”

“That’s disturbing on so many levels. Wait—what do you do while I’m sleeping?”

“Stand around mostly. I don’t get tired, but I sit or lay down just to try and remember what it’s like to rest. It never works. But in your dream, I could feel. We’ve got to try that again.”

“Hold on a minute. What if I don’t want you in my dreams?”

“I don’t know, man. I’m stuck with you and you’re stuck with me. Sometimes when you sleep, I’m just gone. Like, I don’t know where I am or what I’m thinking, but I’m not here. Being in your dream gave me presence for the first time since I died.”

“I’m happy for you, really—even though it creeps me out.”

He grinned. “Thanks, man.”

“Are you able to go somewhere else? Walk around?”

“If I get too far away from you—the cross pendant—I sort of fade into the crow. I can’t keep my human form. And if I do it too long, I start thinking like a crow again. So, I mostly just stay by you while you sleep.”

“That’s not helping my unease.”

“Sorry, man.” He shrugged.

“Alright, time for coffee.”

Chai facepalmed. “Of. Course.”

I walked into the kitchen. No one else was awake yet, at least no one was in here. Rue seemed to always rise early and was probably stalking something or someone in the woods. I started a pot of coffee, hoping to relax and ease into the morning before it filled with busybodies.

Sitting in the leather chair, I considered the rally cry from last night and what go on the attack meant. Who do we attack? The Contagion for sure, but I wasn’t even sure who or where he was. Where do we attack? The office building with the lab was gone. The entire thing burnt down from the thermite. When do we attack? That at least was decided. It had to be now. We couldn’t stay on the run forever.

Kira stumbled out of the bedroom still in sleep shorts and T-shirt. “Oh thank gawd, coffee.” They poured a mug and plopped down on the couch, bringing the mug to their face with two hands, inhaling, then sighing. We both liked quiet mornings and just sat there, sipping, saying nothing.

“Morning folks, what’s up?” Finn walked out, dressed in the only clothes he had with him, suit slacks and his undershirt. He had his dress shirt, tailored coat, and tie on a hanger. He was getting ready for something.

“Where are you headed?” I asked.

Before he could answer, Rue walked in the front door, shaking snow off her boots. She hung her jacket on the hook by the door. “Good morning. It’s cold out.”

Finn made a toothy grin. “We can see that. Great. Now that we’re all here, big news.”

Yeah, this can’t be good. We all stared at him, waiting. He continued to hold his grin, relishing the attention.

Kira had enough. “Don’t just stand there with that stupid grin. Get on with it!”

“Okay, okay. So I’m going to work.” He looked at each of us, noticing that only Kira looked shocked while Rue and I continued to stare. I was shocked, of course, but that would never show on my face.

“Are you fucking stupid?” Kira blurted.

“No, I—” Finn started.

“Aren’t you burned?” Rue interrupted.

“No, you see—” Finn started.

“They’ll just murder you,” I interjected.

“Look, detective—everyone—shut up and listen,” he scolded. “I’m not burned. They told me to take off. They had a plan for Klaus and they didn’t want me anywhere near that. They don’t know how much I hated him and thought I’d stop them. Of course, I didn’t know what they had planned.”

“So, you’re just going back to them?” Rue crossed her arms.

“No, I’m going to spy. We need information on where Anna is. That’s still the best plan. Find Anna, find Ben. Attack.”

“Okay. Fine. We do need information. Why today?” I stood, unable to shed the nervous energy building up.

“Anna just called to tell me my brother is dead.” His grin had faded. “And, they told me Viktor Levitsky killed him.”

“Oh, uh. What did you say to that?” I held his gaze.

“That I would kill Levitsky the next time I saw him.” He frowned, but he couldn’t hold back his sharkiest grin.

“So then you’re not burned?” Kira asked.

“Seems not. I’ll go there a few days, see what info I can dig up, and come back this weekend. I’ll bring some more supplies—” he held up his hanger, sniffing, “—maybe some clothes.”

Finn grabbed a coffee to go, then headed out. The rest of us discussed what we should do next over breakfast, but no one had a better idea than to wait and see what Finn could dig up.

With nothing better to do, I wanted to ask Chai about something I had nearly forgotten about.

“Hey Chai, remember when Klaus almost shot me?”

Chai appeared when I touched the earring, his grin forming before the rest of him as if he was the Cheshire cat. “Yeah man, that was a fun day.”

I stared. “Fun? Me almost getting shot and drowning Klaus was fun?”

“No. But I got to play Frogger.”

“You— You— You know what, never mind. Remember when you took crow form and showed me that Klaus was pointing a gun at the back of my head?”

His grin didn’t falter. “Oh yeah, right… right, that was badass of me, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah... Can we try again?”

“No way! Let’s go!”

“Wait, I—”

But before I could stop him, Chai was already taking flight to the back door. He landed on the ground, tapping the glass. I didn’t know if he actually needed me to open the door or if he was guiding me. Aren’t ghosts supposed to be able to walk through walls? I grabbed my coat and walked out onto the back deck.

The crow flapped up to the rail, cawed, then leapt into the air. “No—wait!”

My vision warped, expanded, elongated, and zoomed in. The sudden shift made me stumble, I felt my foot hit the deck hard to steady myself, and I saw my body flailing through the crow’s eyes. I felt like I was standing on a surfboard. I couldn’t deal with this proprioception misalignment.

I pushed the crow’s visual feed out of my mind. I imagined turning a dial on an old TV to change the channel. I was dropped back in my body, causing me to fall flat on the deck. While I was sprawled out, the crow landed on the rail and cawed.

I sighed. “Yeah yeah. I’d like to see you do better.”

I started crawling to an Adirondack chair and vomited before I made it.

“Bleh—hold on.” I waved both hands at the bird and walked into the kitchen. After cleaning myself up, I walked out with a fresh insulated mug of coffee and sat in the chair. I took a sip.

“Okay, now that I’m sitting, let’s try that again.”

The crow continued to stand on the rail. I laid my head back, closed my eyes, and imagined changing the channel in my mind. The crow’s eyes blinked, and I blinked at a person sitting in a chair, wearing all black.

“This is crazy.”

The crow didn’t respond. I tried to flap my wings, but I didn’t think I could control the crow.

“Fly!” I said.

The crow stood.

Fly! I thought.

The crow took off and my stomach turned as the forest dropped beneath me. The trees below were draped with snow. The sun was above us. I couldn’t hear the wind or feel the chill that I’d expect the crow to experience. I only felt the hard, cold chair on my back.

What does flying feel like? I thought to the crow. The crow did not reply.

I saw a lake on the horizon. Can we fly over the lake?

The crow turned left and headed towards the lake, arriving after a few minutes. Dark water reflected dancing shards of sunlight as the crow landed on a branch. I suppose it needed to rest. My head was splitting in two, so I tuned out, returning to my body.

A few minutes later, the crow landed on the seat across from me, then transformed back into Chai. “That was awesome, let’s do it again!”

“I think I need to rest after that.” I brought my hands up to rub my temples with circular motions.

“Ah, you’re a buzzkill.”

“I’m going to nap.”

I lay in my bed and was out the minute my head touched the pillow.

✹✹✹

My phone vibrated in my jacket pocket. I guess I was still wearing it in my sleep. A call from Finn’s burner phone.

“Hello?” I mumbled.

“Hey, I know where Anna will be tomorrow,” Finn responded.

“Oh?”

“She wants me to take Klaus’s place. She wants me to lead the thugs.”

“Congratulations...?”

“No, not really. But it does mean that I know where she’s going to be because I have to assign the security detail.”

I wasn't sure what to think about that. "Where's she going to be?"

“You’re going to have to come back to Brooklyn. Tomorrow, she’s going to Cypress Hills.”

My heart filled with a familiar sense of dread. “The cemetery?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there a funeral there or something? Didn’t they stop burying people there a hundred years ago?”

“No, not a funeral. It’s the birthday of some old relative or something. I dunno.”

Were they having a birthday party at a cemetery or was she bringing gifts to the dead? One of those probably made more sense than the other. “Will you be there?”

“No, I’ve got to go to the med supply store and figure out what the hell everyone is doing.”

“Alright. Thanks for the info.”

We hung up. I stayed there in bed, trying to formulate a plan. I’ve always hated cemeteries. Every time I go near one, I feel like I’m drowning. I guess I was fidgeting with the earring because Chai spoke.

“Don’t worry, Vik. I’ll be there with you.”

“I’m more worried about the other ghosts that haunt those places...”

“You can’t see them, right? Why do they bother you?” Chai questioned.

“I’m not sure. I think I can feel them. I think I can feel all ghosts around me. Crowded places press in and push down on me. Sometimes I feel like there’s more there than I can see.”

“I don’t feel that. I haven’t seen any other ghosts.”

“Really? I just assumed all ghosts could see all other ghosts.”

“Guess not, man.”

At dinner, we discussed the plan with the rest of the squad.

“Is she really going to see someone’s grave or is this another setup?” Rue asked.

I frowned. “Maybe. But I don’t think we have much of a choice. We need to get to her.”

“What about Finn?” Kira said between bites.

“He can’t be there. It’s just the three of us.”

“And me, duh,” Chai corrected.

“And Chai,” I amended.

“Okay, so we just pull up in a graveyard, guns a blazin’—pew pew pew.” Kira mimed two pistols shooting around the table.

“Perhaps something more subtle,” Rue recommended.

“Right, Rue, you take overwatch.”

“Naturally.”

“Chai and I will do recon. Chai will turn into crow form and I’ll watch through his eyes. We’ll find Anna before entering the graveyard.”

Kira blinked. “Wait, what? Crow form?”

“Yeah, did I not tell you all that? Chai can turn into a crow, and I can see through his crow eyes. We practiced this afternoon. Ghost physics.”

“Ghost physics? Viktor, I don’t think you know what those words mean.” Kira did not look amused.

I ignored the remark. “Kira, you’ll be the distraction. You walk up to Anna, get her talking, then I walk up behind, tase her then tie her up. Rue can snipe anyone that comes to her aid.”

Kira’s eyes went wide. “Um, doesn’t she know who I am? They tried to kidnap me, remember?”

“Maybe. But that will make her even more distracted.”

“I think this plan can be improved,” Rue said.

“I think this plan is stupid,” Kira said.

“Well, we don’t have much information to go on. We’ve got a three-hour drive early in the morning. We’ll have more time to plan on the way.”

Next Chapter

I can’t see them
But I can still picture that moment
I can feel their breath in rapid waves
Their tears running down my eyes
An ocean—the fault is my demise
I can’t take that me away, no compromise

I won’t let them fall down with me
No matter how long I’ve spent yearning
For a different end, for a single death
No matter how much I say I don’t need others
I know deep in the scapes of my mind
This is a place I just can’t leave behind

Continue reading for Chapter 13, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Last time on The Flucks

The video wasn’t over; she was just still, finger hovering over the stop button. She wasn’t done talking. She sat back, re-entered the frame, and stared back into the camera.

“Fuck this, this doesn’t feel right. I don’t know if you can have platonic soulmates, but damnit, I’m going to have one. I know you’re out there. Slacy, get your shit together and come find me.”

Slacy had good news. Maybe. Sort of. He now has something to drive for. Good thing he prepared for a long trip.

Chapter 13 — We are so back

“What? That’s it?” I screamed. Galileo had enough of my shit and crawled into the back, lying on the bed platform.

I checked to make sure the video didn’t have more at the end. I checked for other messages. I replayed the vid looking for clues. Nothing!

The vid was sent days ago. I sent a text reply, hoping we could talk.

Hi, glad you're fucking alive. Where the fuck are you?

Probably not the fondest message considering the one she sent me. But she knew me. She understood the love in all those ‘fucks’. No reply. C’mon, it’s been five minutes! Is she still in the same place? Is she okay?

Then, I pulled my brain out of my ass and looked at the vid metadata. It was geo-tagged with coordinates. I sent another reply.

Never mind, I'm an idiot. On my way.

I put the car in drive and floored it, wheels kicking up dust, yanking cords and solar panels along.

“Shit shit, fuck fuck!”

I forgot I had left them out all night. Galileo channeled my anxiety and paced the bed perimeter, looking out each window, pausing long enough to fog them with panting.

“It’s alright, girl—I’m just an idiot.”

I got out, rolled up each panel, shouting ‘shit’ each time I tripped on a cable with chunky camp shoes. I shoved them under the bed platform and grabbed the cables, throwing them on top. I’d patch them later. I jumped into the front seat, waiting for the closing hatch—c’mon c’mon c’mon.

I put the car in drive and floored it, wheels kicking up dust, speeding off towards Chuq.

✹✹✹

We drove throughout the night. Thankfully, satnav worked—to a degree. It wasn’t getting updates, but the onboard computer had road data up until the point services cut out after the Flucks hit. I didn’t think any roads were added since, but you never know.

Chuq was south—way south. The vid’s geotag said it was taken somewhere near um… I could type it, but had a hard time pronouncing it in my head. I tried aloud.

“o…zac…aa? — o…hak…aa? — waa…hah…kah?”

Yeah, think that’s it—Oaxaca—sounds like waa-hah-kah. Hopefully whichever AI or poor soul they get to narrate the director’s cut of my eulogy can pronounce indigenous Mexican better than me.

It was about thirty-five hundred kilometers south. At least she was still on this continent. If we were separated by oceans, then what? We all know I can’t swim.

From what she said, Chuq was reborn many more times than me. I ended up places that couldn’t be the States, so she probably did too. She called it oblivion. She said some deaths were by her own hand. Oblivion indeed.

This is going to be a long ride. I needed some music to occupy my galloping mind.

Auto-drive engaged while I flipped through my CD binder for something to listen to. Yes. CD. With streaming services down, it was the best way I could listen to music. Snackbot had climbed shelf after shelf pulling discs. The thought of a multi-billion-dollar robot disc jockey made me laugh every time. I miss it already.

The only kind of music still making CDs, though, was K-pop and J-pop. Every album package was an experience. They were filled with band member photobooks, stickers, postcards—all kinds of stuff. I don’t think they actually expected anyone to play the discs.

I had been growing quite a collection of album inclusions at the warehouse. The next guy to go in the manager’s office is going to find a shrine to K-pop all-stars.

While Snackbot had a large music collection in its memory, it was nothing recent or from my formative years. Also, I couldn’t exactly have it follow me around playing music all day, fun as that might be. But now I was also limited to K-pop and a few J-pop albums.

That reminded me, I left my latest favorite disc in Snackbot’s belly. Oh, well. Maybe I should have figured out how to get its music library transferred to GOATmobile before I left.

The car drove over a patch of snow, bumping the disc, causing a track-skip. Snackbot found a disc player that worked wirelessly—now velcro-mounted to the dash. No one ever bothered to solve the skipping problem once CDs were abandoned for digital.

Oh, you noticed I said ‘auto-drive’ before my K-pop ramble? Don’t worry, this isn’t like Shitmobile’s shit AI. It’s the latest tech, not some thirty-year-old garbage that was garbage when it came out. Voltivian made rugged stuff—reliable, even offline. AI was fully onboard, none of that shared with the cloud crap. It’s as if they were prepping for an apocalypse.

Just think of Snackbot and how well it was built. Though, I don’t think GOATmobile is anywhere near as capable as the big robot. I trusted Snackbot, and I could trust this car. Haven’t bothered talking with it, though it was able. I preferred physical buttons.

I didn’t mind the long drive. My mom and I would take cross-country road trips for camping. This would be like old times. My first road trip in decades. We avoided stopping in big cities—wasn’t her scene. I wouldn’t have time to do any sightseeing this trip, though.

I had a full charge when I left, so I could go sixteen hundred kilometers. The car’s integrated solar panels would give me about sixty kilometers of range per day. It would take months to meet Chuq at that rate.

Eight solar rolls gained me four hundred kilometers a day, but I had to stop to use them. Those, plus integrated panels—with six hours of winter sunlight—I could get about five hundred kilometers daily range. Not great, but I didn’t have much choice. So, I could see Chuq in eight days.

Could have driven faster, but that would have drained battery faster. Besides, AI wouldn’t self-drive more than 10% over the speed limit. Highway limit was 145 kph—ironically because of modern self-driving safety. Manual drive was an option, but let’s face it, I’d get bored of that fast.

I paid attention to the road even when GOATmobile was driving. Every dozen kilometers or so, a car sat abandoned on the shoulder. Never know when a dead car would be in the middle of the road. I say abandoned, but I’d probably find piles of dust in each one. I’m lucky the highway hadn’t been busier and left more car hazards. With the Flucks, most people stayed home.

Adrenaline from the Chuqmail was wearing off. Highway streetlights were still on, charged by solar. Rhythmic pulsing as we sped past them was hypnotizing. My mind started lagging.

It had been a few hours. Galileo was sleeping on the bed. I could have crawled back there and let the car do all the driving. I trusted GOATmobile’s AI more, but let’s not get too crazy.

It was then I realized I forgot the most important thing. I made an inventory todo list and everything—Snackbot was right, I should have let it tend the list. Crap—there’s no way I could make this trip without coffee.

Galileo and I had enough calorie-dense food and nutrient pills for a hundred days. Enough water for a few days and we’d harvest more along the way. I needed to pee. I needed to stretch my legs. I needed caffeine.

I saw a Scar Flucks sign before an exit. We were well beyond the city. Avoiding more big cities seemed a good plan, though for different reasons than Mom’s. I’ve seen way too many zombie shows and know how those turn out.

It was the middle of the night. All streetlights, traffic lights, and building lights were off. The town was dead. After hearing from Chuq, I now knew I wasn’t the only one left. So, I expected to see at least some sign of life.

We pulled into the Scar Flucks parking lot, shining headlights through its windows. Nothing jumped onto the glass and screamed—so that’s good, right? I grabbed Ash’s flashlight and got out, Galileo following.

We did our business in bushes, then I threw a big rock, shattering a store window into a million beads. I clicked on the flashlight, tightened my grip on Sir Terry Hatchet, and walked through, glass crunching under my boots.

It looked like any closed store—seats upside down on tables, clean counters. Like employees came in one day, completed a shift, and never returned.

I crept, low, ready to throw. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but it would find me ready. crunch. crunch. crunch. I spun around, coiling back my Hatchet arm, locking on target. A thick shadow crawled across glass beads.

“Jeezus! Galileo, you nearly gave me a second heart attack.”

With a racing heart, I took in the rest of the scene. No piles of dust. I ran my finger through a thick layer of ordinary dust on a table. No one had been there in a while. Satisfied there’d be no attack, I stowed Terry on his loop and surveyed my options.

I’d have loved to fire up the espresso machine, but we were on a tight schedule. Lukewarmbrew tap was moldy—nope. I settled for a few dozen canned coffee drinks.

With caffeine in my veins and GOATmobile doing most of the work, we drove on. I checked my blog for new DMs. Nothing. It was latenight—but come on—I was dying for a reply.

Eight hundred kilometers and six hours in, I needed to crash before I literally crashed. I pulled over to a rest stop—between towns seemed safest. My eyes were sagging, my bones were heavy, and my ass was sore from sitting, but I needed to roll out solar panels.

Sun would rise soon. My plan was to drive at night and charge during prime solar hours. Galileo sniffed around, got bored of hard parking surface, then ran towards picnic tables for peemails. She’d alert me if anything was hungry for flesh.

I set up panels with hardly any light. Moon was absent, and it seemed like this rest stop hadn’t upgraded to solar-powered streetlights. Looked like this whole thing hadn’t upgraded in decades. People didn’t drive as much since high-speed trains and drone transports were faster.

Crawling into the back of the car, I lay on the bed platform. Galileo curled up on the blanket, nestled behind my legs. I left the heater running, which shouldn’t drain battery too much since the sun would be up soon.

I awoke to screeching metal, a grackle on the roof rack. Sun was high overhead, peak charging time. My stomach growled—time to eat a cardboard-flavored mealbar. I slipped on camp shoes and jacket then did the awkward slide into front seat from back seat thing.

Galileo ran out as soon as I opened the door. She barked at grackles loitering in the parking lot wondering what kind of meal we would make. In the dark, I didn’t realize how much the terrain had changed. Afternoon was chilly, but it was green all around. We were surrounded by tall pines. Luckily, none of their shadows blocked any solar panels.

I grabbed a can of coffee and unwrapped a bar then sat in the driver’s seat to check the dash readout. That can’t be right. Only thirty-three percent battery? It should be at least forty-five by now.

When I set out panels in the dark, I hadn’t realized how damaged the cables were from dragging them as I drove off. Some insulation was stripped and most connectors were bent. Charging had degraded to a third of what it should be.

Fuck. This would triple the timeline. I did this. My own stupid fault for forgetting the panels were plugged in. I couldn’t afford to make mistakes out here. If I died, who knows where I’d come back.

I didn’t want to wait a long month to get to Chuq. I rifled through my toolbox finding some duct tape. Well, not really duct tape, some kind of fancy polymer stuff, but close enough.

I taped up stripped wires and bent the connectors back into place best I could. Now getting five kilowatts—better, but still only half what it should be. I’d need a better fix. I could get wires anywhere, but these connectors wouldn’t be as easy to find.

We sat for a couple more hours taking advantage of unobstructed sun. Before we started off, I checked my blog. Ding—I had a DM.

OMFG i knew it!!! send vid for proof of life

Author’s Notes

Slacy is well on his way to Chuq, I hope.

I’m guess I’m still posting on this platform—for now. It’s becoming obvious Substack doesn’t really care about enforcing their terms of service. Freedom of speech—not freedom from consequences—unless you’re on Substack, apparently.

People are harassing women with threats, racist slurs, and bigotry,. So far, the Substack team isn’t doing anything about it other than hitting the big, red delete button. For more info, read the open letter to the substack team- a platform slowly turning into a sanctuary for online abuse.

Time for contingency plans. Stay and fight, or leave this site to the assholes?

