Book One - Chapter Three: The Frothy and the Furious

We made it about half a block before a convoy of military vehicles screeched around the corner. Two Humvees and an armored personnel carrier, all bearing the hastily-painted emblem of the “Interdimensional Defense Force.” A few weeks ago, they’d been scattered units—National Guard, Army, whoever was still breathing. Now they were something new. Or at least, they had matching patches.

A soldier leapt out of the lead vehicle, saw my glowing vomit trail, and immediately pointed what looked like a modified fire extinguisher at me. Before I could protest, I was covered in a freezing foam that smelled of mint.

“Containment spray!” he shouted unnecessarily, as I stood there dripping with the stuff.

Riley stepped to the side to avoid getting splashed. “Don't worry, it's perfectly safe. Standard procedure to spray down any and all potential biohazards.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly.

The soldier lowered his foam sprayer. He glanced at my apron, then at my distinct lack of pants, then quickly back to Riley. “Colonel Hargrove is waiting at Command.”

I wiped a glob of neutralizing foam from my face.

Riley led me toward the personnel carrier. I took a cautious step—my stomach gave a warning lurch before settling with a grunt.

“I think the worst is over.”

[SYSTEM PURGE: 93% COMPLETE]

[Caffeine Levels: Approaching 'Merely Alarming']

[Side Effect Reminder: Temporary Minor Hallucinations]

As if on cue, I noticed a mailbox we'd passed was now sporting tiny legs and sprinting down the street, singing in a high, tinny voice:

"Waiiiit a minute, Mr. Postman!
Look and see...
If there's a letter—
a letter for meee!"

It hit a curb, flipped, landed upright, and kept running like that was just part of the choreography.

I decided not to mention this to Riley.

---

The ride to Command was a special kind of awkward.

Picture this: me, half-naked, covered in neutralizing foam and drying alien gore, wedged between two stone-faced soldiers in full tactical gear. One of them kept sneaking glances at my apron like it might suddenly jump out at him. To be fair, it had done weirder things.

The personnel carrier bounced over debris-strewn streets. Through the small armored windows, I caught glimpses of the city—or what was left of it. Buildings with giant bite marks taken out of them. Cars fused halfway into the pavement. A streetlight bent into a perfect pretzel shape, still blinking through all its colors at once.

Two squirrels chased each other through the air—not through the trees. Just… the air.

System Integration was going great.

Flying squirrels were a thing before the Integration, right?

I was pretty sure I’d seen a documentary or a cereal box or something. But not like this.

The System had done something to Earth’s ecosystem. Plants got weird. Animals got weirder.

One of the flying squirrels zipped past me, then stopped midair. Hovered.

Right outside my window.

I could swear it winked.

Then again, the hallucinations hadn’t completely worn off.

Fuck it.

At this point, “just go with the flow” wasn’t just a mantra. It was a survival tactic.

Outside, just past a partially demolished CVS, I spotted a familiar logo that made my heart skip. The green mermaid—that terrible siren—somehow untouched amid the chaos. The ol’ familiar Perky Beans.

The surrounding buildings were half-gone, windows shattered, walls crumbling—but that damn logo still glowed proudly, like the apocalypse was just another fad.

“Of course,” I muttered. “Cockroaches, Twinkies, and Perky Beans. The only things that'll survive the end times.”

My comment earned a snort from the driver. “There's one on Lexington that got hit by a direct energy blast from a Xarnathi ship. Building's completely gone. Just a crater with that green logo floating three feet above the ground, still lighting up at night. Nobody can figure out how to turn it off. Or what the hell is powering it.”

I wasn’t surprised. Perky had been my home away from home—if you count Stockholm Syndrome—back when I was just Regular Jerry the Barista. I’m pretty sure they had contingency plans for the end of days filed right between Holiday Scheduling and Customer Satisfaction in the employee manual.

“In case of Armageddon, first apologize to the customer and inform them you will gladly remake their drink or provide a coupon for their next visit. If the apocalypse persists, please contact a Shift Manager. Remember: The difference between Ordinary and Extraordinary is just that little ‘extra’.”

I felt a wave of nausea.

And this time, I was pretty sure it wasn’t the overdose.

I wondered what happened to my old coworkers.

To Marco—perpetually late, obnoxiously charming Marco—who could make seven drinks at once while flirting in three different languages. A walking HR violation. We used to joke about reporting him for being late, but when he was on shift, the tip jar got heavy fast. His motto? “It don’t hurt to flirt.” Corporate hated it. Customers loved it.

Then there was Dani, who paid for art school one latte at a time, turning foam into gallery-worthy masterpieces; not that anyone really noticed or cared. And Mrs. Calabrese, who showed up at exactly 6:15 AM every morning for a small Americano with three ice cubes; never two, never four. I think if we gave her four, the fabric of reality might’ve torn.

And, of course, Melanie.

Manager.

My ex.

Basically Satan.