You are the permanent stamp
Branded on my brain
Since you, everyone else was temporary
Nothing about this life is not scary

I don’t think about you anymore
Just the idea of you—and the pain
The wounds that are still raw
I’ll never again be able to see what I saw

The good, now burned to the ground
At least I’ve learned from your hate
But I can’t stop being bothered by the fact
That I thought you were all I had

Though the world outside of you is so large
This journey is even harder without you
Each step forward I’m escaping my past
I said I’d go through hell and back

For you…
I guess I really did.

Waves

The last time was enough
The last time I split myself open
Revealed every vulnerable part
And had left where I was at the start

The last time was enough
The last time I didn’t want your love
I told you I don’t want to feel you anymore
But now you’re all I feel

It comes in waves
The wanting, the endless crave
It comes in waves
The hatred, the silent decay

I paint a picture of you in my head
With beautiful pinks and reds
My mind has been mislead
Is this what it’s like to want someone dead?

You invade my thoughts once again
Then I push you away
But I can’t not think about you
There’s too much to say

Every time we say goodbye it hurts
You pained me, then you painted me
In deep blues
I guess the only one who’s ever seen me is you

When you finally leave my mind
I don’t want to come back to you next time
I will no longer dwell on the ghosts of my past
This shadow over my shoulder will not last

Continue reading for Chapter 12, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Last time on The Flucks

When the page refreshed, I noticed it for the first time—the notification bell was a distinctly different color. I had a DM.

I clicked it and read the message.

Slacy, sorry it took so long.

I re-read it a thousand times, along with the screen name.

Chuq

Slacy and Galileo started the next leg of their journey, but dropped everything when he got a DM from the dead. He sits with the message, figuring out where to go from here.

Chapter 12 — Emotional damage

I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to, but it was impossible. I saw Chuq die by The Flucks. Did she schedule the message to send now?

There was a video. I hit play.

Chuq was quite pretty, even in her 90s, right up until the moment she died. She took care of her skin—rarely wore makeup, always wore sunscreen.

But Chuq the younger was downright gorgeous. She had this glam rock aesthetic going on. Short, pink hair, a blue lightning bolt across her eyes—David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust if he were a lesbian.

Y’all know Bowie, right? Of course you do. Timeless.

She spoke.

“Hey, Slace, it’s been a while. Sorry it’s taken so long, I needed to find myself. I spent so many nights, alone, confused, dying—being reborn. I was lost in oblivion until, finally, I remembered who I wanted to be. I told oblivion to go fuck itself. I took control.

“I died a few more times. Some, by my own hand. But, eventually, I wound up somewhere with food, warmth, and makeup.”

She flashed a smile and did a little upper-body dance, framing her face with her hands. I could imagine the music and sparkly animated overlay.

“It’s the apocalypse. I can wear whatever I want. Be whomever I want. But I didn’t want to be alone.”

She paused and gave a million-meter stare, then looked down. When she finally looked up, she took a deep breath, then continued.

“The other people I ran into didn’t stay around long. I never ran into anyone I knew before. Some people I could barely recognize as human.

“I was in oblivion long enough to know what happens when they die. At least I wouldn’t likely have to see them again. The world is a big place, and I don’t think there are many of us left.”

Her eyes began to tear up as she looked right into the camera.

“I needed someone I could trust. I needed you, Slacy. All those years we spent caring for each other in our old age, even though we weren’t married. Even though we’d never be a couple, and I could never have feelings for you. I never cared what you had in your pants, nor you mine.”

She grinned, then used her palms to wipe away the tears. And, man, the makeup stayed; that’s some high-quality stuff—I guess—I’m not a beautician. Then, her face fell solemn, and she stared into my soul.

“But we had a platonic love, Slacy. One stronger than any chemical attraction. One stronger than any sexual desire. One that kept us together until the end.”

I paused the video. I thought I was alone. The only other person I’ve seen until now was inhuman. But to be delivered this gift—Chuq—it was too much. I cried myself to exhaustion, then slept.

⍟⍟⍟

I woke in the middle of the night, sprawled in the front car seat. Galileo booped my elbow to wake me. We walked around outside to take care of our business, her following behind me to mark her spot on top of mine.

I stared up at the stars, wondering where Chuq could be. How could I find her? Would the stars guide me? Galileo came and sat beside me, staring into the bright sky, free from light pollution.

We got back in the car, and I checked the battery to make sure the heater wasn’t using it faster than I had calculated.

I drank from my water bottle, then snapped into a Slim Jim. No, of course I didn’t give the dog any, that’s too much salt. I tossed her a dog biscuit and pressed play.

“I figured if you were alive, you’d still be writing that stupid blog.”

I burst out laughing, releasing all the tension that had built up, and missed the next part. I had to skip back 30 seconds.

“But then, I read your last words—Farewell. You were gone. I had lost you, just when I found myself again.”

Well, shit, she was going to make me cry again. She had been on a rollercoaster of emotions, that’s just like her to drag me on it with her.

She wasn’t talking to me. She was sending out a message to the void—a reply to my self-eulogy. I thought about how she must have been feeling and banged my hands on the steering wheel furiously.

Galileo raised her head, gave me a “WTF, man, I’m trying to sleep” look, and curled back up in the passenger seat. She was getting used to my rantings and ravings.

Chuq was done talking. She reached for the corner of the screen to stop the recording. The video froze on her arm, her face out of the screen.

I noticed that her arm was bare, free from the beautiful, colorful tattoos she gained over a long life. The ones that recorded the people, things, and places she loved most.

I guess The Flucks takes those too—erases you and makes you new.

I sighed and bonked my head on the steering wheel and just lay there, wondering what to do next, when movement caught the corner of my eye.

The video wasn’t over; she was just still, finger hovering over the stop button. She wasn’t done talking. She sat back, re-entered the frame, and stared back into the camera.

“Fuck this! This doesn’t feel right. I don’t know if you can have platonic soulmates, but dammit, I’m going to have one. I know you’re out there. Slacy, get your shit together and come find me.”

Author’s Notes

So begins Part 2 of The Flucks.

As I mentioned in the last Author’s Notes, I completed this chapter last October when I had only written the first 3 chapters. read and recorded it back then and we’ve been sitting on it for months.

The story was always going in this direction, but Slacy had a few detours. Clearly, he isn’t the only person left, but where is everyone?

Do you think they’ll find each other?

Next Chapter

Continue reading for Chapter 11, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Guest image by

Music: Reprieve — a demo of something we’re working. Produced by , mixed by —singer and band name yet to be revealed.

Last time on The Flucks

As I pointed out other constellations I could name, the dog walked between us. He stared at the stars too. I remembered how Chuq named her cats after astronomers. This dog seemed like one.

“Hey there, Galileo.” I pet his head, the only place I knew was unmauled. He licked my palm, wagged his tail, then curled up next to Snackbot, enjoying the warmth radiating off its chassis.

Slacy, Snackbot, and Galileo prepare for leaving the warehouse. Just a few errands to attend to first and Slacy needs to update his blog.

Chapter 11 — I don’t feel so good

The Voltivian S524 was ready to go. I packed enough gear to charge, shelter, protect, feed, and hydrate. A little too much gear—Snackbot had to help me add a roof rack. I won’t break down the inventory list, just know I was loaded for bear—no offense to Snackbear.

I stepped back to admire the car, sparkling in the morning light coming in through the open rollup door. Yes, I washed it—that’s a must for any road trip. Snackbot walked up to the car and gave an appreciative whistle. Galileo trailed behind it and sat beside me, wagging her tail.

Galileo had healed nicely these past few weeks. We both had. I could now walk unassisted, and so could she. Yeah, you heard that right: she. Once I had a chance to look at her wounds more closely, I realized she had different hardware than I assumed. Chuq would give me shit for misgendering my dog if she were still alive.

The biopuck beeped three times. “Here, girl.” She came and stood beside me, fishhook tail up and ready to play. “Hold on, let’s take a look—stay.” I knelt down and investigated.

The shaved spots all over Galileo’s calico fur made her look like a patchwork quilt. To treat her deeper wounds, I had to shave away several areas. Her black saddleback was now spotted with short grayish fur. It would come back.

Her wounds were completely gone. I held my palm out to see that the biopuck said treatment was complete. I squeezed my fist to confirm detachment. The gel dissolved and the puck slid into my waiting hand.

“Nice, you’re all done.” I stood, tossed her a biscuit and she snapped it out of the air. “Good girl.”

I grabbed a ball from the workbench. “Sit.” I threw it out the rollup doorway, she stayed. “Get it!” She took off.

When we rescued her, she already knew sit and stay. Saying anything was enough to get her to run up. We’ve been working on a few more commands. She’s a fast learner and she’ll be safer in the field by following instructions.

She returned with the ball, sitting and wagging her tail. “Sorry, it’s time to work.” At this, her ears perked up and I held out my hand. “Give.” She dropped the ball. “Run along with Snackbot.”

Snackbot walked off to find a few last-minute items. Galileo darted ahead to hunt the aisles for mice. For me, it was time to clean up for this special day. I walked to the bathroom. At a sink, I looked in the mirror. My hair was shaggy, but it was growing on me.

When I first came back in a new body, I didn’t realize—you know, because of all the dying—that all my hair didn’t come back the same as it was before I died. Maybe a couple months’ growth on my head. But what they didn’t advertise in the Flucks brochure was that my facial hair reset.

Like when I was a young man, I could not grow a beard. I used to get carded all the time until I was able. I don’t think any liquor store clerk would believe my age today if I told them. I couldn’t stand this patchiness, so I shaved, thinking how maybe the dog could use a hair reset. Nah.

Outside the bathroom, Galileo sat and Snackbot stood like a silver sentinel. It held a palm under its vending chute as a canister rolled out, then passed it to me. I screwed the lid off, hearing the squeak of the loosening waterproof seal.

“This is perfect, thanks.”

🎵 All we are is dust in the wind 1 🎵

Honestly, I didn’t know most of the songs Snackbot played. They sounded like my mom’s music. But I got the sentiment.

“Let’s go, Galileo.” The three of us walked to where I first found the inventory tablet. Here still lay a pile of dust. I say pile, but that doesn’t really describe it. I could still see the outline of the person it once was, flattened into a two-dimensional, gray mockery of life.

I put on a zero-particulate mask, took the spray bottle hooked to my kilt, and misted the dust. Snackbot vended a canister and a brand new hand broom. I knelt down, gently sweeping the slightly muddy remains of tablet guy into a clean dustpan, then poured them into the canister. An object remained that the broom couldn’t push.

I picked up the ring between gloved finger and thumb, twisting it in the dim light coming in through the skylights. I tried to hold back tears as I thought about when I had to do this for Chuq. Her hip joint and pacemaker thudded into the can, scattering dust into my nostrils and eyes. This time, I gently lowered the ring into the canister, awakening none of the damp dust.

Snackbot vended me a box of tissues. I removed the gloves and silently took one.

As a label, I taped the worker’s ID badge to the side of the can. I didn’t know if anyone would come looking for them, but they deserved to be known. Snackbot put the can in its vending machine and we walked to the next pile. In total, we collected twelve canisters.

We walked to the rock where we rescued Galileo. Her sacrificial blood had long washed away in the rain. I put the canisters in a grid and Snackbot stacked rocks on them, topping it off with an unnatural pillar.

The cairn should stand out to anyone looking for these people. I never knew what to say at funerals, even though I’ve been to plenty in my long life, so I recited the names of each person starting with “Clint” and ending with “rest in peace”.

Now it was time to leave the warehouse. When we got to the car, I stopped at the driver’s door and faced Snackbot.

Snackbot couldn’t go with us. It weighed a literal metric half-ton. The weight would drain the car battery too quickly and its size would take up all the gear space. We would have to part ways, and we both knew it.

I pulled out the devslate. I had one last command to issue.

you have free will

I didn’t know if it would actually work. I didn’t know if I just kicked off Skynet. But it was the only thing I knew to do. I had already cracked the authentication on the devslate with the help of its AI and Snackbot. When I passed the devslate to Snackbot, it disappeared into the vending slot.

“So long, partner.” I held out my fist. Snackbot bumped it, pink eye dots flowing with water.

🎵 Don’t you, forget about me 2 🎵

“Okay.”

Well shit. Now my ‘So long, partner’ felt crass. I didn’t know what else to say, though. So I got in the car.

“C’mon Galileo, hop into GOATmobile.”

We drove away, leaving Snackbot to hunt snacks alone and fade into dreams.

✹✹✹

In the city, we searched the streets for other survivors—for anything. We found no one and no thing. Parking GOATmobile in front of a familiar building, I put on a dust mask. I had one more thing to do.

“Stay here, girl.” Galileo was nonplussed, but she stayed.

I walked behind the Scar Flucks counter and pulled a canister and small spray bottle out of Ash’s bag. I knelt down and started the dusting ritual, sweeping Ash’s remains into the canister. I went to the back room and found the phone I threw on the floor months ago. Ash might want that. I placed it and Ash’s fidget toy in the canister.

“Sorry, bud, I still need to borrow a few items.”

On my way out, I placed the canister with Ash’s name tag taped to it next to the coldbrew tap.

We drove to a park so I could test out the solar array. GOATmobile switched to all-wheel as we crossed into a grassy field. I unrolled the panels flat on the ground. We didn’t use much battery getting here, but I plugged it in, checking the charge speed, making sure my calculations were correct. It was late afternoon, so we wouldn’t get a full day’s charge anyway.

We’d stay here for the night and head off in the morning. To where, I didn’t know. GOATmobile’s touchscreen computer had some sort of satellite internet access, but no websites or search engines I tried worked. No VidVid. Then I thought of one I knew: my blog. I typed in the address, and it loaded. Well, hot damn.

I pondered this for a moment. Most of the big sites were hosted at huge data centers, many the size of the Shmamazon warehouse. My site was distributed, replicated to thousands of small devices across the globe. The big sites had redundancy in the sense that there were many data centers. But the data centers themselves were single points of failure. Easy targets if you were inclined to disable infrastructure. That depressing thought would have to wait.

I wanted to capture all my adventures so far. If no one else was alive, that didn’t matter, I wanted it for my own memory’s sake. I started a new post, then froze. The creation date at the top struck me. I had been at the warehouse for three months, and as far as I knew, had wandered the desert and other places for only a day or two. But the date of the post was six months from when I first died in my bed. That timeline didn’t make sense. Must have been some sort of error—time services were probably offline.

I loaded up my last post in another tab to remember where I left off.

I’m too damn old for this shit. Farewell.

I started typing, fingers stumbling over themselves on the touchscreen keyboard, AI correcting my mistakes. If you’re here and started at the beginning, you already know the story. Dying. The desert. The tundra. The jungle. The city. My last moments with Chuq. I wrote about Ash, Meat Guy, Shitmobile, and Clint. I wrote about my friend Snackbot and my new companion Galileo. I wrote until the sun went down, then kept writing. I clicked publish.

After my brain was dumped, I went to my site’s dashboard to see if everything was still there. I clicked on ‘Files’ where I had some data backed up. If it wasn’t there, I’d have to drive to my old house and hope to find my computer.

It was there. A directory. Chuq. Late in life she started making a digital journal. She thought I didn’t know, but I knew she wanted me to know. I didn’t look at it until after she died, when I read the first entry. It was still sitting there in my files.

I never thought of myself as a writer. But a friend of mine has been writing a silly blog for years—long after everyone else stopped doing that in favor of posting short videos. He showed me that anyone can write about anything.

He’s a bit scatterbrained, so if he can do it, then I can definitely do it. I’m not going to publish anything, I’ll just keep this file on my computer, hoping no one will ever find it—while secretly hoping everyone does.

Might as well start with the day I met that lovable doofus Slacy.

P.S. Don’t tell him I said lovable, doofus is fine.

—Charlotte

Doofus that I am, I started my hundredth re-reading, reliving our first days together, some forty years ago. I just wanted to be in my feels.

Galileo had curled up in the passenger seat, cozy on the seat warmer, snoozing. She must have done that while I was lost in the story.

I navigated out of the journal file and over to the dashboard, checking the view stats on my latest post out of habit. Of course it would be zero, just like when I normally posted. Now, though, there was good reason for it to stay zero.

✹✹✹

When the page refreshed, I noticed it for the first time—the notification bell was a distinctly different color. I had a DM.

I clicked it and read the message.

Slacy, sorry it took so long.

I re-read it a thousand times, along with the screen name.

Chuq

Author’s Notes

Okay, okay, put down your pitch forks. I didn’t bring back Chuq just because everyone fell in love with her in The Flucks — Chuq — Christmas Eve 2055, though I’m glad so many did. On October 6, 2025, I completed what was originally chapter 11. I announced it in a note after only writing chapters 1-3. That chapter 11 is now chapter 12 because the plot doesn’t always follow my wishes.

I started the chapter with the message above and read and recorded it. So he and I have been sitting on it for months. I’m happy to finally share it.

If you find yourself missing Snackbot, like me, you can catch up with it in The Cog.

This ends part one of The Flucks. As you can imagine, things are going to change a bit in part 2.

At the end of the audio is another surprise. A demo of a song that Jan, a singer, and I are working on. It seemed to fit. The title is Reprieve, the band name is yet to be revealed. Jan produces all the music with Logic Pro, a Yamaha keyboard, and occasional guitar. I just (poorly) mix it.

Next Chapter

So here I am, still waiting in the out-gate line. I don’t know what the holdup is. These things are entirely automated. You just swipe your wrist to pay and walk through. If it buzzes, then some robot pushes you to the side to be scanned further—or hauled off to prison. I didn’t steal anything. Nobody else in this place stole anything. So why is everything moving so slow?

Step. bzzzddttt

I’m trying to go to the green. I made plans to go today. I can barely see it through the gates, but I’ll still be in this line a while. I round a corner and step to the first scanner. I swipe my wrist—minus one Satoshi—and step through. No sound for me. Good. I turn another corner and see the rest of the line queueing for the MRI machine. Great. At least I can see the field now.

I look across the green field. Adults jogging, kids riding bikes, kids playing with soccer balls. Everybody seems to be having such a good time with their families. I want to be like them. They look so happy. But I can’t afford to have children.

Step. bzzzddttt

The field is so green it stings my eyes. I haven’t seen grass in a long time. At first I thought it was beautiful, but the more I stare at it, the more I see that it’s just flat—the same color, the same length, no variation. Endless sameness. But there’s so much of it.

Where I live, in the outer ring, there’s no grass. The houses are on top of one another, next to each other, leaving scant ground. Foot traffic wears everything down to dirt. Grass, I hear, is tenacious, but not under relentless abuse. The only other place I’ve seen green like this is at the farms.

Step. bzzzddttt

When I was a child, my dad took me and my sister to see the farms at the outer edge of the city. I stood there in awe. In all directions were green hills. Dad explained they were crops and groves of different vegetables.

Robots went about their business, fertilizing, killing anything that didn’t belong there—like weeds—and harvesting the spoils. He said the entire city was surrounded by farmland, but it wasn’t for us ring folk. That we were never to go into the fields. That they were private property.

Step. bzzzddttt

The only public property is in the outer ring, where my house is. That’s where everyone who doesn’t live in the city stays. All land outside the city is privately owned. There are many cities, but nearly everywhere else belongs to a corporation or an individual richer and more powerful than any corporation.

Of course, you can’t go to any of those places. Trespassing carries the penalty of death. A landowner is well within their rights to kill anyone who steps on their land. Since all the land is private—even the roads out of here—it’s a death sentence just to walk anywhere outside the ring unless you can afford the tolls.

I could never afford to go down those roads, so I stay in the ring.

Step. bzzzddttt

Finally, I get to go through the last scanner. I swipe my wrist—minus one Satoshi—and walk through. I’m clear. The green is before me. But first I have to cross the mall. Kids play on the concrete in dirty shoes, kicking around duct-tape soccer balls. A bunch of these kids are fighting over a ball.

“It’s mine. Give it back!”

They’re fighting over something that shouldn’t be fought over—it’s pointless. One of the kids shouts, “Go touch grass!” The other kid yells back, “I’m not! You’re crazy. You go touch grass!”

They start fighting, punching, hitting. I walk past them. One more step toward the field.

Step. bzzzddttt

A personal transport drone lands in the field in front of me. A family steps out in puffer jackets, smiling, ready to enjoy their day on the green. If you can afford a drone, you don’t need toll roads. You can fly over anyone’s land to get to your own. So far, they haven’t made it so people can own the air. But I’m sure they’ll think of something for that soon.

Another drone takes off. I follow its path, looking at the tops of buildings scraping the clouds. The ring doesn’t have tall buildings like the center spire. Any time we try to build too high with handmade bricks, they collapse in on themselves. These machine-made skyscrapers have rooftop landing zones for drones.

The only time the rich people who live in the towers come to the ground is to touch grass. They’ve never bothered to haul dirt up to the roofs of their metal palaces because they want us to see them touching grass. If there’s no one to envy them, what’s the point?

Step. bzzzddttt

When they first brought in machines to automate jobs, I rejoiced. I thought it was supposed to make things easier for everyone. No one had to do jobs that no one wanted anymore. No one had to clean toilets. No one had to flip burgers. The machines did it all.

They did it faster and better than humans, all day, nonstop. They didn’t need sleep. They didn’t need to eat. Electricity was cheap. It was supposed to leave the rest of us with time to pursue art, music, writing, drawing. But they put a price tag on that too.

Step. bzzzddttt

When they started building their towers, I said, “Good for them. They should be able to enjoy the benefits of hard work. They earned their billions of Satoshis, so they should get to use them.” I thought I could be like them. I was told that if I worked hard enough, I too could have billions of Satoshis. That was the dream I was sold, and I bought it.

When they started automating every job, I was concerned, but I knew there was enough money to go around. Technology had brought us unlimited energy and AI to serve. There was no real need for anyone to work or want for anything. I thought they would give what they had in abundance to those who had none.

Step. bzzzddttt

When I started seeing people pushed out of the city—not by force, but by dollars—I thought I would be okay. I had a good job. I could afford the rent increases. I still had some left to give to people who needed it. I noticed the increases hit some more than others—more often than not, people who didn’t look like the billionaires.

I looked like the billionaires, so I thought I would be okay. I didn’t move from the city. That was a callous thought—a selfish one—but I didn’t want to end up on the streets. I didn’t want to go hungry. I did what I could to make money, to feed myself and my family, and when I could, others.

Step. bzzzddttt

Of course, it didn’t matter that I looked like the billionaires. They went against those who looked different because it made it easy to divide us. Divided, we were weak.

Even though we outnumbered them, we spent too much time fighting among ourselves over the scraps we were given. What separated us wasn’t our creed or culture, but the size of our bank accounts.

It was never about skin color for them. It was about power. We didn’t have it, and they would never have enough.

I feel ashamed I didn’t push back harder. Ashamed I didn’t notice until I was on the street. Ashamed that I did not stand up for everyone—and by not doing so, didn’t stand up for myself. But I can stand up now. I can take one more step.

Step. bzzzddttt

I’m nearly at the end of the concrete, a few steps from the grass. Kids run, parents jog, and families hold birthday parties on the field. The thing keeping us from joining them is that the field is private property. All the people who play on it have paid to play on it. They know no one from the ring can afford to.

The automated turret pillars ensure that anyone who can’t pay will not make it more than a foot on the grass. AI controls the turrets—always persistent with sensors, always precise with aim, always unlimited with plasma bullets.

Step. bzzzddttt

I look down at the small sign on a post in the grass.

Below it, a picture of a person looking like they’re dancing and having a good time, with rays of light hitting their torso, their legs, their arms, their head.

Touch grass. When you’ve given up, the easiest way to end it all is to step onto the grass. So I will take one more step, joining all those who touched grass before me.

Step. I hear the buzz of the turrets one last time. bzzzddttt

I’m struck in the arm and stagger to the ground, landing on concrete, nearly hitting my head. I’m not on the grass. A man holds my arm. He was the one who yanked me back.

I look into his dark eyes. He smiles and says, “Hey, Compa, now’s not the time to give up. Now is the time to fight.”

In his hand he holds a scythe—a tool which no one in the towers would be familiar with. They took our guns because we could not afford them. They took our machines because we could not afford them. But they left the old tools to dig ditches, dig latrines, build shacks. A scythe is a cruel joke because we have no grass to cut.

I just now notice that other people are lined up at the edge of the concrete, toes barely outside the grass. They all hold hand tools, waiting for something.

He points at the turret pillars. “Why have friends in high places, when you can have friends in low ones?”

I watch a turret train its barrels straight at me. This is finally it. I’m ready. But the turret slowly rotates toward the inner field.

bzzzddttt
                        bzzzddttt
                                                bzzzddttt

The tower dwellers playing in the grass are mowed down by the fire from dozens of turrets. I consider if I should feel sorry for them, but I feel nothing.

bzzzddttt
                        bzzzddttt
                                                bzzzddttt

The people of the outer ring rush the field, the turrets avoiding them. Why aren’t they shooting the ring folk?

I remember the chip. All of us who are slaves to money have one embedded in our wrists to track our value. The same chip that is used to track our location. The same chip that can be used by AI to avoid hitting us.

bzzzddttt
                        bzzzddttt
                                                bzzzddttt

The tech oligarchs didn’t know shit about code. They did not write it. It was the hundreds of thousands of software engineers that created the AI. They weren’t brethren. Just more workers—more chaff from the wheat. The tech oligarchs forgot who could reprogram their AI.

bzzzddttt
                        bzzzddttt
                                                bzzzddttt

The ring folk jump into the personal drone transports the billionaires didn’t bother to secure. They fly to the towers and pour out, a lethal horde.

The man hands me his scythe. “Time to mow them down.”

I take it, raise it high, and step into the field, ready to reap.

Author’s Notes

This story was from a prompt idea that , , , and I talked about last October. I wrote it then, but never got around to editing it. Posting it this week seemed like the right time to express how I’m feeling.

I “wrote” this story by speaking as the character into Voice Memos on my phone on a long drive, then transcribing it. The end result is very close to what I originally recorded with edits to remove way too many “um”s. I was quite surprised that I got a story by speaking it aloud first. Maybe I’ll write more things that way in the future.

Continue reading for Chapter 10, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Guest image by

⚠️ Content Warning ( may contain spoilers, see footnote → 1 )

Last time on The Flucks

“Snackbot, please put my chair in the back and ride shotgun.”

It did so with a tune in its step, understanding my idiom without undue bloodshed. I didn’t expect the car to have enough room for Snackbot’s two-meter frame, but its legs shortened, disappearing who knows where, to fit perfectly in the co-pilot seat.

Once we hit the highway, I gunned it, feeling rocket acceleration under my control for the first time in decades.

Slacy’s new robot companion is more than just a snack vending machine. The pair retrofit a car and prep for long-distance travel. But a cry in the dark threatens to rip them apart.

Chapter 10 — Back in Black

“Okay, that’s done.” I closed a panel on Snackbot’s back. It sat on a packing station, legs dangling—well, as much as a 2.2-meter killer robot could dangle. I’d been using the packing station as my workbench in the Shmamazon warehouse.

Snackbot helped me move the large table (by letting me watch) to the wall of open rollup doors. I crutch-walked to face Snackbot. Natural breeze and light brushed my back. A row of silent delivery vans and Vanny were our audience.

“Let me tighten these screws, then give it another try. Hopefully this is the one.”

🎵 tick-tick-tick-tick 🎵

We’d been working on this all month. Snackbot was helping me outfit the Voltivian S524 to be road-warrior ready. I first handed Snackbot the inventory tablet when we got back from Voltivian. It somehow internalized the data, then returned the tablet. Now it could locate anything within the warehouse.

The problem was Snackbot had to climb fifty-meter-tall shelves to get to things. Climbing down with boxes in hand was a recipe for broken things. The chest cavity made wearing a backpack floppy, and while Snackbot had mounts for various attachments, we didn’t have any.

The cavity was for mounting combat power cells. The onboard power system was next level, but limited. Combat cells powered extended missions or heavy weaponry. Neither of which I had nor needed. But I did need snacks. Not just snacks, though—I needed it to carry things.

We tried duct taping a basket in the center space, but it’s surprisingly hard to root around in your own body cavity and find what you need. Cue the vending chute. I used a shapeformer to print a vending machine. Snackbot could drop anything in and recall it on demand—hypothetically. Until now, everything had jammed up the mechanism.

“Let’s give this a shot.”

I pushed a screwdriver, a snack bar, and a K-pop disc case into a slot in the top center panel where the big Snackbot-sized donut hole used to be. The slot slid shut.

“Hand me a snack, would ya?”

A bit of whirring, then Snackbot held a hand under a small sliding door as an item dropped. It unwrapped it and held it out to me.

🎵 Anything you want (You got it) Anything you need (You got it) 2 🎵

“Thanks. Neat trick—like when that guy regurgitated live goldfish.” I took a bite.

Pink dot eyes focused on me, then turned to slits.

“You know what? Forget it. I’m not sure that was a real memory.” Another bite.

🎵 wubb wubb wubb 🎵

“Alright, buddy, I think this version is a winner.” With the final bite, I tossed the wrapper in a bin, and slapped my hands across each other like it actually cleaned them.

🎵 untz untz untz 🎵

Snackbot hopped off the workbench. As it turned to walk away, I watched in fascination. Under its smooth matte silver skin, synthetic muscles rippled, bunched up, then stretched flat. Human, yet so very not.

I’d read Snackbot’s specs on the devslate. Actually unreal. Its skin was ablative, self-healing. I wanted to shoot it just to see if it deflected bullets. Maybe I’ll ask Snackbot later…

The S524 was parked inside at an open rollup door. While Snackbot was off shopping for my wishlist, I rolled to the car and continued working on modifications. Shit, where’s my screwdriver? I just had it. After an hour looking for it around the workbench, Snackbot walked up.

“Hey bud, how’s the list going?”

🎵 womp-womp 🎵

“Don’t sweat it. Take your time.”

I returned to my search. Snackbot held up a single digit. Whirring sounded, then the vending chute opened.

“Ah, there it is. Thanks, buddy.”

The sun, low on the horizon. A cool breeze came through the doors, making me put on a hoodie. Snackbot went outside to cool off. Its micro-fusion reactor built up enormous heat. Though small, in a day it could generate enough energy for a few hours of continuous work. Then Snackbot would have to rest most of the day while the battery trickle charged.

Snackbot laid on the cool concrete spreading its arms and legs for maximum surface contact. Vent ports opened and hot air rushed out, turning white in the chilled air. I imagined it took a cat nap, but I couldn’t be sure it actually slept. It would be like that for hours though, so I kept tinkering with the car.

I needed a ton of room for storage and sleep. With back seats folded flat, it had a cargo deck long enough for my height. But a mattress would take up all the gear space. So, I built a platform 30 centimeters over the deck to support a mattress above and rolls of solar panels below. I shifted back and forth between the car and shapeformer printing new parts on the workbench.

I looked up and it was dark out. I don’t remember it getting dark. I rolled outside. Snackbot was still there, blank faced, sound asleep. Do robots dream of electric snacks?

The moon, behind trees—setting. With no city light pollution, I could see so many stars. I started to identify the constellations Chuq taught me over the years when I heard a howl, low, close.

I looked out, pinpointing the howl’s location. A yelp cut through dry air, followed by growling. A whine, so high pitched, so distressed, made my heart stop.

“Hey, Snackbot.” Nothing. “Snackbot, wake up!”

Another yelp.

“Snackbot, it’s go time!” Its face remained blank, no pink eyes focused on me.

Fuck it! I rolled toward the sound. My arms, strong from constant wheelchairing, still burned, ached. I didn’t know what the wolves attacked, but I couldn’t just sit by and listen.

My wheelchair hit the curb at the end of the parking lot. I used the momentum to fling myself onto one and a half feet supported by the crutch. With eyes adapted to starlight and full moon coming through trees, I saw the pack. Five or six wolves encircling a large rock.

Atop the rock, a dog cowered, fur glistening, slick and matted. The wolves were trying to get it, but each time they stood against the rock, the dog bared its teeth, clamping its jaws ferociously. It was half the size of the wolves, but holding its own—for now.

Two wolves stepped up and snapped at its flank, one scoring a hit. The dog yelped, turned to face them, then laid back down, growling. Those were only a distraction. The largest wolf had decided to go in for the kill. It coiled, shifting weight, sensing the distance, readying a jump. The others stood still.

I plucked Sir Terry Hatchet off his crutch loop and launched him, cartwheeling head over shaft. He smacked into the wolf’s broadside with his flat head—really needed more practice throwing. The wolf yelped, but held its ground, then rotated toward me and snarled. The rest of the pack faced me as well. Oh shit!

The pack split—three loped my way. They could spare a few to hold me off while the rest went for the dog. To them, I was a contender for their meal. My turn. I raised the crutch and my other arm, making myself look bigger. That didn’t work—they still came, low and easy. I did my best to stand on one leg without putting too much pressure on the bad one.

I held the crutch in front of me, thrusting it at any wolf that got too close. They circled me, mouths slavering with long strings of saliva. The wolf Sir Terry attacked lunged at me and I swiped it with the crutch. The wolf rocked sideways from the hit, but with reactions being equal, I was knocked off balance and fell on my side with an oof as the crutch flew out of reach.

They had decided I was now on the menu. The pack closed in.

A black bear leaped over my prone body, landing between the rock and me. Wolves turned to the new threat. From the bear, a metallic growl wailed. Wait—not a bear. Snackbot—black and on all fours.

🎵 I’ve been too long, I’m glad to be back 3🎵

“Yeah, get it Snackbot!” 4

It lashed out with tentacled, chain-like arms, swatting each wolf into a roll. But they came back, circling wide, snarling, dripping. The dog yelped again. Snackbot did an impossible flip-twist to land by the rock.

🎵 I got nine lives — Cat’s eyes — Abusin’ every one of them and running wild 🎵

Snackbot’s limbs bent in all directions. It was like one of those cheap TV horror mashups. Bearsquid or Grizzlopus. Three wolves went tumbling into the woods.

🎵 Well, I’m back in black — Yes, I’m back in black 🎵

I scrabbled across the dirt and grabbed the crutch, using it to pull myself up. Snackbot recovered Sir Terry, then scooped up the dog and cradled it in fluidic hammock arms. The remaining wolves faced me. I turned and started hobbling toward the warehouse.

Snackbot ran up behind me, slamming through and scattering the wolves, then in a motion I still quite don’t understand, bent, jutted its head between my legs and lifted me onto its shoulders. I grabbed under its chin with my right arm and raised the crutch in my left, yelling out a “Let’s go!” Good thing I was wearing sweatpants today or Snackbot would need to clean the back of its neck.

When we reached the warehouse, Snackbot slid to a stop, bending down, planting my feet on to the ground, then breaking free. It placed the dog gently on the workbench. I shouted “Med aisle—rabies biopuck, now!” Snackbot, returning to all fours, took off like a greyhound.

I went to work, looking over the dog’s wounds. It whimpered.

“Easy boy, let’s take a look at you.”

His back was covered in saliva and blood. I kept a medkit under the workbench since I use power tools and I’m me. It was mostly medseal, woundflush, tweezers, and scissors—not enough for bite wound triage. I slid on gloves.

Snackbot returned, setting a biopuck on the bench, still running. It jogged to a stop just outside the door, then collapsed flat, spreading limbs like a concrete snow angel to sink its overflowing heat. Vents opened and hot vapor poured out in a mirage warble, hissing.

🎵 I’ve hit the sack5 🎵

I spread fur between the dog’s shoulder blades and pressed the biopuck onto exposed skin. Gel spread out, setting as the device drew itself tight. I held my palm like it was covered with test answers and I was sharing them with the puck. It projected vitals. A little high, as to be expected with the stress, and the patient correctly identified as canine.

I flicked my fingertips to swipe through the screens until I found pain management. I squeezed my fist to confirm. The puck beeped a warm tone. The dog sagged against my other hand as its breathing slowed. The calming effect of the puck would make the next steps easier.

I laid his head down and started palpating the wounded areas and using woundflush. A few bites could fit my pinkie tip. Most were shallow, though. I applied medseal to the deeper ones and covered all of them with secondskin. The combined matrixes would keep out infection and speed muscle and skin knitting. Tomorrow I could do a deeper cleaning, shaving, and analysis.

The dog snored. I held my palm out to check vitals again and verified rabies countermeasures were active. I didn’t know if the wolves actually had rabies, but the risk was too great. I piled some blankets in a corner and wrapped the dog up, then set down a tool tray of water.

I crutch-walked outside and laid beside Snackbot.

“You didn’t tell me you could do that.”

🎵 Oh, I’m done hidin’ now I’m shinin’ Like I’m born to be 6 🎵

We lay there, silent. Snackbot literally had a mask face, though I could see its pink eyes focused above.

“There’s Sagittarius. That’s how you can find the Milky Way, it’s right behind it.” I pointed.

🎵 bwaaahh 🎵

As I pointed out other constellations I could name, the dog walked between us. He stared at the stars too. I remembered how Chuq named her cats after astronomers 7. This dog seemed like one.

“Hey there, Galileo.” I pet his head, the only place I knew was unmauled. He licked my palm, wagged his tail, then curled up next to Snackbot, enjoying the warmth radiating off its chassis.

Author’s Notes

It’s been a while, huh? Not exactly though. We’ve spent a lot of time in the Flucksverse over the holidays. But nothing in the new year. How did that happen? Well, good news is 2 more posts are ready to go after this one so we’re back in black.

I would like to say that no dogs were harmed in this story, but as you’ve made it this far, that would obviously be a lie. Sorry. At least Slacy is handy with first aid.

Hopefully you listened to ’s stellar performance to hear him sing Snackbot’s lines. No matter what I throw at him, he nails it. Thanks to everyone who helped with song suggestions, especially .

Like doing coyote research, I had to research wolf behavior for this one. Did y’all forget about the wolves?

How was the fight scene?

Next Chapter

⚠️ Content Warning: Gun violence and gore

The hooves of the horses hit the hardpan, kicking up dust that drifted on the hot winds pouring out of the eastern hills. The brown cloud lined up behind the two riders like a beacon on the open plain—find the dust, find the horses, find the men. Two canteens rocked against a saddle, slow and steady. Two more clanked, hollowed of their life-giving fluids. A bladder in the saddlebag hinted at more, but promised nothing.

They only needed to make it to the train station—a mere speck of a town at the end of the tracks. But it would have water, enough for the train’s big steam engine, enough for the plain folk that tended it. With water, the riders could meet the rails in three days, two if the wind died—but the last time the wind died, so did Jean. Without water, one rider would die tomorrow, the other a day later.

Between here and there was a town, though. A dead one. Some say it was always that way, that it was a tombstone planted by God to show white men what happened when you wandered too far. The Collector, well, he didn’t believe any of that. This dead town would have a well, though, and water if—how did that ancient tale go?—if God willed it.

The painted stallion the Collector rode was new to him. But it had been a fine horse that hadn’t shied away from gunfire. The Collector would rather give water to the stallion than to the bounty. But isn’t that always the way. Behind the Collector rode a black mare, muzzle tethered to his saddle. And atop the mare’s bare back was the bounty, laid on his stomach, callused hands bound and hanging down one side, bootless feet bound and hanging down the other.

In the lee of a cliff, out of the wind, the Collector broke saddle. The canteen brushed across cracked lips as he took one sip. Two more, but that was it. Any more and the math would fail. The cans of food were spent. All that was left was hard tack which soaked up the water, leaving a dry mouth in its wake. The Collector hobbled the horses and let them squeeze whatever water they may from meager brush.

The winds brought heat even at night, baking the Collector in his boots. Still, he would have liked a fire to fend off coyotes, but the smoke would be a stronger beacon than the dust. Not even a match strike could be risked on the clear, moonless night. Instead, he threw out his bedroll and leaned against the cliff wall.

On the bedroll, he laid his pistols—the big irons of the law. The only mementos he was allowed to keep from that time. That place. He did not need the light to guide him as he took each weapon apart. Quick Hand did the work, brushing out the dust, then oiling the barrel and six chambers of the cylinder. He counted each bullet as he wiped them clean. Twenty. Twenty rounds to keep him alive and the bounty in his hands.

“Water.” came a dry rasp. The bounty roused against the mare’s flank.

The Collector got up and unceremoniously pushed the bounty off the horse. He slid down, feet first, then pivoted into a crumpled heap on his back. The dust stirred, the critters of the night did not. The bounty dragged himself to a boulder and leaned against it, rubbing his head with his bound hands.

The Collector poured two thimbles of water into the canteen cap and held it out to the bounty. “Don’t waste it. This is all you get.”

“Are you trying to let me die?”

“You’re still breathing aren’t you?”

The bounty didn’t complain anymore and took the cap, sipping, savoring. He handed the cap back, kicked away an encroaching scorpion with his bare foot, and laid his head flat against the boulder’s smooth surface

“Why am I here?”

“You know why.”

“Are you a bounty hunter?”

The Collector went back to his bedroll, sat down, leaned back, snugged one pistol in its holster, and laid the other across his chest. It pointed to the north, the bounty sat westward. No matter, Quick Hand would point it where it needed when it was needed.

The bounty must have been hit in the head harder than the Collector intended because he kept babbling.

“I didn’t do nothin’. It was Johnny Gringo’s boys. I was the one who found her body. I rode out to the law and told ‘em. I told ‘em the whole disgusting story.”

The Collector tapped his fingers along the sandalwood grip of the pistol, but said nothing. The bounty was smarter than he looked because he kept his mouth shut.

The bounty slept uneasily. If the Collector slept, only the night knew. The sunrise crept around the rock wall, reflecting, reaching. But all it found was bare dirt brushed clean by the wind.

By late afternoon, the dead town was on the horizon. The wind did not die with the night. At least it pushed the dust trail away from the town instead of announcing the riders’ approach.

This day, the bounty rode upright, bare back, still bootless. His bound hands were tied to the Collector’s saddle hitch along with the mare’s harness. The bounty could jump and run for it, but the Collector would drag him across the hardpan. If he broke free, barefoot and without water, he’d be dead by nightfall.

The Collector led the horses down the town’s only street to the well in the center. There would be water, but only if God willed it. Buildings hid shadows, but all the glass was gone and half the wall boards were missing. The Collector knew this would be an ambush, but as God willed water, God would have blood.

Quick Hand fired a single shot into a saloon second-story window, eliciting a cry, then a thud. Nineteen. Why did that number tug at his memory? In a single motion, the Collector flung the saddlebag onto his shoulder, dismounted, and dragged the bounty, protesting, off the mare. He entered the saloon, ignoring the dead body already shattered among a broken rail atop a rotting card table.

He shoved the bounty into a corner and threw the saddlebag on the bar. Quick Hand fired into the gut of another man entering from the back and again into his chest. The man fell against the wall, blood slicking it as he slid down, mewling. The Collector stood behind the bar and fed three fresh rounds into the cylinder. Sixteen was the count.

“Quick Hand, c’mon out!” A woman sat horseback just outside the non-existent batwing doors of the saloon. Two riders sat beside her, Winchesters raised and pointed at the Collector.

“That’s not my name.”

“We know who you are. Hand over the bounty and we’ll let you go on account of respecting your reputation.”

“Leave me now and you can keep the reputation.”

“Any other day and I’d take that offer, Mr. Quick Hand, but my boss Johnny Gringo wants your man in there. He’s besmirched Johnny’s good name.”

The bounty shouted in hushed tones, “Don’t let them take me, please. They’ll kill me. Untie me—untie me and give me a gun. I can help take ‘em.”

Ignoring the bounty, the Collector shouted out the door, “That’s not my name!”

Quick Hand fired again, the round drilling into the eye of the rider on the right, leaving a void where his mind had been. He was a fair shot, that is, when his mind still worked.

The Collector fired the big iron that was already in his left hand at the other rider. The first shot missed. The second caught the rider’s shoulder, triggering an involuntary shot from the Winchester that went across the Collector’s arm. Just a graze. But a graze still bleeds, so God was satiated for now. Thirteen.

Gunfire rang out from all directions toward the saloon. Tables and chairs exploded into splinters. The bounty cowered in the corner, protecting his eyes. The bar was stopping rounds, but wouldn’t hold for long. The Collector slipped out the back door.

A shadow blocked the back alley, but Quick Hand fired two rounds, one hitting the heart, the other piercing the throat. More than necessary, but you couldn’t always be sure with shadows. Before the shadow hit the ground, Quick Hand fired into the shadow behind him, emptying all chambers of that pistol. Ten.

The Collector reloaded six rounds into the spent pistol. He ran to the other side of the building, leaning left around the corner, fired. One. Two. Three times. A couple made their mark. He slid back, but not fast enough. His left bicep was bleeding. God would have blood.

The big iron was now too heavy to lift. He had to keep moving. While running to the other side, he pulled out the remaining round, holstered the weapon, and palmed the bullet. Seven.

The Collector ran past an alley and behind the next building. When he rounded the corner, he was confronted with a bearded man. Grease from this morning’s bacon congealed in the long curly hair and glistened from the low sun. The barrel of the bearded man’s pistol glistened too. Quick Hand was fast, but not faster than a bullet.

A red blur buzzed in front of the beard, then stopped instantly. The man’s eyes crossed to see what threatened him. Quick Hand fired into his skull before he could focus. The hummingbird 1 flew away unfazed. The Collector slid the bullet from his palm into the empty chamber. Six.

The wind never died. Without the buildings blocking it, the main street was a cloud of dust. The Collector sprinted out, pistol raised. There was no time to stop. Stopping was death. He moved and the big iron fired with each step. Five. Four. Three. It would be enough. Or it wouldn’t. Only Quick Hand could say, but Quick Hand was busy.

The woman fell from her horse, her gray duster stained in blood. The Collector stood over her, gun aimed at her still chest. A sharp click brought his eyes up, his attention forward. The bounty, hands untied, held a pistol leveled at the Collector. The bounty fired.

The Collector heard the report. Looking down, he saw his shirt stained with blood, but no fresh blood seeped out. He looked behind himself to see Johnny Gringo slumped on his horse.

The bounty lowered his gun an inch. “How’s about we calls it even? I go my way, you go yours.”

Was this man as innocent as he said, or the bastard they said he was? He was good at killing, but isn’t everyone still alive out here?

By the calculus, one bullet was left. Whether the shot could be made was never in question. But the payday would be half. Too little. Too late. If the Collector let the bounty go, the payday would be nothing. But the bounty had saved him. And didn’t the Collector owe him something for that?

The Collector lowered his gun an inch. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”

The bounty nodded and holstered his gun. The Collector did the same.

The bounty turned to walk away. In the last flash of the sun slipping below the horizon, in the twitch of a squint, the Collector saw it—a smirk. The one a man wears when he knows he’s gotten away with everything.

Before the Collector could finish this thought, Quick Hand had already done the job. Its judgement laid bare by the crimson blooming on the bounty’s back. The bounty collapsed to the ground.

The Collector had weighed the cost and reached the only conclusion. He would get half.

Author’s Notes

I channeled Stephen King’s The Gunslinger with this one. I don’t know if I made the mark, but if you felt a vague familiarity, then I’m satisfied. Also, I barely know how to write in third-person.

This started as a story for a prompt. I don’t really write for prompts. But ’s latest Power up Prompt hit so many Gunslinger themes, I couldn’t pass it up. I went for all three levels:

1. The Ghost Town

2. The Disgraced Deputy

3. Delivering Justice

Writing with King’s style, I did not clarify these points too deeply.

While this started as a prompt, King’s dreamlike writing and the unreal nature of Quick Hand made me think of The Cog and a particular hot headed hummingbird. So I consider this my first submission for The Cog.

Reflecting back on last year, I’d like to set an intention for this new year.

A while back, someone on Substack asked “What does love mean to you?” I didn’t have an answer ready. I’ve never felt things the way they seem to in movies and TV romances. Is that because movies amplify it, or because I experience love differently?

To me, love is acceptance—accepting someone as they are. Beauty, grace, scars, warts, and all. It means accepting them as they are right now—not some theoretical idealized future version or some flawed past version.

Yet, love is not unconditional because people change—circumstances change.

We are not set in stone. People have great capacity for change and do so constantly. Those who don’t often stagnate because they resist change. This means you may no longer accept someone for who they are today or may one day accept them for who they have become.

I am a flawed person. I was worse yesterday than I am today. But I continuously work to improve myself. You first have to be bad at something to eventually be good at it. Writing has helped me to understand myself, reading has helped me to accept others.

To understand love, it must be compared to its opposite: hate.

Hate is not acceptance. Accepting a person means recognizing their dignity. Hate denies dignity and causes real harm to the people it targets. You cannot simultaneously recognize someone’s dignity while permitting something or someone that denies it. Therefore, accepting hate contradicts accepting people.

I do not accept hate. I do not tolerate hate. It’s the Paradox of Tolerance. To be truly a tolerant society, you must deny tolerance to those who promote intolerance.

Why am I talking about love and acceptance? It’s not just me thinking aloud—it drives how I engage with people. It’s what brought me to this community on Substack. I wanted to understand the queer people who are close to me better and to help build and support a safe community.

Full disclosure, I am a cisgender heterosexual man. I don’t know what it is like to be LGBTQ+, and maybe never will. But I don’t believe understanding someone’s experience is a prerequisite for accepting them or standing with them.

Humans are naturally wary of what they don’t understand—it’s an evolved survival trait. But caution isn’t an excuse. The more we understand each other, the easier acceptance becomes, and the responsibility to seek that understanding is ours.

When I first came to Substack, I sought out openly queer fiction writers and those that supported them. Through the people I started following, I found a great community of LGBTQ+ authors and allies.

I’ve been reading a lot of fiction by queer authors—across genres, across identities, across platforms. Some of it is quiet and platonic, while some of it is vivid and explicit.

I’ve lived all these lives for a brief moment. I guess I’m gay now. Or maybe I’m a lesbian. I’m asexual. I’m bisexual. I’m romantic. I’m trans. I’m aromantic. I’m still trying to figure it out. Or maybe I’m who I’ve always been: a straight white guy who’s learning to better accept others as they are.

Borrowing these lives didn’t change my gender or sexual identity—new information can’t change what is inherent, but it can reveal things previously misunderstood or hidden. What it did change was my understanding. The more I understand, the more I can support.

Since then, I’ve written stories with queer characters. If you’ve read Chuq’s story, then you might see that the love I represented there was acceptance. Seeing people at their most vulnerable, or at their worst, and loving them anyway.

My wife and I work with groups that carve out a safe space for LGBTQ+ teens and adults in a conservative area. We see the struggle every day. They aren’t struggling with their identity. They know who they are and that will evolve as they grow and feel more accepted. They struggle because they aren’t accepted—by family, by former friends, by culture, by society. Because of that, they may not accept themselves yet.

I was feeling pretty good about the Substack fiction community. Then, it became not so cozy. It became hostile.

Someone was spreading hate—attacking people for being trans, and attacking those who defended them. (I’m not calling them by name here as I do not want to amplify their voice anymore.)

Worse, I learned that some parts of the community supported this hateful person, whether out of ignorance or misplaced neutrality. As I mentioned earlier, tolerating hate means accepting the harassment of others.

When this happened, I was heartbroken. It pains me to see people struggle to be accepted for who they are—especially when they feel like society won’t let them accept themselves.

Tolerating hate means siding with the attacker and denying the victims their dignity. That is what divided our Substack community—not intolerance, but the failure to be intolerant of intolerance. In cases of abuse, it’s critical to listen to the abused and harassed—not to center the voice of the abuser.

You can’t always know who a person truly is. Especially when they hide parts of themselves and only show you what they want you to see. It’s frustratingly easy to be gaslit. But some people peddle hate on their front page.

It’s natural to give people the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if someone is genuinely being curious and trying to understand people better. But it doesn’t take long to see that they’re questioning in bad faith and arguing in bad faith. It’s a mask to hide their hate.

You don’t have to agree with what people do and who they are, but you can accept it without hating them for it as long as what they’re doing is not hateful or harmful to others. Judging them for it is not acceptance. My judgement only goes so far as to determine if you’re an antagonist or an ally.

Fighting hate is exhausting. Not every fight is worth engaging in. I’m not going to fight little fights with random people online. I’m going to block them and save my energy for work that actually helps people.

It’s not our responsibility to educate people every time they make a mistake. If someone asks in good faith, I’m willing and able to help. But understanding can’t be forced. That kind of motivation is internal. You have to want to do it.

Hate is different. When someone spouts hate and people keep listening or responding, that hate is being fed. Don’t feed the trolls. Attention tells them their message is landing and that persistence might eventually pay off. If there’s hope that their message will prevail, why would they stop?

Set boundaries. Block. Disengage. To be effective, we must remove people from spaces where they target others. Don’t lend hate a voice. Don’t feed it. Let hate starve. This isn’t to punish or silence—it’s to protect people who are already being harmed.

Sometimes that distance creates room for reflection. Someone with hate in their heart may consider why they were pushed out and why people think their words are hateful. They might have a change of heart. Sometimes though, they don’t make the effort to reflect. If someone chooses to double down on hate, then that reveals their true nature and they’re better off far away from their victims—just like any abuser.

I will defend your right to be the arbiter of your own body, identity, gender, sexuality, or otherwise.

I will defend your right to free speech, with the understanding that you suffer the consequences of your words. Freedom of speech—not freedom from consequences. Shame is a consequence. Banishment from our spaces is a consequence.

Seek to understand and to be understood. Accept yourself for who you are. Accept others for who they are. Don’t let ancient culture or bigoted society decide what is right. But of course, do not accept hate, within yourself or others.

I lay in my bed, blanket pulled to my chest, knees up, laptop fulfilling its sworn duty. As I put the finishing touches on my latest chapter, I giggled at the infectious good cheer shared between Chuq and Slacy. My smiling, stifled laughter made one of my dogs lift its head and look at me as if to say “C’mon man, I’m trying to sleep.”

“I’m sorry, girl,” I whisper and scratch her belly in apology. I looked to my wife to make sure I hadn’t woken her. Her face, shrouded by an eye mask in peaceful rest, soft lines at the corners her lips earned by years of laughing, made me smile again. She had earplugs in to block out her noisy night-owl.

A clatter clacked on the roof. I looked up at the ceiling. The dogs also looked up at the ceiling, then at me as if to say “not it” before laying their heads back down for sweet slumber. Another clatter called to me. “Dammit”, I huffed. Neither my wife nor dogs rustled at my complaints.

I pulled the Santa hat more snug on my head. What? Who cares that it’s over? It’s nice and warm. I slid out of bed, thinking about Christmas day when I found the hat. It lay on the ground, just in front of our fireplace. I mused that it must have been dropped by Santa on his way out. But Santa isn’t real. Besides we have a gas fireplace and no chimney.

I walked into the living room, expecting to see nothing. Other than the lit Christmas tree and stockings hung on the mantle, nothing is what I saw.

The clatter clacked again. Clack. Clack. It moved across the roof, getting closer. Clack. Clack. Directly above me now. Clack. Silence.

The gas vent over the fireplace swung open. Crawling out of the vents came a gray mist. It swirled its way towards me, then clawed into my nostrils and down my throat, scratching, burning. I coughed, gray dust and blood splattering on the hardwood floors in wet blobs. “What. The. Hell?” I wheezed. Not mist—dust. Drying my mouth, scraping my eyeballs, abrading my skin.

The dust poured out of the vent in a torrent, swirling around the room. A tornado stream of gray fog and shadow. The Christmas tree shook, paintings tilted askew, and the stockings looped around themselves. The dust twirled faster, tighter, like an ice skater going for a record spin.

A shadow formed in the dark cloud. Spinning. Faster. Tighter. The shape became more solid, more real. The whirlwind coalesced into a single being. A large man in a red suit—white beard, balding head bare.

He held out a hand. “Give.”

“No. I found it—it’s mine.”

“Give!”

“No!”

He held up a red-mittened hand. “Ho now, ho ho, young man. Be reasonable. I shall ask once more, and then—oof”

I tackled the not so jolly man to the ground. He grabbed for the hat and I used my longer arms to push his forehead down, forcing the rest of his body out of reach of the hat. I punched Santa in the face, brushing a layer of dust off revealing cartilage and sinew, that then spiraled around his rosy cheeks.

The face quickly reformed, cheeks redder and madder than ever. I felt the true power of the hat then. Strength flowed through me. I punched Santa again, his face fractured into clouds of dust with each hit.

It reconstituted, slower this time, and he yelled “Stop that!”

The power felt good, warm, cozy in my bones. I could do this. I could kill Santa with my bare hands and keep the hat forever, feeding off its power to do good with cozy and cheer. I will defeat—

Santa snapped his meaty fingers through the mitten, thumb rushing past four fingers fused into a single flipper. A flash of bright light seared my eyeballs. Then, too late, I realized the mittens were not an idle threat. They were the alpha and the omega—time and space bent to his will.

My fingers felt like they were dipped in the arctic sea. I tried to tap into the hat’s warmth—its coziness—but the connection unraveled in my grasp.

I pulled my hands close, peering through the spots in my eyes, lit only by the dim Christmas tree lights. The tips of my fingers blackened, then flaked away like the first snowfall of the year. Each snowflake tumbling, spinning, then turning to dust before it ever touched the floor.

Once the skin of my palms eroded, the red muscles beneath were exposed, bulging as my fingers clenched in agony. My hands shook, and the muscles slid free in avalanche sheets, exposing bare bone. With fingers now made bone rakes, I dragged them inward to gather the dust falling from my chest, but it all slipped through like sand.

I tried to scream, but my lips split and the roof of my mouth caved in. My finger bones cracked like ice sickles, then shattered into fragments that melted into dust. My body disintegrated from top to bottom, grain sliding through an hourglass.

My essence floated above, watching the scene below. As my body crumpled to dust, the hat remained intact. Skin, muscle, ligaments, and bones broke apart, molecule by molecule, and piled at my once-feet—the hat left untouched atop the heap.

In my last moments, I saw Santa walk over, lift the hat, and return it to his balding head. He spit on the pile of dust that was me, snapped his fingers, collapsed into a vortex of dust, and exited through the vent.

A white light came for my soul, surrounding me, calling me home. When it receded, I was somewhere dark, somewhere cold. A howl cut through the silence. Then a pack joined in. I was cozy no more.

Author’s Notes

Yep, I got Flucksed by Santa. I enjoyed being Ed the Cozy Editor, but Cozy had to die.

I had a lot of fun these past seven months. and I first posted The Spectral Agent on May 19th. My plan in coming here was to support Jan’s work and join a community of like-minded writers. Both of those were a great success.

What I never planned on was writing The Flucks. That idea and motivation spawned out of nowhere with a flash. I’m so grateful to for lending Slacy a voice. The story wouldn’t be the same or had as much success without him.

In the past seven months we have:

• Published 20 episodes and 2 bonus episodes of The Spectral Agent (only 10 left)

  • 2,300+ downloads of the audio version

• Published the first chapter of Orchards of Time last month

  • 124 downloads of the audio version

• Jan sent Thank you from the bottom of my heart

• Published 9 episodes of The Flucks

  • 2000+ downloads of the audio version

• Hosted The Flucks Live with Anthony. His performance was on point and hilarious with a few stifled laughs from him.

• Published I can hear her calling as part of the Hallowtide Files: The Gheeldyn community collaboration (now clearly seated in the Flucksverse)

• Published 3 extra cozy episodes of The Flucks — Chuq, the origin story of Chuq and Slacy’s relationship.

  • I also wrote a poem for the first time in this series. Who knew I could?

• The Cozy Editor — this post of course.

• Published 46 posts overall

• Posted thousands 😅 of notes

• Gained 99 subscribers and 184 followers

Throughout all this, we’ve found an inviting and supportive community of writers and readers. I love being part of this community. I don’t believe we’d have been able to write so much without your support.

First, I’d like to thank . He is my inspiration. Without him, I wouldn’t be here. I would have never started The Flucks. I love working with him every day and can’t wait to see what he creates next.

Jan and I would like to thank a few of our biggest supporters. They read and comment across all our creations and are always extremely kind. Every one of them has their own amazing stories that are better than mine.

• reads everything. Not just Jan and my stuff, but everything our community produces it seems. She’s always supportive and a pillar of the community. Without her feedback and encouragement, I would not have branched out into some flash fiction, then Gheeldyn, and probably The Flucks. She’s the biggest supporter of Jan and everything he creates. We have a ton of fun with the crossovers.

• has been working with me on The Flucks since day one. I throw crazy stories and situations at him, and he performs them perfectly. An extra special thanks for narrating The Cozy Editor with no notice!

• was one of the earliest readers of TSA and bullied me into publishing The Flucks. I can’t thank her enough for both.

• has read every episode of TSA and loves the characters as much as Jan and I do.

• listens to every episode of The Flucks and loves a good squelch. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to fit one in this story, pal.

• lets me take his stories out of context and roots for bad things for Slacy.

• creeps me out with her teeth talk, but I like that she likes The Flucks. Maybe The Flucks needs more teeth 🤔.

• loves Chuq as much as I do and likes to go into nerdy detail about neurodivergence with me.

• and I get technical with Substack and that tickles my engineer brain.

• found The Flucks, I think through Stephen, and then listened to everything in like one day.

• hits in waves and brings her dragons along for the ride. Nothing for a while, then bam!—a lot of the chapters and a lot of fun comments in one day. She also loves cozy, so of course loves Chuq.

• created three cover arts for episodes of The Flucks.

I’d like to give special thanks to . Her story doc on The Flucks provided a lot of insight that has shaped future chapters. She’s also a very active member of the community.

Chuq’s story is mostly 1 cozy, and set 40 years before the events of The Flucks. She seems like she’d enjoy cozy more than Slacy and his sardonic wit. Chuq died from catching the Flucks early, having lived a long life with Slacy’s endearing friendship. These are her memoirs.

—Ed

Chuq

Using sledgehammers and power tools with Slacy was fun. Now it was time for dinner. I loved cooking, but I wasn’t too keen on first dates. Wait, this was not a date. Stop saying that.

I still look back on this day, nearly every day, especially after losing my dear Maddie a few years ago. At least I still have Slacy.

—Charlotte

Christmas Evening 2055

My watch buzzed and projected a video of a doofus on my doorstep. “Aw man, c’mon, I’m cookin’ here.” Hubble, sitting on a stool, mrowed.

I turned the stove to a simmer, then took off my apron and returned it to its hook on my way out of the kitchen.

buzz-buzz — A video of a doofus’s finger retracting.

At my approach, the bolt slid in and I pulled open the door. “Why, hello there stranger, how are you?” Oh gawd, what am I becoming?

“Hi,” Slacy replied.

The cold front hit right after I got home. This morning’s rain quickly turned to snowing and a couple of inches had already accumulated. Now though, it was just freezing and eerily silent outside. Fucking snow.

“Come in, come, in.” Both of my hands waved to usher him in. Stop it Charlotte.

“I brought wine.” He held up a twenty-liter bucket. Shit, does he expect me to drink all that? “I wasn’t sure what varietal you liked, so I brought old world, white and red—Italy—both zero alcohol.”

He reached into the bucket, pulled out a bottle—oh, thank god—and handed it to me. I held it appraisingly in two hands cooing “Oh, wonderful, wonderful”—I am a monster—then sat it on the side table.

He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. I looked down at my red Christmas dress and heels. Fuck me. I slipped my heels off and slid them under the side table like, sure, that’s what I always do—nothing out of the ordinary here. Slacy took the cue I didn’t give and set the bucket down, then kicked off his wet boots, too.

“Sooo, how was your day?” Don’t do it. “Get the wall taken down?” I mean it, Charlotte. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay around to clean up.” Stop your incessant babbling. “I had so much fun.” Don’t. You. Dare. I dared—I leaned down for a hug.

Why did I do this? I’m not a hugger. I don’t fucking know.

Slacy froze in place as I embraced. I think he was still digesting my verbal diarrhea. Then, he put his hands around my shoulders like a toddler being picked up. At least I wasn’t still wearing heels. He gently squeezed. It was nice. We both made sufficient mumbling noises, detangled, and I led him to the kitchen.

I put my apron back on and fired the stove back up. One of the reasons I got this place is the kitchen. A double stacked oven/flash cooker, six-burner inductive stove, and a island large enough to sleep on.

Slacy sat the bucket on a stool across from me and next to Hubble, who looked at it wondering what was in it for him. “Oh, hey there buddy,” Slacy said with a quick head pat. He pulled out the other bottle and a pecan pie and set them on the counter.

“Here, I brought a gift.” He had one more thing in his bucket of tricks.

“Oh, uh... I didn’t think we were doing presents.”

“It’s not for Christmas. I saw that you liked books and wanted to share some you might like.”

“Oh, that’s sweet.”

“It’s the tales of Agent Levitsky2 —the complete first volume.”

“First? Volume?”

“Yeah, this covers the arc where he goes from aspiring detective to—”

“Alright, alright, take it easy fella. I appreciate it.” I gestured to my growing stacks of books on the breakfast-nook table. What? Did you think those not-rooms were meant for eating breakfast?

“I’ll read it next,” I said, surprising myself by actually meaning it.

“So, you excited about tonight?”

“Hey dude, I invited you, you’re the one that invited Maddie through proxy.”

“Uh huh, you see, I was talking about me. Are you excited about me? And there you go, talking about Maddie.” Do I even have to say it? Yes, he grinned. There.

“Fair. You jerk.” I threw raw greenbean at him, then tossed one to Hubble who I missed and gave me the are you kidding me? look.

Slacy helped when I asked, fetching items from the pantry, pulling dishes out of the oven, and setting the table. Once all the dinner was out, he put the oven on warm and slid in the pecan pie.

buzz-buzz — A video of a woman in a parka, retracting a finger.

“Hold on.” My hand held up a digit interrupting Slacy, and I ran to the door. My bare feet didn’t slide on the tile, thankfully. Check in the mirror. Fluff fluff. Looks good. Looks good. I yanked open the door. “You’re here!”

“Hey!” Maddie smiled up at me and my pulse quickened even more. Keep it together Charlotte—you got this.

My hands ushered her in, all cool and calm like. Shut up, yes they did. I took her parka and turned to hang it on a hook. When I turned back around, my heart stopped.

Her dark hair fanned out on to her shoulders, silver streaks like water trickling down a mountainside. Her green dress and matching heels made me no longer feel like an overdressed idiot.

A stupid grin broke out on my face. Admiring her gown, I realized I was staring, then looked down at mine, just now noticing that I still had on the apron. Fuck my life.

“Oh, I like your tattoos,” Maddie said, saving me from misery, gesturing at my partial sleeves. “I didn’t see them under your jacket yesterday.”

My right forearm was coming along nicely, mostly filled in. My left forearm only had one, still sealed under secondskin from a cover-up job. But, since she was also a tattooed individual, she would understand.

Now came the awkward part where someone with tattoos compliments you, and you’re obligated to return the compliment. Instead, I leaned down to hug her. I’ve known Slacy for like five whole minutes and hugged him so why not hug someone I’ve known two whole minutes. Sure. Why not. I guess. I’m a hugger now.

Pulling back, I looked at her tattoos—the intricate artwork, the swirls on her chest winding to her shoulders, then found myself swept up in the current, trapped in the eddies of her collar bone, and whispering “I like yours too.” My eyes crawled up her neck and met her twinkling gaze.

“Hiya Maddie!” Slacy had popped around the corner. “What’s shaking?” That asshole. Thank you!

“This way.” I turned and my hand tried to pitch a baseball a few times.

Hubble had long vacated the main spaces—too many people for him. Slacy had finished putting the dishes on the table. He fist-bumped Maddie, then we all sat down. The table was round so I didn’t have to decide who to sit next to.

“I didn’t know what you guys would want, so I looked up a few regional recipes.” The chef has to set the mood. My hand pointed at each dish. “Honey ham, greenbean casserole, sweetpotato casserole, macaroni casserole—a lot of casseroles, really, I guess.” Great job chef.

Slacy started scooping. Maddie and I scooped whatever was in front of us, then passed the bowl.

“Sooo, Maddie, how was your day?” No, not this again.

“Oh, it was nice. There were a few trees still left on the lot. I had to take them down to be chipped. Other than that, just tidying up and looking forward to dinner.” She was looking forward!

“Nice,” I replied, with a broad smile. Why am I so bad at this?

The Taylor Swift Holiday Collection was playing in the background. Yes. No, my music isn’t outdated.

After a few rounds of small talk, I noticed I didn’t have any sweetpotato casserole yet.

“Slacy, can you pass the sweetpotatoes?” I asked, at the same time Maddie asked “Slacy, can you pass the greenbeans?”

My hands pointed, as if he was incapable of finding one of five items on the table. He looked like he was in his own headspace, his blank stare mode, but not eating.

“Slacy, the sweetpotatoes?” My hands gestured again.

“Stop holding my attention hostage!” he yelled, arms waving frantically. The table went silent. He was staring directly ahead, blank.

“Slacy, are you alright?” I said tentatively.

He got up from the table, grabbing his phone, and stormed off to the bathroom. I looked at Maddie, seeing my confusion reflected. She mouthed “What the fuck?” I shrugged and my stupid hands showed her the size of the fish I caught.

“Should we?” Maddie started.

“Let’s give him a minute.”

We ate in awkward silence. Great first date Charlotte. My mind was on Slacy. My sister had Autism. I don’t know if he had it, but he was showing some of the signs I was familiar with.

buzz-buzz — Slacy, sending me a text. I projected my watch and a wall of text exploded onto the table in front of me. All mostly grammatically correct and punctuated.

Sorry. I am so sorry. I ruined your dinner. This happens sometimes, and I don't know why. Well, maybe I do know what my symptoms are. If I don't eat or sleep, I get overwhelmed.

Charlotte, I got overwhelmed. I am sorry. I didn't sleep last night. I was so excited to see you this morning and I didn't want to be asleep when you showed up.

I didn't eat anything after breakfast. I was saving room for dinner. You told me you could cook and it sounded like it would be amazing. So I didn't eat. I'm really sorry. I'll go home now.

I swiped my free hand in the air to quickly type back.

no you will not stay right there mister!

Uh, that was probably not very polite or helpful.

I mean, don't stay there. Stay here. With us.

His reply was slow in coming.

But I ruined dinner.

No you didn't. Get some food in you, you'll feel better. I —it sent before I could finish. Three dots bounced up and down indicating Slacy was typing a message. Up and down. Up and down. C’mon guy.

Maybe.

I finished my message. I want you here.

Okay.

“Slacy is coming back. He’s going to need time to eat and recover. He’s probably got low blood sugar and is over-stimulated.” I blurted to Maddie before he got back.

She nodded. My hand reached across the table and settled on top of hers, then I mouthed ‘Thank you.’ Sometimes these hands know what they’re doing.

Slacy sat back down, drank a whole glass of tea in one gulp, then began eating huge mouth-fulls. Maddie and I watched in amazement at first, then our eyes drifted towards each other. We all ate in silence and I tried my best not to grin at her with my mouth full.

When we were all done, Maddie got up and started clearing dishes while I went to get dessert ready. Slacy was sitting there with his blank stare.

Maddie sat back down in the dining room while I worked at the counter, and shouted “Who wants pee-can pie?” Slacy snickered.

Maddie called back with a smile in her words, “I’ll have some.”

“Slacy, pee-can pie?” I shouted again. Maddie giggled.

I walked back to the dining room, my hand still holding the pie knife and waving it around as I talked. “What’s going on? Slacy, you brought the pee-can pie, do you not want any?”

Maddie and Slacy made eye contact and burst out laughing, both saying “She said ‘pee-can’”. I just stood there. “What?” They kept laughing. I shook my head and walked back into the kitchen.

I made three bowls of pie with vanilla ice cream. My hands carried all three bowls in one trip, remembering the days I was a restaurant server. I dished them out and said “Here’s your pee-can pie.”

At once, Maddie and Slacy yelled “It’s puh-cahn!” and fell back into giggles. “Traitors,” I muttered.

After that session of poke fun at Charlotte, conversation came easy. Slacy poured us all some more red wine and every old person’s favorite game broke out.

“I remember when elevators had buttons,” said Maddie.

“I remember when phones had ports to plug things into,” said Slacy.

“I remember when people weren’t assholes about pronunciation,” said I. Maddie mid-sip snorted and Slacy guffawed. “Guys, remember there’s no alcohol in this wine.” Bunch of clowns.

Slacy jumped out of his seat and to the window. “It’s snowing!”

“Um. It’s been snowing all day pal.”

He ignored my observation and ran to the door, putting his boots back on. “Let’s go!”

“No way dude, I hate snow!”

“You’re just doing it wrong.” This fucking guy.

“I’m pretty sure you can’t do ‘snow’ wrong,” said the girl who’s never really seen snow in California.

Maddie walked up behind me and put her parka over my shoulders. Her lips brushed my ear, and she whispered “You kids go have fun.”

Now that I was warm all over and had a woman to woo, I said “Fuck it, let’s do this!” I put my rubber boots on and ran outside like a god-damned moron in a Hallmark movie.

Before I even got off the porch, a snowball hit me in the boob. “Oh no you didn’t!” I scooped up snow and threw it. It flew out in a cloud, hitting nothing but the ground. Shit!

“You’ve got to pack it tighter!” Slacy shouted and threw another one at my head while I was bent over gathering more snow.

I stood up, tight ball in my fist, and yelled “That’s what she said!” as I threw the ball, finally hitting him in the shoulder.

He threw another one square in my face. I screamed “No!” and ran after him. He took off in the other direction. I used my superior speed to go in for a tackle, and we hit the ground. You’re going to feel that one tomorrow Charlotte.

We lay on the ground and Slacy started flapping his arms and spreading his legs in the snow making snow angels. This guy is a fucking child. I started making my own snow angel.

Giggling, I looked up as a part in the clouds revealed a moonless sky. We both lay there, just staring.

“That’s Orion,” my hand pointed. “See the three bright stars in a row, that’s his belt.”

“Yeah?” he rolled over to look down my arm to spot it. “Oh, yeah. Cool.”

“Hey, Slace?”

“Yes, Chuck?”

“That’s just another Boomer name!”

“Ok, sure, we need to change a letter or two to make it a proper zoomer name.”

“You mean like your parents did?”

“I resent that hurtful accusation. What’s your favorite letter?”

“Q”

At the same time we both shouted “Chuq!” and giggled.

“Okay, let’s try again,” he said.

“Hey, Slace?”

“Yes, Chuq?”

“Are you neurodivergent?”

“Don’t you need a diagnosis for that?”

“You ass, be serious.” I punched him in the rib earning a satisfying oof.

“I dunno, maybe. I’ve always been different.”

“I see that. I like it, and you should talk to a therapist about it.”

“I will.”

I turned my head to look at him, his eyes were fixed on the sky. I could see the gears turning in his mind through the tiny portals to his soul. I knew he would.

“What do you think of Maddie?” I asked.

He turned his head to face me. “I think you like her, and that’s what matters. Right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Will you go for it?”

“Definitely.”

“Awesome.”

He raised his forearm, pivoting it on his elbow. I did the same and we bumped fists.

“Okay, I think that’s my cue,” he said, getting up then lending me a hand.

“Great, because my ankles are getting cold.”

“Show Maddie some bare ankle, that will really get her going.” he said, wagging two eyebrows.

I gave him a light shove.

“Goodnight, Chuq,” he said with his big stupid grin.

“Goodnight, Slace,” I said with mine.

When I went back inside and took off the parka, I ran into Maddie in the hallway. She gestured upward with her eyes. Oh yeah, the mistletoe, when did my cursed hands put it up there?

“This town is full of clichés,” I tell her.

She looked up to me. “You get used to it.”

Her lips part in invitation. I take it and lean down... but that’s another story.

Author’s Notes

Alright, this one was fun, but also tough to write. Did anyone have middle-aged AuADHD diagnosis on their Flucks bingo card? No? Me neither.

When I started dreaming up the Flucks Christmas, I had the simple idea of doing it through Chuq’s point of view and setting it in the past. Because, hey, Christmas alone in a warehouse is not very cozy.

Chuq started out as just someone for Slacy to care about and see die from the Flucks before his eyes. She was really just a plot device, but through writing this it allowed me to care more about Chuq and develop her as a character. I think it now shows why Slacy adores Chuq so much. Maybe you can feel why he is sort of lost without her.

I learned more about her through this writing process. Because who the hell am I to write from a woman and lesbian’s perspective. But I hope I hit all the right marks and created a character that seems like a whole person, not just a plot device.

I kind of thought when I was originally writing it, that Chuq’s voice was too young. Chuq seemed like a twenty-something year old person and not the right voice for someone who’s supposed to be in her late forties.

But, then I realized, hey, I’m in my middle forties, and I still feel like a young adult. My knees might creak a little more, but I still like running around and knocking down walls and doing all sorts of other silly things.

I presume that in 30 years we’ll have better healthcare for everyone, so that the older people can have more productive lives for longer. So, after all, it didn’t really seem like a stretch. And it allowed me to kind of relive some of my memories of what it was like doing shenanigans when I was younger. So, I think this is probably the exact right voice and tone.

I still feel like a young adult, just a young adult with bills and obligations. Even if we’re old of body, we’re always young of mind and young of heart.

Maybe that’s the message of The Flucks.

And with that note, I leave you with this.

Merry Flucking Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Continue reading for A Very Spectral Christmas, catch up with the Part One Recap, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Last time on TSA

With a sigh, I stood. For both of us, I clanked my sword with the others, glancing at each of them.

“That settles it. Tomorrow we go on the attack.”

“Wooh! Spectral Squad! Let’s gooo!” Chai exclaimed to no one but me.

While visions of friends and sugar plums danced in his head, Viktor went to sleep.

A Very Spectral Christmas

I awoke in the cabin, Kira sleeping soundly beside me. Opening the curtains, I saw it was snowing. There were already a few inches on the ground. I love snow and the crisp chill it brings. This was a great start for what would surely be a perfect day.

In the living room, the Christmas tree’s lights were emitting a yellow glow. It would otherwise be dark with the late sunrise. We always kept the tree lights on, giving the cabin warmth and holiday spirit.

Chai was still curled up on the couch, appearing to be asleep. Under the tree, I saw only four presents. One was still missing.

“Morning sunshine, how’d you sleep?” Chai asked, yawning.

“It’s Winter, the sun isn’t up yet.” I corrected.

“Viktor, I don’t think you know what sunshine is.”

I smirked. “Morning. Have you seen Rue? She hasn’t put a present under the tree yet.”

“She slipped out an hour ago, all tacticaled up.”

“Alright. I need some—”

“Coffee. Yeah, yeah, I’ll get it.” Chai offered, already moving toward the small kitchen to make a pot.

I sat down in the big leather chair, day-dreaming about the feast we would have later. My family stuck with the Russian traditions. I can taste the sweet kutya now. With the five of us, we’d have quite the mix of traditions. I wonder what everyone will bring to the table.

Chai handed me a cup, I took a sip. “Thanks, it’s great.”

“Yep, just like you like it, black and brooding.” he said, proceeding to scoop six spoonfuls of sugar into the milk-swirled brew in his cup. I wanted to gag—instead, I inhaled the steam rising from my mug.

The door to Finn and Rue’s bunk room opened, and Finn stepped out, still wearing silk pajamas. “Morning folks, what’s up?”

“Nothing, just wondering how Chai stays toned with that sugar intake.” I replied.

“Hey man, you can eat whatever you want as long as you work it off.” Chai proclaimed.

Finn’s face twisted in horror. “Actually, that stuff will kill you. To pack on and keep muscles you need to—”

“Oh gawd, can you guys shut up?” Kira interrupted. “Pour me some, please,” they said, sitting on a stool in their sleep shorts and narwhal tee. They plopped their elbows on the counter, dropping their chin into palms.

I passed them a fresh cup. “So, Finn, where should we look for Anna first?”

“Hey man, it’s Christmas, no shoptalk,” Chai gently admonished.

I nodded.

“How does everyone like their eggs?” Finn took orders and fired up the stove. I started cracking eggs while Chai cut strawberries and Kira made toast. We all got into a silent rhythm.

After breakfast, I washed dishes. We didn’t have a dishwasher, so I did them by hand, and Chai dried them. He was babbling about something, but the white noise of the faucet drowned him out.

“Did I miss breakfast?” a voice said from behind, making us both jump.

“Jeezus Christ Rue, you almost killed me!” Chai exclaimed.

“Yes. But there’s still some fruit in the fridge,” I replied.

“Good enough.” Rue headed to the fridge.

I sat back down by the fire, watching the snow fall. The sounds of the crackling fire, dishes clinking, and pleasant conversation calmed my mind.

“It’s for ammm-beeee-onnce,” Chai said, lighting candles on the table.

“But it will catch the tree on fire,” Rue cautioned.

“That’s like thirty feet away.”

“It will be fine,” Kira said, setting dishes on the white table cloth.

knock knock

We all looked at each other.

“Who could that be?” Finn asked.

I was closest to the door, so I got up and walked over, pulling the door open. “Oh, Olivia, I didn’t think you could make it.”

“Hi, yeah, they didn’t need me anymore so I hurried over,” she said, handing me a dish. “Macaroni—my mom’s recipe.”

She leaned in for a hug, a shopping bag on her arm bumping into my back. I held the heavy glass dish out and used my free arm to return the hug. She looked over my shoulder and whispered into my ear. “Who’s that—what is she doing here?”

“Oh, Rue, she’s mostly harmless.”

“mmhmmm”

Before I could comment, she held her hand, flat, palm down, in front of my eyes, a short string looped around her middle finger. “Here, this is for you.”

A small brass cog 1 dangled in front of me, slowly spinning, glinting light from the tree. “It’s to remind you that you’re still just a cog in the machine.”

“Um. Thanks.” I went to hang it on the tree. I kept reaching for ornaments to make more room, but none were there. Finally, I decided to hang it on all the branches. Soon, it reflected a thousand points of golden light throughout the cabin.

“Dinner’s ready!” Finn announced.

Everyone gathered around the table and started pulling out chairs.

“Hey, hey, guys. Read the placards, find your place.” Chai called out.

The rest of us glanced at each other, then down at the table looking for our own name. Collectively we began side-stepping over one another to get to our assigned seats. We all began passing dishes, scooping food on to our plates, and commenting on what we brought. All of it smelled and looked delicious. I couldn’t decide what to bite into first.

Tamales wrapped in corn husks, stuffed with pork schnitzel. Sautéed collard greens with fish sauce over rice. Olivier potato salad with pickles and peas. Sauerbraten, beef marinated for days, smothered in sweet-sour gravy. Kutya, mother’s old recipe with walnuts and raisins. Macaroni, four-cheeses lightly browned. Crusty bread and soft rolls.

Sitting next to me, Olivia and I caught up. It had been a while since we last spoke.

“So, which guy are you gunning for?” she asked, glancing between Chai and Finn.

“Gunning for?”

“Don’t be coy, Vik. Which one do you like? The tallest one has edgy blue hair. The other guy has a charming, yet goofy grin. They both have tattoos. Is tall, goofy, and handsome your type Vik?”

“Oh, uh—”

Rue laughed, loud and sharp, saving me from answering. Have I heard her laugh before?

Olivia shot her a glance. “Why did you invite her?”

“She kind of invited herself, but I like her.”

“Alright, time for dessert.” Finn sat more plates in front of me.

Strudel, flaky with soft spiced apples. Buñuelos, crisp with cinnamon sugar. Pryaniki, dense with honey and ginger. Pecan pie, gooey beneath a toasted shell. Black Forest cake, dark with rich cherries. New York cheesecake, creamy with a graham cracker crust.

I had one scoop of everything. All with two scoops of vanilla ice cream and a cup of espresso.

With a glass of red wine, I got comfortable by the fire. Everyone else followed with their own drinks in hand.

“Okay, so explain this again, this ‘Dirt Santa’,” I said to Chai.

“No, no. Dirty Santa,” he corrected. “We each brought one gift, now one of us picks a present from under the tree—”

“Can you pick the one you brought?” Rue interrupted.

“Nah man. That wouldn’t be in spirit.”

Rue frowned slightly.

“Alright, so you open the present, show it to everyone, and keep it,” he continued. “The next person can either open a new present or steal one from someone else.”

“Oh, like White Elephant?” Finn asked, snapping his fingers in Chai’s direction, to which Chai nodded.

“You steal their presents?” Kira’s jaw dropped. “That doesn’t sound very Christmasy.”

“Hey, it’s all good. That’s part of the fun,” Chai retorted.

“Doesn’t sound fun,” Kira muttered. “Who goes first then?”

I pulled my deck of cards from my pocket. “We can use these. We go in order of highest-to-lowest card drawn.” Rue won first pick.

“Shoot first, ask questions later,” she said, swiftly rising off the floor in one fluid motion. She came back and sat down with a small box.

She took out her knife, flipped it open, then gently moved it between a flap, cutting the tape without slicing into the paper. Then she proceeded by peeling back each corner, leaving no trace.

“C’mon c’mon c’mon” Chai couldn’t contain himself.

Rue ignored him, folding the last sheet open.

Before she could hold it up, Chai blurted out, “It’s my movie. The role of a lifetime. Special edition. Listen to the commentary, I tell all about—”

“I don’t have a Blu-ray player,” Rue interrupted, deflating Chai, and setting it aside.

“My turn!” Chai rushed to the tree, shaking boxes until Kira shouted, “Don’t shake that!” He set the big box down, chose a different one, and came back to the circle.

“This one’s nice and heavy,” he said, ripping the paper off to reveal a re-used shipping box. He opened the box, pulling out a Glock. “Uh, this is way more than the twenty-five dollar limit.”

“It was free,” Rue retorted.

“This looks used... You stole this?”

“They weren’t going to use it anymore.”

“I don’t really need one.”

“You never know when you will need protection.”

“Yoink!” Kira swiped the Blu-Ray from beside Rue, who didn’t blink, but said, “You still have a Blu-ray player?”

“I don’t trust those oligarchs with my data,” they replied. “Anyway, I like Chai’s movies.”

Chai beamed. “Thanks Kira. Okay Rue, you get to go again.”

Rue methodically dismantled the wrapping of a new present, like she was breaking down her rifle for cleaning. “A doll?”

“Yeah, I made it myself. Don’t you like it?” Olivia’s voice was bright, but her eyes weren’t.

“Did you forget to paint the eyes on?” Rue held it up for everyone to see. The small wooden doll had dark hair, the spots where eyes should go as smooth as the rest of its light brown body.

Olivia shrugged and picked up the smallest gift. She untied the string, unrolled the brown paper surrounding it, and held the clear crystal up to see the Christmas tree lights refracted inside.

“Thanks Vik, I love it.”

“How did you know it was from me?”

“I always knew.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I said, “I found it in the woods around the cabin. It struck me as odd since its sides were smooth instead of the hexagonal shape they normally have. The pointed ends seemed great for channeling energy, which made me think of you.”

She smiled, eyes crinkling, wise beyond her years.

It was finally my turn. Clearly, Kira brought the big box and I know from past experiences to be wary of their gifts. So I went for a small cube and opened the simple box. A coffee mug, perfect under normal circumstances.

“World’s best detective. Seriously?”

“Of course, detective.” Finn laughed. But he wasn’t done, he walked over to me, putting his hand out. “I’ll take that.”

“But it’s your gift, you brought it.”

“It’s a nice mug—got it from Scar Flucks 2. Chai said I couldn’t pick my gift, he didn’t say I couldn’t steal it.”

I handed it over gladly. Unfortunately, that left the big box from Kira. I went to pick it up, and when I did, it meowed.

“Oh no, you didn’t.”

“Open it!” Kira said with glee.

Inside the box, a black cat with red eyes peered out at me. “But I’m allergic...”

“This cat won’t affect your allergies, and its black hair won’t show on your dreary clothes. They had a special for the holidays at the adoption agency—twenty-five dollars exactly. I thought it was perfect for some lucky person.”

I sat back in the leather chair. The cat climbed into my lap and laid down. Finn poured coffee into his new mug with a toothy grin on his face. He took a sip, as he did, the heat-activated color change mug faded to “World’s worst detective”.

Everyone noticed and laughed. Finn, startled, then caught on. He saw the new phrase and his grin got even wider. The cat began to purr as I looked around at my friends, my family. Outside, snow fell on the dark night as I drifted off into comfortable slumber.

I awoke in the cabin, Kira sleeping soundly beside me. I was breathing heavily and drenched in sweat. I pressed my face into my hands, sliding them back towards my ears like I was putting on a mask. My hand brushed against the earring, awakening Chai.

“Man, Viktor, that was a wild dream.”

Editor’s Notes

You might have noticed a bit of a style difference on this, well other than the obvious dreaminess of it. That’s because yours truly () wrote it. I proposed the idea to and took a swing. I had fun writing it and Jan had fun listening to it. We hope you enjoyed it.

If you made it this far, it’s obvious this was all a dream. But in dreams Viktor’s sleep-deprived subconscious is working overtime. So there’s probably a lot more truth in this dream world than it seems.

Next Chapter

Chuq’s story is mostly 1 cozy, and set 40 years before the events of The Flucks. She seems like she’d enjoy cozy more than Slacy and his sardonic wit. Chuq died from catching the Flucks early, having lived a long life with Slacy’s endearing friendship. These are her memoirs.

—Ed

Chuq

I met this doofus at the coffee shop, which led to meeting this beautiful girl at the tree lot, which led to me inviting them both to Christmas dinner. What the hell was I thinking?

Looking at this years later, I didn’t realize how much I was holding back. Then me and the big doofus started breaking down barriers.

—Charlotte

Christmas Morning 2055

I knocked on the door. The great part about small towns is that Slacy’s house was in walking distance—I didn’t lose my breath or anything. The sun wasn’t quite up yet, but the smell of water in the air told me this would be a dreary day.

Wearing a red checked flannel shirt and jeans, I waited on the porch, jacket draped over my arms. What can I say? I had to ape Maddie’s fit. The delivery drone dropped it off just in time this morning.

The porch’s vinyl siding was yellowing and dead vines fractaled their way under and over them. Honestly, this isn’t the small town ancient homes vibe I was promised.

Where is this guy? I knocked again. Was that... uh... a power tool? I banged on the door. Oh man, this dude is making me late—he said 7:00 sharp.

I told my watch to send I'm here. The whirring-buzzing stopped. The door was yanked open.

“You’re here!” he yelled, wearing, I kid you not, a full one-piece coverall, “Slacy” embroidered on his left breast.

“Yep, that’s what I said.”

“What?” he screamed.

“Nothing. Good morning!”

“What?” he god-damned screamed again.

This fucking guy. My hands frantically waved around my ears and gestured words vomiting out my mouth.

“Oh, right.” He tapped something on his watch. “Sorry, these new earwigs cancel out everything. Couldn’t hear a thing but my music. You’ve got to protect your ears, you know? I’ve got spares for—”

“Woah, woah, slow down dude.” My hands were trying to calm a rearing horse. “I thought you said you weren’t a morning person.”

“Morning? Oh, yeah, I didn’t go to sleep.”

Oh brother. “That’s not good my man.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine—I’ve got a coldbrew tap in the kitchen.”

“Your mom had a coldbrew tap?”

“Nooo, of course not. That’s the first thing I installed.”

“You?—” If I didn’t change the subject, we’d be here all day. “You going to invite me in?”

“Oh yeah, come on.” He swiftly turned around and walked out of sight before I could take my first step. Shutting the door behind me, I entered the hallway. I assumed since we were doing demolition I should leave on my leather lumberjack-fit boots. What, they were on sale with free overnight drone delivery?

The hallway was rather basic-white-mom. White sheetrock walls, white wainscoting, pictures in gold frames every five centimeters.

I looked at the pictures recognizing that sardonic grin on a boy standing in front of science projects, boy in blue uniform looking like some mini AirForce officer, boy holding up drones, and boy in various poses wearing medals.

Geez this guy has done more as a kid than I have done in forty-something years. No diplomas or academic awards, though. At the end of the hall, a picture of a teenager in front of a prop plane, holding up a... pilots license? “Now, come the fuck on, really?”

“What?” he said from around the corner. A hardhat and goggled eyes slid from the edge of the wall. “This way!”

I followed him, parting draped plastic to enter a room that was in complete disarray. The carpet was gone, revealing plywood floors covered in sheetrock dust. Frosty plastic covered more openings and dimmed the feeble rising sunlight coming through the windows. In the center stood a foldout table covered in gear.

“Okay, so you’ll need this—”, he passed me goggles that I slipped on, “—and this—”, a hardhat, “—these but, don’t put them on yet—”, work gloves. I took them and put on the hardhat—it was too small.

He looked at me grinning. It’s like this guy has two modes: grinning or blank stare. “The button on the back will adjust it.”

I pushed the button and the hardhat slid down and snugged fit. He stood there, holding his palm out, offering two small, green caterpillars. “And these, too.”

“Um. No thanks, I ate already.”

“What? No. You put them in your ears.”

“No the hell I do not!”

He definitely rolled eyes that time. “They’re just earwigs.”

“And that’s supposed to somehow make me feel better about it?”

“They’re not actual insects. Tap them twice to your watch and they’ll pair. Put them by your ears, and they’ll crawl in, making a perfect fit.”

“Your mom will crawl in and make a perfect fit! I’m not touching those things.”

He continued to hold his hand out, staring. Then, continued to stare.

“Uhggg fine!” I palmed the grubby worms, paired them, then put one by my ear, bracing for impact. I took a breath and touched it to the ear, wincing. Nothing happened, so I pushed it into the opening of my ear canal.

It started moving, writhing its way into my ear. The scraping sound was wet and gloppy, like water beads sloshing in an ASMR vid. That didn’t kill me, so I put the other one in the other ear. It wiggled its way in, coming to a stop with a squelch. Then, nothing.

Absolute silence. The sudden sensory deprivation made my eyes go wide. My heart raced. My breathing picked up. With no sounds to occupy it, my mind fabricated noise to fill the void.

⍟⍟⍟

A whine began, then crescendoed. Ringing echoed throughout my skull. Giggling backgrounded, and bassy warbling rattled my teeth. Chu-chunk. Chu-chunk. Chu-chunk.

⍟⍟⍟

Slacy grabbed my wrist without warning, twisted it, and tapped something on my watch. White noise, then the sound of his voice, flooded in.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, Charlotte,” he soothed. He took in a deep breath, still gently holding my wrist that was palm open and rigid, then breathed out. He did it again, this time I mimicked. “In” wiish, “Out” woosh. “In” wiish, “Out” woosh.

I stared at his eyes, his intense focus frightening, but still somehow calming. He noticed my return to this reality and spoke. “Sorry, I should have warned you about that or put some music on or something.” He tapped a few times and Zoë Keating’s cello warmed my soul.

🎼🎼🎼🎼 🎼🎼 🎼🎼 🎼 🎼 🎼 🎼🎼🎼🎼

〜〜〜

My wrist free, I punched his arm. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Ow!” He rubbed his arm. “My bad—it’s quite disorientating your first time. Let’s leave it so you can hear me, but not eardrum-busting sounds.”

“Okay, I’m good.” I punched his other arm. “I mean, now I’m good, what’s next?”

“Now, we do the most important task—” His stupid smirk was back. “—choosing the right tool.” 2

He waved his hand over the table like he was revealing a magic trick. “The mini-sledge is light, but packs a mean punch. The ten-pound sledgehammer is heavy, but—”

“Hey my guy, does this info-train have a caboose?”

He blinked.

“Just give me the sledgehammer, dude.” I put on my gloves.

“But—”

“Give.” I held out my hand.

He shrugged, picked up the hammer by its neck, one hand just under the head, and held it out. Like he was Thor, and I was accepting Mjölnir. It crackled with electricity. No... but it did in my head, so shut up.

I grabbed it with one hand and lifted. Nope. I grabbed it with two hands and lifted. There was a big taped “X” on the wall. This was going to be so fucking awesome.

Wait, my grip is in the wrong place. I slid one hand down to the end and the other to the middle. I’m taller than the boys, I’m taller than Slacy, I’m a big girl—I got this.

I swung at the “X”, crashing, sheetrock flying everywhere— “Fuck yeah!” —continuing through, off balance, momentum pulling me by the hammerhead, falling into the wall, head poking into a different room, seeing a bed covered in shards of sheetrock and dust. “Aw, fuck!”

I extracted myself from the wall, sheepish grin plastered stupidly on my face.

“And that’s why we wear the hardhat,” Slacy said with two knocks on his own.

“Right. Got any power tools?”

He grinned and held out something pointy, sharp, and with a button. “Sawzall?”

I dropped the sledgehammer head first onto the plywood floor with a thud, the handle reverberating with a hollow clank shortly after. “Gimmie!”

I contemplated the wall, deciding how best to attack, and spied a power receptacle. “Um, what happens if I hit a wire?”

He grinned. “That’s why we shut off the power.” His grin faded. “I think.” He darted out of sight, a few seconds later the overhead light shut off, leaving only diffuse sunlight. “Now?” he yelled.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah!”

He came in, some wand thing beeped in his hand. He waved it around the outlet like he was casting a spell, then roved across the wall like he was looking for water with a dowsing rod. “We’re good.”

“Wait, you didn’t cut off the power before I swung that sledgehammer? You could have killed me!” I pointed the saw thing at him and pulled the trigger.

He held up a finger. “Now now, safety first.”

I’m going to strangle him. There’s already a table and clear plastic everywhere to keep the mess contained. This saw can surely cut through bone.

“I killed a guy once, you know?” 3

“Haha. Very funny. You going to cut the wall or what?”

I huffed out a breath and turned to the wall and started cutting. It vibrated the shit out of my arm but sliced through the sheetrock, studs, wires, probably some stashed rebel gold.

The whole wall was still intact, save for the thin box I drew with the saw. I kicked right in the center with my kick-ass lumberjack boots. The wall segment creaked, then fell, revealing the bedroom I scoped out earlier.

“Fuck!” Coughing, I waved my free hand in the air. “You forgot the dust masks.”

That reminded me that this guy forgets everything. “Wait, is the roof going to fall?”

“Now that—that I checked,” he said solemnly. “It’s load bearing, has a twelve-inch header.”

“30.5 centimeter header” I corrected.

“Right, right. I’m still not used to that. Breakfast?”

⍟⍟⍟

The kitchen was actually pretty nice. Marble counters, blue cabinets that reminded me of that whole farmhouse aesthetic from the 20’s. A few of the cabinet doors were missing and there was no tile yet. About 80% complete.

Oh, right, I mean 2020. Boomers keep telling me they don’t understand when I say that. Get with the century grandpa. The smell of brewing coffee and the splurting sound of it finishing brought me back to the 50s.

Slacy passed me a warm mug of coffee and got fresh eggs from the rack on the back counter. He started scrambling them.

“Oh, do you cook?” I loved cooking. I had the whole meal planned for this afternoon. Most everything waited in the fridge or oven since I prepped them last night. As soon as I had the idea for the dinner and my menu chosen, I placed an order and the drone dropped them off with plenty of time to dice—

“I can cook eggs. That’s about it.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” Well, that’s a point off his best-friend-material tally.

“So, looking forward to seeing Maddie tonight?”

Where the fuck did that come from? “Oh, yeah... sure.”

“Your mouth says ‘sure’, but your eyes say ‘come to momma’.”

“Why are you like this?”

He shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

I grinned. Fuck, it’s contagious. “Uh huh.”

Okay, two points for Slaceindor. Ah, shit, thirty years and I still can’t shake that TERF.

“Do you need me to bring anything?”

“No. A drone delivered groceries last night and I prepped most of the dishes. The ham won’t take long in the flash cooker. Besides, I don’t like people in my kitchen when I’m cooking.”

“Ok, sure. I get it, your space and your work is important.”

Oh my, I might platonigasm. Instead, I said “Mmhmm.”

“I’ll bring the wine and a pecan pie. I can come early to help you assemble it. I’m at least capable of that.”

“You have a pecan pie here already, just for yourself?”

“Yes. Jealous?”

“Actually, yes.”

We ate the eggs and sipped coffee on the porch. The rain had started. I was freezing my ass off out there, but Slacy didn’t seem to mind the weather. The eggs had a cajun seasoning, which was an unexpected combination for me, but tasted yummy nonetheless.

“That was fun today. Thanks, I needed that,” I told him.

“Okay,” he replied. Sheesh man, stoic much?

“Alright, I’m going to head home and shower. I’ll start cooking in three hours. See you then?”

“Absolutely.” He grinned.

Author’s Notes

Okay, Chuq was having too much fun with Slacy. So, now this is a three-parter.

This was meant to be a single Christmas special chapter. 2,600 4,600 words later, a part two three was needed. Expect that tomorrow (right after I actually write it).

I actually like this darkness under the surface writing. Some body horror snuck in, but I think that makes the rest extra cozy.

Continue to Part 3.

Part 3 →

—Ed

Chuq

I never thought of myself as a writer. But a friend of mine has been writing a silly blog for years—long after everyone else stopped doing that in favor of posting short videos. He showed me that anyone can write about anything.

He’s a bit scatterbrained, so if he can do it, then I can definitely do it. I’m not going to publish anything, I’ll just keep this file on my computer, hoping no one will ever find it—while secretly hoping everyone does.

Might as well start with the day I met that lovable doofus Slacy.

P.S. Don’t tell him I said lovable, doofus is fine.

—Charlotte

Christmas Eve 2055

I was curled up in my chair, a velvety blanket on my lap, reading a book while sitting by the fire. I set my book down and took a sip of my tea, enjoying it while it was still at the perfect temperature. The cat jumped into my lap, snuggling into the blanket to make some biscuits.

“I’m trying to read, Hubble.”

He gave me that look of You look like you’re drinking tea to me, your other hand is free.

He was right, of course, so I pet him on his back, which made him raise his tail-less butt in the air, then fall over into my lap. He started attacking my hand with nibbles.

“Alright, I’m really trying to read.”

He nibbled again, so I frantically scratched his belly, my hand making quick back-and-forth swipes. He jumped onto the floor, twirled around, and walked backward-sideways, never taking his eyes off me. I was too cozy in my chair to get up and play, so I pulled off my slipper and threw it at him. He attacked it ferociously.

“Grr, get it!”

He got it. So I went back to reading. But, no matter how much I tried, I could no longer focus on the page. Maybe I should go out, get some fresh air. Except that fresh air would bite at my exposed face, gnawing its way into my bones.

Maybe some poetry would help. What is warm and cozy? The Sun!

〜〜〜

Your light warms,
fills with life,
brightens me

Then spreading thinner,
no longer sustaining us,
collapses under your own brilliance

I swirl around your destructive path,
forever moving forward,
yet never ahead

Wind in mylar sails,
now rusted anchor,
pulling me deeper

You give nothing, 
but cold embrace,
I can’t escape

〜〜〜

Keep it cozy Charlotte, keep it cozy.

“Alright, I’m going out!” Hubble did not give the appreciation my announcement deserved. I tossed the book in my satchel.

Putting on some presentable clothes, then my coat, I went for a walk. A blue sky greeted me, having cleared the clouds away, and leaving crisp air in its place. The warm sun on my skin almost made up for the slight chill.

I forgot about the warm front that had pushed through. Today, we got a reprieve, but once the arctic air catches up tonight, we’ll be paying for it with torrential rain, followed by a frozen week and potentially snow. I hate snow.

Christmas trees were too messy—especially with a cat. But I loved the smell. A walk down to the cafe by the tree lot should lift my spirits. With a day like this, I can sit outside with my book, a hot cup of green tea, and the scent of pine needles on the breeze.

Main street looked like some Hallmark Christmas movie. Even though that channel is no more, the streams keep pushing old movies like The Christmas Contract 2. Fucking Luke Winter. Holly should have ended up with Noelle. I crushed on her so hard when I was a teenager. Crazy what happened to the author 3, though.

“Why, hello, Miss Charlotte,” the café owner greeted.

“Good morning, Mrs. Shaw, and it’s just ‘Charlotte’,” I replied, like always. She insisted I call her ‘Mrs. Shaw’, no matter what I insisted she call me. The faded progress flag in the shop’s window told me she was just old-fashioned, not hostile.

“Yes ma’am, you’ll be having your tea I assume?”

Fuck my life. Why did I move to this cliché town? Oh, right, cozy clichés. “Yes please.”

I took a seat on the patio. The metal seats grated my behind, but I was here for the atmosphere. This place was really happening—ten tables, twenty chairs, two customers.

I checked out the other patron. A middle-aged guy, clean-shaven, average height, I guess—hard to tell because he sat in the same type of torture device I did. He looked like he probably worked out, but was past the age where that showed easily.

He was ignoring the book and coffee in front of him. Really, not much stood out, probably not a creep. Just a guy reaching a hand under the table, moving vigorously—the-fuck?

I looked under his table to see a scruffy dog. What kind? I don’t know, I don’t know dogs, but it was adorable. He was petting the dog in what seemed only to be out of instinct, because his attention was elsewhere. Since I got here a month ago, I’ve walked here every other day, and I haven’t seen this guy.

My tea arrived. “Thanks, Mrs. Shaw.”

I took a sip and opened my book. Dammit, where’s my bookmark. I flipped through, trying to remember what page I was on, reading a few top sentences before I realized I’d never find my place again. Whatever, it wasn’t very good anyway.

My eyes drifted back to the man, his eyes still focusing elsewhere. I grabbed my tea and got up, leaving the book for some other hapless victim. I sat at the table right behind him, peering over his shoulder, trying to figure out what he was looking at, when I spotted his target.

“She’s hot.”

He startled, but didn’t look back. “What? I wasn’t—”

“You should go say ‘hi’.” If he didn’t, I would.

“No, it’s not like that.”

“What is it like then?”

“I think—I think I know her.”

“Uh huh, that’s what all stalkers say.”

At that, he turned his head towards me while simultaneously moving his shoulders away from me. He stared. Then continued to stare. Shit, I think I broke him.

“Use your words,” I prompted. I think he wanted to roll eyes, but maybe he had more—couth? patience?—than me.

“Uh. I mean, I went to school with her. It was thirty-something years ago, so I can’t be sure.”

“Thirty-something? Do you not know when you went to school?”

“Sure, it’s on the calendar, let me get my phone—”

“No no. That’s quite alright. Why don’t you go ask her? She probably knows.”

“I’m just curious. I don’t really want to talk to her.”

“C’mon, I’ll go with you. I can be your wing-woman.”

“No, thanks. Like I said, it’s not like that. I’m not interested. Just trying to reconcile memory with reality.”

Oh, brother. Is this guy from Mars? He’s about the right age for an astronaut. “You should say ‘hi’ anyway. Maybe that will jog your memory.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“How about ‘hi, I’m your-name-here.’ Besides, you have a dog, the ultimate ice-breaker.”

“I’m not going to break ice like some sort of meet-cute, I’m really not interested. Besides, my name isn’t your-name-here, it’s Slacy.”

Is he really that dense? He was staring directly at me, barely a lift in the corner of his lip. Oh, he got me.

“You ass,” I laughed. His chuckle was obnoxious, but I got the feeling it would grow on me.

I offered my fist. “Hi Slacy, I’m Charlotte.”

He bumped it. “That’s a nice name, but it seems a little—”

“Boomerish? Yeah. Also, we just met, and you’re going straight for the jugular.”

“You accused me of stalking.”

“Oh, right. Well, let’s get to the stalking then, c’mon.”

This time, he got up and his dog dutifully followed. We walked over to the woman sorting out Christmas trees.

She had dark, silver-streaked hair that was clearly long, but braided tight like a horse rider to avoid tangling with twigs. It only helped a little because she had pine needles all in her hair and sap all over her red checkered shirt and leather gloves.

I kid you not, these small towns have a secret rulebook they must follow. But, still... it was working for me.

“Mornin’, what can I do for you?” she asked.

“Hello. We’re not here for a tree, but I wanted to introduce you to my friend.”

At that, Slacy froze. I think he was taking ice-breaking too literally.

“Oh, Slacy, I already know him. We went to high school together.”

I looked at Slacy for confirmation, but I think he needed a few more seconds to thaw.

“Of course, I thought so. What was he like then?”

“A bit like this, honestly. He didn’t talk to me much. We were in different circles, I guess. But I knew he was cool with the queer bunch—I think we were too loud for him.”

“No, not too loud. I was just focused on engineering then.” Slacy, warming up, then smirking. “You were a bit loud though... Mable?”

“Come the fuck on now, Mable? Jesus. Maddie. I’m Maddie.”

“Sorry, yes, Maddie. I’m surprised I got ‘Ma’ right. I’m not great matching names to faces.” Slacy’s own face was beet red.

Maddie’s face twisted in confusion—so fucking adorable. “We didn’t have engineering courses in high school.”

Slacy just shrugged.

“Aw, this is so cute, friends catching up.” Jazz hands framed my face. I don’t know why, they have a mind of their own.

Slacy looked at my performance, then grinned. “Maddie? This is Charlotte. She thinks you’re hot.”

“Oh, now he can talk.” It was my turn to blush. I looked down at her shoulders, broad and firm. Surely not just from tree hauling—maybe she spends a lot of time in the gym. Looking back up, I found my voice. “And, yes, he’s right. Want to get some coffee sometime?”

Maddie smiled and I swear I heard a chorus. She removed one glove and proffered a fist. “I’d like that.”

I bumped it with my left hand and our watches chimed. “Cooowool.” What the fuck was that? “I’ll, uh, text you later.”

Slacy had stepped away and was kneeling down, petting his dog. He must have sensed the conversation was over, but didn’t want to leave without saying anything.

I walked over. “What’s his name?”

“Did you just misgender my dog?” he said, with that smirk I was learning made me want to punch his arm. This fucking guy. “It’s Taylor.”

“Um. You named your dog Taylor, a human name? And how the hell am I supposed to know what gender it is based on this information?” I don’t know why I was giving him shit, my cat was named after a human astronomer.

“Context clues. Why should I not give her a human name? She’s got feelings too.” Her tail wagged.

“Right. Okay. Do you want a sandwich?”

He looked dubious. “A knuckle sandwich?”

“Something a little less violent, c’mon.”

We went to Frank’s for a hoagie. Yes. Frank’s. There was no outdoor seating, so we crammed into curved Formica booths that were too close together. Our legs got intertwined, and we had no choice but to go with it. Taylor lay on the ground beside Slacy. Frank didn’t seem to mind.

“Are you from here?” I opened.

“Sort of. Not anymore.” Slacy replied.

“Going to need a bit more than that.”

“My mom died.”

Shit. That’s what I get for snark. “Oh, uh, I’m sorry.”

“No worries. Sorry, it’s not recent—but still not easy to talk about.”

“Yeah, I understand.”

“You do?”

“Oh, no, not really. That’s just a thing people say. I hated my parents. They might be dead. I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh.”

He sat there for a bit, I think he didn’t know how to proceed. I would have to get this conversation train back on track alone. “So, what does your... mom—have to do with your belonging here or lack thereof?”

“Oh, right. I’m here for a while. Fixing up her house so I can sell it.”

“Ah. Here to oversee the work?”

“No, they’ll just fuck it up. I’m doing most of the work.” He popped open a bag of kettle chips and started crunching, then tilted the open end towards me, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, so you’re a contractor?” I said while digging into the bag for a chip.

He swallowed, wiped his hands with a napkin, took a swig of water, then replied. “I did some construction work in my twenties. Then I watched a bunch of vids. I’ll figure it out.” He waved his hand like he was swatting a fly away.

“Um. Sure. Sounds fun.”

“How about you? You’re clearly not from around here.”

“That obvious? I wanted a break from city life.”

“All right then, keep your secrets.” He grinned.

I couldn’t help it, I grinned back at the reference. But he was on to me. Time for deflection. “How long are you here then?”

“Until it’s done, I guess.”

“No job?”

“Nothing that needs my undivided attention.”

“Is that something you possess?”

“Sorry, what were we talking about?”

If he keeps this up, I’ll have to ask him over for dinner. No, not a date, ew—just ew.

“Any plans for Christmas?”

“I don’t really celebrate. I’ve got some walls to knock down.”

“That sounds fun!”

“It is,” he tilted his head. “You want to try it?”

“I—uh—um.” This guy had me stammering twice in one day. Pull it together Charlotte.

“It’s perfectly safe, I have gloves, goggles, hardhat. All IOSHA compliant. I’m sure I can find some composite toe boots—”

“No no, that will be fine. Yes. But—” What the hell am I doing? “But, you’ll have to come to Christmas dinner at my place. To um... to pay you back.”

“You’re helping me tear down a wall, and you want to pay me?”

“Well, you said it would be fun—entertainment isn’t cheap. And my new apartment doesn’t quite feel like a home yet. It needs a house-warming.”

His eyes twinkled in a way that I would come to know as a bad idea brewing. “To really heat up the place, you’ll need more warm bodies. I’ll come over if you invite Maddie.”

“No way dude!” came out before my brain had a chance to catch it.

That stupid smirk came back. “You pushed me to talk to her, and now you’re the one scared?”

“I’m not scared.” That squeak was only in my head, right?

He bent down and handed some meat to Taylor who had been patiently waiting this whole time—honestly, I forgot she was there. “Do you need me to text her for you?”

“Alright, alright, guy. I’ll do it. I’m not letting someone else do my dirty work.”

“It’s settled then. Wine?”

“Sheesh, what kind of girl do you think I am? It’s too early for that.” I did my best offended look and took a righteous sip from my water. The oh shit look on his face was too much, I couldn’t hold it in—a laugh burst out along with the water in my throat. But not all of it, I began coughing.

I managed a “wrong pipe” wheeze. He raised his arms up in the air, like that would help somehow. Fuck it. I did the same, keeping eye contact the whole time, red-faced, coughing, lips flapping. But staring at him, looking like a walking orangutan, was helping.

Soon, I stopped coughing, both of us sitting there, arms up. Frank came from the back and muttered “What in the world?” We giggled.

Frank turned around, deciding the kitchen was more interesting. “Like a couple of damn children.”

That was it—we both started laughing and choking. Then, Taylor joined in on the howling.

Author’s Notes

Writing cozy is… weird. Fun, though. This was quite a stretch for me. Poetry, a woman’s POV, a lesbian—what did I get myself in to?

I enjoyed considering Slacy from a POV outside his chaotic mind. Also, what was Slacy like 40 years before The Flucks? How has technology changed only 30 years from now? Shitmobile will be born only 10 years from when Chuq met Slacy.

This was meant to be a single Christmas special chapter. 2,600 words later, a part two was needed. Expect that tomorrow (right after I actually write it).

P.S. Only I Chuq would put “mylar” in a poem.

Continue to Part 2.

Part 2 →

The alleyways of London spiraled into darkness, brick walls bolstering the city, seeping water in thin rivulets. The streets were deserted, save for the occasional shadow scuttling for cover. My coat was soaked through, fabric heavy against my shoulders. I pushed on anyway, guided by dim lantern glow that barely cut the mist. Somewhere in the downpour, my target thought he was safe.

I moved swiftly through the alleys, dodging anyone who stood in my way, avoiding drawing suspicion. The sound of hurried footsteps splashing puddles in the deserted street caught my attention. There. Only he and I were present. This was my chance.

I ran up to the man and grabbed him by the collar. “This is the last time I’ll ask you so nicely.”

“Unhand me, you ruffian!” he screamed while clawing at my sleeves, trying to get loose.

“If that’s what you want, then I’ll give it to ya.” I released him from my grip.

Reprieve granted, I lunged then, as quickly as I had let go. My fingers wrapped around his throat, putting just enough pressure to not choke him. I was on a mission. I couldn’t fail.

“Give up on your dream, old man,” I hissed. I could sense the pleading in his eyes, could smell the dark panic radiating from his skin.

I couldn’t let him leave this place without a change of heart, so I squeezed tighter. “Stop pursuing that patent.”

I could see the fight leaving him, hope slipping from his mind. Though, just as I had everything under control, I blinked—suddenly, I was elsewhere.

The familiar yet alien feeling of harsh bark against my palms overwhelmed me. I let go of the tree, wondering why I was even holding it in the first place. I was warm and dry, the cold sting of a rainy night no longer aching in my bones.

I looked around. Trees spanned over acres with luscious, juicy fruits ripe enough to eat. White fences lined perfect green grass fields.

I was in an orchard.

It all seemed so nostalgic, like I’d been here a million times in my dreams. The smell of bark hung like a carrot on a string in my mind.

But then, the harsh drill of rain pounding on the rooftops above flooded in. I was back in London.

I flinched. The noise was too much for my head to handle. My shaking hands reached for my temples, the source of pain. Where did this headache come from? And. Wait. Where did my target—that inventor go?

I looked at the empty alley as it succumbed to shadows. Too distracted by that... whatever it was... to realize he slipped from my grasp. Right under my nose, too. Dammit!

What the hell happened? I couldn’t go back to my master now. I hadn’t completed my job. He would surely believe I was a failure—if he hadn’t already.

The image of the sunlit orchard clouded my vision, but I pushed it away. I wouldn’t let the fleeting image of a glorified forest get in my way. I would complete this—whatever it took.

I followed the inventor back to his home, a fancy house on the outskirts of the city. I told myself that I was just going to watch him, then find another opportunity to threaten him later. But I knew, deep inside, what I needed to do.

My gaze wandered to the outline of the knife concealed in my long coat. I slipped it out, contemplating it for a long moment. The moon came out from behind the clouds then, shining on the blade.

Dark circles hollowed out my eyes in the reflection of the knife. I looked half-dead. I supposed it made sense—I didn’t get much sleep.

I looked up and found myself watching through the window of the inventor’s house. Orange lantern light illuminated the dining room. It looked warm in there.

The inventor was sitting at the table, all alone. I thought to myself that nobody would care if this old rich man disappeared. That made my job easier. Then, I noticed the small feast that lay before him. One man couldn’t eat all that by himself.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as a woman with long brown hair walked into the room. She carried a young child in her arms, cradling him. The way she looked into his eyes so lovingly—so gentle—made my stomach tighten. The inventor smiled as soon as she sat down at the large wooden table, the corners of his eyes crinkling. A real smile.

I couldn’t. I just didn’t see how I could do this.

I stood up and started walking to the pub in defeat, wondering when I became so weak. The bottoms of my feet ached in my leather boots. I almost fell against the door from exhaustion when I reached the front of the pub.

As soon as I stepped in, I was assaulted—the sting of cheap whisky, the sound of men laughing. All of it was too loud. It would have been easier to just drown in the black night outside.

I ordered the cheapest pint and drank it without tasting. My mind was too busy holding onto the lingering feeling of being weak. Of being a failure. I couldn’t walk home yet. Master would scold me ceaselessly. What exactly he would say was beyond my knowledge.

I headed upstairs to the inn after throwing a few coins on the bar. I’d been here before and knew how terrible these rooms were. I wished the bed felt a little less stiff compared to the servant quarters I was used to. I sank into a bed that felt more like rock than mattress.

To be held in the arms of another human being—one whom you loved—that must be what humans were made for. At least that’s what I thought about as I tried to fade away into some kind of slumber.

Fumbling with my own thoughts got me nowhere, as usual. Sleep didn’t come easy. It never did, no matter how tired I was. Somehow, I found myself drifting into a fragmented sleep hours after I went to bed.

𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇

I awoke with memories of tree branches twisting through the dark sky like the dirt paths of my hometown. I had been dreaming of an orchard, the same one from my vision the night before. I wondered why it felt so real.

Murmuring to myself, I shook it off, then found my way out of bed and into my coat. I had to make it work this time—I had to find a way to make him happy. I didn’t recall how I got downstairs, just the feeling of chilling air biting into my skin as I stepped out onto the cobbled path outside the pub. It was time.

The inventor’s house looked exactly the same as it had last night. My task hadn’t changed at all. I don’t know why I had hoped it did.

I waited for him to leave the home, managing to stay out of sight easily. Soon after I arrived, he stepped outside the side door and hopped onto a carriage. Hell! How am I supposed to follow him in broad daylight?

I didn’t have a choice, so I followed behind him along the road, trying to keep up with the speed of the carriage. Soon the stone road disappeared, replaced by a muddy path. This was good for me—the mud would slow down the horses.

The carriage still rode out of sight, but I continued my quest along the path. I hoped that he hadn’t made any turns outside my watch, seeing as I didn’t know where he was headed. He wasn’t traveling back to the city—he was going in the opposite direction.

When I finally reached his destination, I looked forward in awe. A forest stood tall in front of me, leaves flowing in the wind. It was December—these trees should have been barren. The inventor’s carriage was stopped just outside the forest, but he wasn’t in sight. I was sure he was in there.

When I stepped past the tree line, the black horses attached to the carriage neighed in discomfort. I ignored them, walking further into what I slowly began to realize wasn’t a normal forest.

All the trees were placed in perfect lines instead of growing naturally. But, more importantly, there were apples decorating each tree like ornaments. I wondered why apples were here out of season.

The overgrown orchard pulled me in deeper regardless. The more I walked, the stranger the air felt—as though the forest itself were alive. The trees were giant, the bark thick. Roots stretched across, bulging out of the ground like brown veins.

I felt in a trance, observing the nature around me until a voice snapped me out of my haze. I thought I had been caught, until I realized it wasn’t speaking to me at all.

I stopped behind a tree, grass crunching under my feet. I observed as the inventor pressed his palm against the bark of a particularly large tree. I strained to listen to the words he whispered.

“—some man threatened—”

“—please help me—”

I filled in the blanks. He must have been talking about me, but who was he talking to? Was he praying?

Another vision struck without warning.

Trees and pressing my hands to their bark just as the inventor had. Memories of touching them and feeling... something. Connection—perhaps power. The image faded as quickly as it had come, leaving me shaking with another sharp pain pounding on the inside of my skull. Memories—that word rang in my head like a bell. Why was I thinking of that word?

I looked back to the spot next to the big tree where he had been standing. It was empty. I cautiously walked over to investigate.

The tree loomed over me, its branches arching over everything caught in its shadow. I reached my rough hand out to touch it, feeling warmth in the bark immediately. Maybe I had only noticed because of how freezing it was outside.

A thought hit me like a mallet. These trees held memories.

The inventor’s and those of his ancestors—maybe even mine. If I cut the branches tied to his memories, he’d forget everything—his invention, and the patent he was trying for.

I pulled out my knife and ran a finger along the backside of the blade. Memories or not, this was just another job. I had to see it through.

But how did I know which branches held his memories of the patent? Looking up, I saw a branch with shoots reaching out. The ones farthest from the trunk were greener.

I didn’t know how or why I knew they held memories. Maybe I was just crazy. But it was like my legs didn’t want me to walk away. I climbed up and slid on my stomach across the sturdy limb.

The shoots were pliable, fresh, newer. These must have been his most recent memories. I started cutting the thinnest ones close to the edge.

The tree felt like it was pulling itself away from me, like it was fighting back. It didn’t want me to stay, but I couldn’t leave.

Just as I finished slicing through the last green twig, everything shifted, knocking me off balance. I dropped, hands reaching for limbs that weren’t there, falling flat on my back, wind knocked out.

I held my palms above me, both empty—bleeding and raw from bark. The knife was point-first in the ground next to my ear, the twigs on my chest.

A voice called out, a deep mocking sing-song. “Well, aren’t you just the perfect gardener?”

That wasn’t the inventor’s voice. I stood, knocking the twigs to the ground, and spun around, knife back in my hand. I didn’t see anyone at first. My eyes darted above. A boy, no older than fourteen, but big for his age, sat perched on one of the higher branches.

He had not been there before, appearing out of nowhere—just like my visions, like my thoughts. His ginger hair glowed angelically in the sunlight, contrasting with a smirk that felt infamous, despite me not recognizing him at all.

“Let me guess why you’re here,” the boy said, swinging his legs lazily. “Stealing memories? Bad habit, you know.”

So this wasn’t a rash act of delusional impulsivity? Who the hell was this kid? What did he know? I would have told him to get lost, but he’s clearly part of this puzzle I got myself wrapped up in.

“Who are you?” I questioned.

He didn’t respond, just widened his smirk as he reached for something in his patchy coat. I instinctively held my knife toward him. He proceeded to pull out—what even was that? A pocket watch?

Before I could react, I froze—muscles locked up, stiff as stone. The world around me sped up, clouds flying across the sky at an impossible rate. My breath caught in my throat.

The boy jumped down, landing lightly on his feet, but he wasn’t moving normally. He was just as unnaturally quick as the clouds, swaying leaves, and birds flying above.

His expression stayed smug as he plucked the twigs from the ground. He slipped the knife from my grip, all in the span of a second. Then he said something entirely unintelligible, voice high-pitched as if a mouse tried to speak.

“∿∿∿∿ ∿∿ ∿∿∿ ∿∿∿∿∿ ∿∿∿∿”

“Whaaaaaaattttt?!” I shouted, words crawling out of my mouth like they weren’t supposed to be there at all. I still couldn’t move.

He said something else I didn’t understand at the speed of the world around me. At that moment, though, something changed.

With the click of the crown on his pocket watch, he slowed to my speed. “Ah, forgot about that, mate. Can you hear me now?”

I stood still in shock—or should I say, still because of his spell.

“Here’s the deal,” the boy said, leaning in close. “You don’t touch things you don’t understand. Let’s hope you’re smart enough to stay away.”

He clicked the crown of his watch again. My knees buckled and I hit the ground hard. I looked up as soon as I recovered, expecting to see the kid’s smug face again. But he was gone, along with the twigs and my knife.

𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇𛲗𛲇

That night, my brain spilled onto the page.

I woke up one day, rebirth in flames
Limbs twisting in the sky, I’m out of my time
I’ve seen too much, but I haven’t seen enough
Now I’m being bled dry of my luck

This language tastes strange in my mouth
Yet, it flavors every word I speak
Dissolve my adjustment to this new world
Before I forget everything that made myself me

Please, I just want to return to the past
Where my worries didn’t even exist yet
And I was flying above everything
I have yet to flap my wings in this new life

Separated by my ages and the places
That no longer feel right
I don’t even sound like I’m from there anymore
I don’t even know if I remember it at all

My home always warps into something I won’t miss
But, I still want to be by his side and feel his kiss
Before the ink stain spreads
Making everything I love everything I dread

Editor’s Notes

Liminal Shards is a new experiment from us ( and ). Rather that posting an entire serial, we’re going to post individual chapters from a few story ideas percolating in Jan’s head.

This will help Jan get a figure out what to focus on next (in between The Spectral Agent Book 2).

Let us know what you thought of Orchards of Time in the comments.

Continue reading for Chapter 9, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Guest image by

Last time on The Flucks

Shitmobile crept forward until the front wheels left the concrete. By then it was too late, momentum clutched tightly. Shitmobile tumbled ass over hood and crashed below with a satisfying crunch. Seconds later, acrid smoke leaked out as the batteries caught fire. Moments later, it flared bright.

I turned from the warm glow and rolled to the garage-level entrance of Voltivian HQ.

After his last car took a nose dive, Slacy needs a new ride. At Voltivian HQ, he should be able to find one, but biometrics and access restrictions are a constant problem in the digital age. Good thing he has a friend with credentials.

Chapter 9 — Dance til you’re dead

I rolled to the metal door, a message flaring in its small window at my approach.

❌ Access Restricted

Good thing I had a friend with the right credentials. I pulled Sir Terry Hatchet from his loop. His shaft and weighty head felt powerful in my fist. I swung the blunt end into the small window, glass fragmenting into nuggets and tinkling on the ground. A few more smacks and the wire mesh blocking the hole fell away.

Couldn’t reach from the wheelchair, so I used a crutch and reached an arm through. I squeezed the door release and awkwardly pushed-pulled. Nothing. “C’mon dammit.” I jerked back and forth, gyrating like an off-balance washing machine. Nothing.

Duh. These types of things are mag-locked, presumably with emergency power. I dropped the crutch and leaned on the door, passing Terry through its window. I hit the magnet at the top a hundred friggen times until it broke from its bracket.

With no resistance, the door swung open suddenly, dropping me into the wheelchair, rolling it back into the wall. My head cracked against the concrete, bursting a cacophony of colors into my eye sockets and ear holes. Fuuuck!

Sitting there, dazed, recovering, I considered how if this were my old decrepit body, a hit like that might have killed me. This younger body had advantages. Still, I hoped no cameras caught that.

Since Shitmobile was burning in hellfire below, I needed a new ride. The parking garage was full of all manner of Voltivians. I’d need some sort of key. Since this was Voltivian HQ, there had to be something I could use, right? Right?

Could have gone to the top floor, but that’d be all executive offices. They’d have sporty two-seaters. Fun to drive, but I needed gear space for a roadtrip. No, I’d go where I’d most likely find truck or SUV owners and something to unlock one. To nerd central: the research lab.

I had watched every VidVid post coming out of Voltivian’s labs. Every new car, drone, and software update. The feed was called Level 8 to add some mystique. Probably not the best infosec revealing that, but who am I to complain? I’m just glad I ended up near their HQ instead of the abandoned hulks of Shitmobile’s alma mater.

Terry helped me a few more times with credentials as I rolled through the building. Cubicle farms were still a thing, but Voltivian apparently respected their employees more than that. Instead, hallways split into shorter ones, each with ten small offices, maybe three meters per cubed side.

These cubices were encapsulated in smartglass that could be clear for cooperation or frosty for focus. Every hallway had random assortments of translucent and opaque glass. Some frozen mid-transition, as if the power cut suddenly—pearlescent swirls of fog mixed with void. Abstract art capturing a millisecond of dying energy for eternity.

No computers, devices, or piles of dust occupied any of the cubices. With the Flucks pandemic going on, most people would have been working from home. I started to think that maybe I shouldn’t have pushed Shitmobile over the edge.

Since the electricity was off, and it was overcast, scant light reached the interior depths. Further in, only red emergency lighting illuminated the way.

I might have worked in an office like this. But my generation was too late to join the programmer party before AI took over. Now, the only people working in software were specialists who understood complex systems and made technical decisions for AI to implement. That’s why I became a—

Motion caught my eye—a flicker down the hall.

Someone—or something—was in here. In one of the cubices, windows opaque, a dark silhouette jerked awkwardly. It reminded me of Meat Guy’s inhuman movement.

Good thing rolling is quieter than—squeeeak—shit! The dark figure turned in my direction, then slowly turned back. I continued rolling. squeak-squeak-squeak Another head turn. Gotta oil that.

I sat just outside the office, watching the silhouette do its silent machinations. It was big, taller than me—maybe two meters or so. I could see arms moving about, bulk staying in place. Was someone working?

The sliding glass door was closed. I tapped on it.

“Hello?”

The silhouette turned—faint red eyes peered through milky glass. Shit! And returned to flailing about. Well, they didn’t tell me to go away...

I slid the door a crack, peering inside. The figure loomed from the shadows, skin glistening in dim, red light. A gaping hole where its organs should be. Its pure black surface smooth with occasional sharp ridges poking out. A fucking robot?

It turned towards me, regarding me with digital eyes from its featureless face, two fiery comets in a night sky. Again, it returned to its task. Barely-human zombie thing? No way. This? This I could deal with.

When I came here, I bet on one thing: engineers are lazy. They may tell you they’re being efficient, but since I was almost one, I know the truth—lazy. They hate constantly supplying credentials to unlock their computer and will instead spend hours engineering solutions to avoid ever having to.

In front of the robot was an opened laptop, screen unlocked, casting amber hues. I guess the youngsters called this a devslate. It was hardwired to the robot, feeding off its power.

Meanwhile, the robot was trapped in a cycle, dancing to fend off the screensaver. A multi-billion-dollar robot used to fool the occupancy sensor. Genius.

No dust pile around. This person probably stepped away for lunch, only to be told to go home when the pandemic hit. On the screen was a development terminal with an AI chat window, the last instruction clear:

dance in place until I return

This was better than I hoped. This was probably a prototype robot and the devslate its controller. I moved to reach for the devslate, but the robot’s wobbling arms blocked me.

“Hey, buddy, hold on a moment.”

Digital-dot eyes focused on me, blinked to slits, then angled back to the screen.

“Hey, stop moving.”

It ignored me and kept dancing to music only it could hear. It wasn’t trying to stop me, so I reached over and quickly typed into the chat.

stop dancing

It stopped. Now we’re talking!

back up

It complied. Oh, yeah!

I thought about telling it to stand on one leg and hop, but that would be a waste of—just kidding, I absolutely told it to. After a short kung-fu demonstration, it was time to get to work.

Beside the devslate was a neural interface, but I knew better than to touch that shit. Picking up the devslate and folding its thin keyboard flat against its back, I put it in my lap, wire still connected to the robot.

grab the wheelchair and push

“WAIT!”

backspace-backspace-backspace

gently grab the wheelchair handles and safely push the occupant without killing him

The robot complied. We were in business.

✹✹✹

After a few harrowing moments of the robot nearly driving me broken-leg-first into a wall, it carted me to a plush recreation area. Light trickled through large windows dappled with raindrops. Soft chairs and hard game tables were dotted around.

The nice thing about being at Voltivian HQ is all the Voltivian products just sitting around. A one-hundred kiwah battery was being used as a table. I cleared away a couple half-full coffee mugs to power it on. Fully charged, fuck yeah!

Next to it rested a zero-grav chair. I plugged the chair into the battery and transitioned over, its rhythmic pulses elevating me and relieving my seat-sore body.

I needed to program this blank robot to get it to be useful and not roll me down a stairwell. The devslate’s onboard AI was actually pretty helpful since I had no idea how to screw around with software after sixty years of abstinence.

The computer tried in vain to connect to the offline network. It didn’t matter, it probably would be locked from internet access anyway since it was in a restricted area.

After a few hours working with the AI agent, slowly developing the robot’s personality, I managed to get it to respond directly to voice. I couldn’t figure out how to get it to talk, though.

The devslate had a ton of music from the 1980s through the beginning of the century. Its owner couldn’t have been that old, but whatever, it still rocked. I began loading the music onto the robot, spinning Ash’s fidget toy while I waited. When it was done, I gave instructions to play appropriate clips to communicate.

🎵 Hello, is it me you’re looking for? 🎵

“Why, yes. Hi.”

The robot’s red eyes still freaked me out, so I instructed the agent.

Orange—no. Blue—nah. Purple—nuh-uh. Pink—Yes!

🎵 You don’t have to put on the red light 🎵

It must have sensed me changing its appearance to feel more comfortable. The robot’s skin rippled like a cuttlefish and cycled through a variety of human skin tones before finally settling on mimicking mine. With the hole in its middle, it looked like a human donut.

“Oh, fuck no! That’s creepy as hell.”

🎵 I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo... 🎵

To get us quickly out of Uncanny Valley, I told the agent to make the robot a matte silver for now. As its color shifted, I considered the large cavity in its center. This robot had too many edges for civilian use like the smooth and cuddly homebots. The center cavity’s mount might be for extra power cells and the ridges for mounting weapons.

A growl reverberated off the walls.

“Man, I’m starving.”

The robot held up a single digit.

“Do you know where food is?”

🎵 Untz untz untz 🎵

“Alright, take me there.”

The robot pushed me to a break room, natural light drifting in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Bowls were filled with rotten fruit, and I was not going to even think about opening the fridge. Along the walls were cubbies of shelf-stable food.

The robot picked up a bag of chips, opened it, then passed it my way. I looked at the proffered snack, then took it.

“Thanks. Let’s find a ride and go home, Snackbot1.”

Snackbot swayed side to side, playing a jaunty tune, while its pink eyes turned to hearts.

✹✹✹

Snackbot rolled me car to car. I decided on the Voltivian S524, a four-wheel drive SUV. Only two motors, but more gear space and range than the T444 beast. Should be able to go 1600 km per charge.

I sat in the driver’s seat. More room for my splinted leg than Shitmobile. I jacked the devslate into the car’s diagnostic port while Snackbot loaded spoils: 100 kiwah battery, a few aerial drones, and, of course, snacks.

With the devslate’s god-mode credentials, I overrode all security controls, leaving the car permanently unlocked so I didn’t have to deal with biometrics. You never know when you might lose those. I pressed the ‘on’ button and the car lit up.

“Snackbot, please put my chair in the back and ride shotgun.”

It did so with a tune in its step, understanding my idiom without undue bloodshed. I didn’t expect the car to have enough room for Snackbot’s two-something-meter frame, but its legs shortened, disappearing who knows where, to fit perfectly in the co-pilot seat.

Once we hit the highway, I gunned it—feeling rocket acceleration under my control for the first time in decades.

Author’s Notes

I had a lot of fun with this chapter. Hearing bring it to life, with singing? Get out of here! Amazing!

When I first read The Cog from , I knew I had to be a part of that. When I saw Snackbot, I knew how. I mean, Slacy dreamt about a snack-vending, dancing robot in Chapter 7. I know it looks like I’m just making this shit up on the fly—Slacy certainly is—but being spontaneous requires a lot of work dammit.

So now we have this intertwined lore thing going on. This is Snackbot’s origin. We’ll learn about Snackbot’s future, and how it gets into The Cog in the next couple of chapters.

Snackbot won’t be the only Flucks/Cog crossover. There’s a character we forgot about a few chapters back that finally gets their side of the story told. Well, if I ever get around to writing it. 😅

What’d you think about Anthony’s singing? Even if you prefer to read, you’ve got to listen to Snackbot’s portion at the end.

Next Chapter

Continue reading for Chapter 20, catch up with the Part One Recap, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

⚠️ Content Warning: Discussion of murder, paranormal activity

Last time on TSA

Viktor, Chai, Rue, Kira, and Finn settle into the cabin safe-house.

I shook my head. Finn flicked his lighter open, the flame momentarily lighting up his face in the shade of the trees. His eyes were frustrated. Fractured.

He smoked in silence for a while. The only sound was the faint crackle of the fire in the pit. Finally, he turned to me.

“Why did you kill him?”

A single question cracks the fragile calm, forcing Viktor to explain the impossible. Finn’s anger isn’t just about death—it’s about what’s left behind. The air tightens as proof replaces doubt. Some secrets, once shared, change everyone.

Chapter 20

“Why did you kill him?”

Finn’s question broke the silence.

I knew what he was talking about without even having to ask. “Self-defense,” I said. Not a threat, just a fact.

Finn’s grip on his cigarette twitched. “Yeah? That easy, huh?”

I turned my head slightly. “He was trying to kill me.”

Finn flinched. Then anger split him open.

“Oh, yeah?” he snapped, stepping toward me. “And you had to kill him, right? No other choice? Just boom, problem solved?”

I met his gaze head-on. “He would’ve put a bullet in my head if I hadn’t.”

Finn let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Right, right.” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers shaking. “You know what’s fucking hilarious? I hated him.”

“I hated him, Viktor,” he hissed, then spoke venom with every uttered sentence. “Hated what he became. Hated what he did. Hated the way he looked at me like I was just some dumb kid who didn’t get it.”

I stayed silent, not knowing what to say.

Finn’s breath was coming faster now, his whole body tense. “You know, I didn’t think I’d care if he died.”

His hands clenched, cigarette nearly snapping between his fingers. “But now he’s gone, and I—” He stopped himself, jaw locked so tight it could crack teeth.

I exhaled slowly. “You’re mad at me.”

“No shit,” Finn snapped, spinning to face me. “I don’t even know if it’s at you, or at him, or at myself. But yeah, I’m more than a little mad.”

I nodded. “I get it.”

Finn scoffed. “No, you don’t.”

“I do, in some ways. More than you know.”

He stared at me, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to try to believe me or throw a punch.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care if my father disappeared one day when I was a kid,” I confessed. “That if he drank himself to death, it wouldn’t matter to me.”

“But when it happened—” I began, dragging a hand down my face. “When it happened, I realized I was wrong. I wasn’t sad for him. I was sad for me. For what I lost, even if I didn’t want it in the first place.”

I tilted my head. “That’s what you’re feeling, isn’t it?”

Finn inhaled sharply, turning away again, shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths. This time, his fingers dug into his scalp as he ran a hand through.

“Maybe,” he said under his breath.

Silence stretched between us. I didn’t push him. Didn’t tell him it would be okay, because I wasn’t sure it would be.

After a while, Finn let out a long, slow breath. “You really believe that? That it’s not about him but about me?”

“Yeah.”

Finn nodded absently. “That’s fucked up.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

Finn exhaled again. “I hate you,” he said, but there was no venom behind it.

I let out a small smile. For the first time since we got here, he looked at me like he actually saw me.

Not as the enemy, not as the guy who killed his brother—just me.

“Who was it?” Finn asked after a moment of silence.

“Chai Saetang—he jumped into Klaus, from me.” I touched the earring as I remembered that moment of emptiness.

“That idiot lock picker?”

“That idiot lock picker is with me right now.”

“Not cool, man!” Chai blurted, but only I could hear it.

Finn winced. “Oh... my bad. How does that work, anyway?”

I looked back to the cabin. “Now that’s something I should probably explain to the whole group.”

He shot me a skeptical glance but didn’t argue. He dropped his cigarette to the ground and snuffed it out. “Alright. Let’s go.”

✹✹✹

We gathered in the safe house’s living room. Finn leaned against the counter. Rue sat on one end of the couch, flipping her knife between her fingers. Kira sat stiffly at the other end, arms crossed.

I sighed. “Okay, here’s the deal.” I looked at Kira. “You’re gonna have to have an open mind for this one.”

They frowned. “That’s not reassuring.”

I reached for the earring, fingers brushing against the metal. Chai’s presence warmed me, telegraphing his recovery.

I breathed deep. “My friend and neighbor, Olivia, was murdered a few weeks ago. That’s what started me on this wild ghost chase.”

“Ghost?” Kira interjected.

“Yeah... I’ll catch you up on all the details later, but for now, this is the important part. When I touched her body, I felt a... presence. It took me a few days to realize it was Chai. A ghost—a soul that possessed me.”

“The tea guy?” Rue asked. She was looking off in the distance, but her focus snapped to me at that.

I stared at her and sighed. “Klaus, Finn’s brother—er, half-brother, was a gang member—an org member. He’s dead now. At least at the time, he should have been.”

I looked to Finn. He nodded.

“When Klaus died, his body was empty—a husk. And Chai’s soul—it jumped into it.”

Kira looked at me like they were a deer in headlights. “That’s not how death works.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t think so either.”

Kira raised an eyebrow. “And you’re sure Klaus didn’t just survive?”

I shook my head. “It wasn’t Klaus anymore. It was Chai. When a body has no soul left, I guess you can think of it like—like certain other souls can slip in. Chai was already dead, that’s how he was able to get there in the first place.”

“Chaus,” Rue muttered in recognition. I nodded at her, though she was looking down, deep in thought.

Kira paled. “So, he was a ghost? That just took over another person’s body?”

“Not exactly,” I corrected. “Klaus just drowned. He was braindead, but not dead-dead. Maybe it can only happen then. Chai said he couldn’t choose who he possessed. He was stuck in Olivia until I came along.”

At that, Kira started laughing obnoxiously. “What a great joke, Viktor. Now are you going to tell me the truth or what?”

I scowled. I knew they wouldn’t believe me. Suspicion’s in our nature.

Rue spoke up then. “Listen to him, Kira. It sounds accurate.”

Finn nodded in agreement.

“You really believe this?” Kira was incredulous.

“I’ve seen some weird shit,” was all Rue had to say in response.

Finn pressed further. “So what happened to Klaus—or Chai, whoever—at the meat-locker?”

“Chaus,” Rue said with conviction this time. Finn tilted his head as if it would help him hear better.

“Chaus died... again... at the meat-locker,” I fumbled. “Then Chai jumped back into me when I touched the body.”

Finn’s expression darkened. Then he let out a sharp laugh. “That guy won’t just leave you alone, will he?”

Kira stiffened. “You’re still possessed?”

“Yes,” I shrugged, already reaching for the earring.

“Viktor! Hey! Hey! Are you even listening?” Chai’s voice reverberated throughout my head.

“Prove it,” Kira demanded.

“VIKTOR!”

“What?!” I snapped.

The room fell to silence. Everyone stared at me.

Kira frowned. “Okay, so he is losing it again.”

I sighed, rubbing my temple. “I was responding to Chai.”

Finn tilted his head further. “How do you talk to the dead guy in your head?”

“The dead guy possessing me,” I corrected. “He’s really loud.”

Kira shook their head. “This is insane.”

I didn’t think Finn needed much more convincing, but he put on a show for Kira. “Alright, if Chai is really in there, then tell me something only he and I could know. Who led the mission he died on?”

Chai appeared as an apparition, standing next to the fridge. His semi-transparent form lightly flickered. “C’mon Vik, that’s too easy.” He told me the name.

“Vinny Krüger,” I relayed.

Finn stiffened before nodding. “Yep, good ol’ Vinz—” He coughed. “I mean, bad ol’ Vinzent.”

Kira looked nervous. “Could’ve been a lucky guess.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Let’s try something else to prove it.”

I searched through the shelves and cabinets in the cabin, earning confused looks from the rest of the group. I finally found what I was looking for and handed it to Kira—a deck of cards.

“Hold up a card. Don’t show me.”

“What am I, a party clown?” Chai whined, then grinned. He loved this shit.

Kira hesitated, then pulled a card from the deck, gripping it between their fingers. I turned my head away for good measure.

Chai, standing behind them, was smug. “They’re holding a seven of spades.”

“Seven of spades,” I repeated to the group.

Kira’s mouth fell open as they revealed the card.

“Lucky guess?” I asked, amused.

They shuffled the deck before handing it to Finn. He pulled out a card. “Ace of hearts,” Chai said to me. When I turned around, I saw his ghost still looming over Finn’s shoulder.

“Ace of hearts.”

Finn’s expression changed for a moment, but he said nothing. He passed the deck to Rue. She tested me twice. Both times, I got it right.

By the end, Kira’s arms were crossed so tight they looked ready to snap. “Okay. So you’ve got a dead gang guy whispering in your ear. I guess that explains why I keep seeing a dark red aura around you?”

Rue blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t want to say anything because I thought I was losing my mind. But for weeks now, sometimes when I look at Viktor, I see this faint, red glow.”

“You told me at the diner, but I didn’t know you were seeing—” I stared at them. “Seeing Chai?”

“You didn’t tell me you were possessed,” they said, which was a fair point. “But I can’t see this Chai, only the aura.”

“You saw Klaus at the diner, did you see an aura around me or him?”

“No, you didn’t have one then, and he looked like a regular funeral director.”

Finn snorted and Chai’s laugh cut through the static.

“Chai was possessing Klaus’s husk then, so it makes sense you wouldn’t,” I said, not making any sense to myself.

“You both can see or sense ghosts.” Rue looked between me and Kira. “Sounds genetic.”

I felt my stomach twist. “Mother.” I swallowed hard. “She used to talk to things no one else could see.”

Rue frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Our mom would have entire conversations with people who weren’t there. She’d laugh, talk, even argue with them. Everyone thought she was crazy.”

“She wasn’t,” Kira murmured, looking down. “She probably had some kind of... um... ability too.”

“I grew up with a diagnosed psychosis, before all of this even happened,” I revealed. “I got it from mother. Maybe we both had hallucinations and abilities.”

Kira nodded slowly. “She was probably confused too. Maybe she couldn’t tell the difference between the real ghosts—and the fake ones.”

I closed my eyes, nodding, my head stuck in a rhythm. For years, I thought my mother was just sick. That whatever she saw wasn’t real. But what if part of it was? Maybe Mom had never been just crazy. Like how nobody listened to me, maybe nobody ever listened to her.

I opened my eyes and looked around the room. Kira had loosened up and was talking to Rue, who barely spoke back. Finn was flipping through the card deck and Chai was over his shoulder looking. Why? I have no idea why Chai does anything.

Why did Rue accept this ghost business so easily? She saw me kill Klaus, and now she knows it was possession. Finn saw Klaus become not-Klaus, so that’s enough, I guess. But still, they both have to know more.

“I’m hungry, what’s for dinner?” Finn said, pushing off the counter and walking to the fridge.

“Oh. I forgot about food.” Rue joined him in scrounging through the kitchen for something edible.

✹✹✹

The fire crackled, embers flickering in the cool night air. The sky had turned dusky purple with the last slivers of orange light stretching across the horizon. The scent of burning wood mixed with the smell of cheap hotdogs, charring over the open flame.

Finn and Rue had found them in the freezer, along with questionably old groceries. Kira had been horrified at the discovery, but Finn had shoved a skewer in their hand anyway, grinning like this was some kind of family camping trip.

I was sitting on the edge of my Adirondack chair, absentmindedly turning a hotdog over the fire. Rue lounged beside me, one leg stretched out, her eyes half-lidded as she stared into the flames. Finn sat across from us, smirking. Kira was eyeing their hotdog like it might kill them.

“This is disgusting,” Kira said, poking it with their finger.

“It’s protein,” Finn shot back. “Take it or leave it.”

“I’d rather starve.”

Finn snorted. “Your loss.”

Kira groaned but begrudgingly took a bite, then immediately gagged. “Oh my God, this tastes like it’s been in there for a century.”

“Possibly,” Rue remarked.

Finn chuckled, tossing a small stick into the fire. “Hey, if you don’t like it, Valentine’s Day is next week. Maybe your secret admirer will bring you something better.”

Kira looked disgusted. “Why the hell would you bring that up?”

Finn just grinned, and Kira buried their face in their hands, groaning.

I stayed quiet. My birthday will be next week. I hadn’t even thought about it. It wasn’t something I ever looked forward to.

Back in school, kids had always assumed I’d be excited. “Oh, you must love getting chocolates and extra gifts on your birthday, huh?” they’d say, expecting me to laugh along.

But I had never wanted chocolates. Or flowers. Or confessions written on pink paper. Because I was supposed to want them from girls.

I tensed, fingers tightening slightly around the skewer. No one noticed. I exhaled slowly and shoved the thought away.

I wasn’t celebrating my birthday this year. I wasn’t even acknowledging it. I was too busy anyway. It was just another day.

“Oh, it’s your birthday?” Chai exclaimed, too damn cheerful. “I’ve got to tell everyone!”

“Don’t you dare!” I said reflexively.

Everyone looked at me. Shit. “Uh... we’ve got to stop the Contagion. He best not dare mess with us.”

“Smooth, Viktor. Real smooth.” Chai smirked.

Finn stood. “You’re right. We will stop him for taking away the family I should have had.” Then he pointed his hotdog stick up and over the fire.

He looked ridiculous. Was he expecting everyone to jump in? No one else is that corn—

Kira bolted up, connecting with my eyes. “No one kidnaps me and gets away with it. And no one gets to kill my big brother before I do!” They popped their stick against Finn’s.

I am not doing that. I haven’t finished my hotdog and Rue would never do something so impuls—

“I can’t live my own life until he’s dead,” Rue stated, lifting out of her chair, cryptic as ever, then joined stick-swords with practiced motion.

All eyes turned to me expectantly. The fire crackled, sending embers into the night air. I slid the rest of the hotdog off my stick, popped it into my mouth, and chewed.

“Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, Viktor. You know we’re in.” Chai chided.

With a sigh, I stood. For both of us, I clanked my sword with the others, glancing at each of them.

“That settles it. Tomorrow we go on the attack.”

“Wooh! Spectral Squad! Let’s gooo!” Chai exclaimed to no one but me.

Next Chapter

Viktor Levitsky has been a person in my head for a very long time, so seeing him actually get out there and be seen means more to me than I or anyone could ever know. I want to thank all of my readers from the bottom of my heart!

Hundreds of you have read or listened since the first episode was published in May 2025. Most of you have listened, with nearly 2,000 downloads of the audio rendition.

Even though the community is relatively small, it feels like a dream come true to have my passion project out in the world. For something I’ve poured so much of my soul in, to be admired is euphoric.

I’ve struggled with getting traction for my work from even peers in the past, so I really do appreciate every positive interaction you guys have made with the series so far.

I want people to be able to connect with my stories on a deeper level. I want someone to see themselves in my character’s shoes. To not feel so alone in how they feel, because even if fictional, someone still understands them.

I’m so glad that I was able to inspire to write The Flucks. I would be so happy if The Spectral Agent ever became that for someone else, too.

This story means so much to me, each sentence I write feels like it has purpose. This book is quite literally the result of if my brain spilled onto the page.

That’s why all the feedback means so much to me. I’ve wanted to write an article or a thank you note for a long time, but I felt like everything I wrote couldn’t express exactly how I felt about this project. Now though, I feel more ready than ever to express my gratitude!

Thank you for sticking with Viktor and his companions for the journey so far. I hope you’ll stick around for the events yet to come, too!