It was mutual. If you stretch “mutual” to mean she got drunk the night before our fourth anniversary and accidentally FaceTime’d me while bumping uglies with Chaaaad.

There was this weird, awkward period where we both pretended to be adults. Civil. Mature. Emotionally evolved.

It lasted, like, a week.

I should’ve just quit the Perk right then—taken my bruised dignity and my espresso tamper and walked out into the sunrise. But no. That would’ve meant she won. And I’m nothing if not incredibly petty in the face of emotional situations.

So instead, I stuck around. Pretended it didn’t bother me. Pretended I was cool with her bringing him around.

Chad.

A walking protein shake with the IQ of a beanbag chair.

A shaved gorilla in gym shorts.

He came in twice. Maybe three times. Each time, he hit me with the same word. One syllable. No follow-up. No context.

“Bro.”

With a nod.

That was his thing. He called everyone bro.

Men. Women. Dogs. A trash can once.

He drove a lifted truck so massive it needed its own zip code and served absolutely no purpose beyond screaming “I peaked in high school!” I sincerely hoped he was compensating for something—because otherwise…

Anyway. I’m totally over it. Haven’t even thought about her since then. Except, like, twice. Okay, maybe five times. They’re still together, by the way. Not that I care. Why are you even asking? Stop asking about it. It’s weird.

As for the rest of them? No clue. Dead, mutated, hiding in a bunker somewhere until things settle. Who knows?

The personnel carrier hit a massive pothole at fifty, jolting me from my thoughts and nearly causing me to headbutt the soldier across from me, my apron flapping up far too high for anyone’s comfort. I tugged it down—it resisted—and glanced at the guy next to me. I gave him a half-hearted smile.

“First time working with a Fully Awakened?”

He stared straight ahead. Very straight ahead.

“Yes, sir.”

“Relax. I don't bite.” I paused. “The apron, however, has been known to when startled.”

The soldier edged slightly away. Riley shot me a look that clearly said, “not helping.”

I squinted and made out the name tape stitched above his right pocket—PEÑA, the letters half-buried under dirt and something that looked uncomfortably biological. Just above it, a single downward-pointing chevron marked him as a Private First Class.

A few months ago, I wouldn’t have known a chevron from a shoe brand. Now it was just another part of life. It was weird how fast this stuff became second nature when your life depended on it.

“I’ve been with the 82nd for six years,” the Private finally said. “Deployed twice. Thought I’d seen everything… until last month when my squad leader turned into a talking cactus mid-briefing.”

“Shit, really? He went full Cactuar on you?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“She. And hell yeah,” Peña said, eyes lighting up like a kid about to tell the best story ever. Private Peña struck me as the kind of guy who takes a minute to warm up, but once he does, he’s great company.

He leaned forward, drawing a few eye-rolls from the other soldiers, who clearly knew what was coming. One of them shook his head and mouthed “here we go.”

“So there I was, right? Regular Thursday briefing. Our Staff Sergeant is walking us through patrol routes—super serious, no nonsense. Then she takes a sip from her canteen, only it’s not a canteen—it’s one of those sketchy energy drink cans, no label, just shiny silver, right? And BAM!”

His hands shot up like fireworks.

“She starts turning green. Not like sick-green. I mean, green-green. Bright, leafy, cartoon-villain green. Then like—pop pop pop—spines start coming out. But here’s the crazy part—” he leaned in, “—she keeps giving the briefing. Doesn’t even flinch. Points at the map with a brand-new spike-arm and says, ‘Peña, you’re going through sector four,’ like nothing is happening! Meanwhile, she’s got a cactus horn growing out of her forehead!”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “What did you guys do?”

“What could we do? We just sat there like, ‘Yep, this is fine.’ Pretended like it was normal. Two days later, she gets promoted to Lieutenant. Turns out being photosynthetic is, like, a huge advantage—she doesn’t need rations anymore!”

He paused, eyes wide with awe. “And get this—last week, she took a direct hit from one of those mutant kangaroos out of Australia. The kangaroos ran away. Swear to God. Oh—and check this out—”

“Private Peña,” Riley snapped.

He blinked, then frowned and leaned back, slipping back into his serious face—mostly. His eyes still sparkled with leftover excitement from the story he hadn’t quite finished telling.

It went quiet again. Too quiet. The kind of awkward silence that makes you suddenly hyper-aware of how loud your own breathing sounds.

My HUD pinged:

[SMALL TALK ATTEMPT: SUCCESSFUL-ISH]

[Human Connection Level: Awkward But Improving]

[Note: This Is Still Better Than Your Last Tinder Date]

Thanks, I thought.

“So… how long have you been fighting the Xarnathi?” I turned to Riley.

She kept her eyes on the road. “First contact was three weeks ago. Small incursion in Central Park. We thought it was an isolated incident until they started popping up everywhere—Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles. The entire state of Florida—though no one noticed anything was off for the first week.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“A guy in Miami reported a ‘weird green dude with too many teeth,’ but we just assumed it was bath salts again.” Riley didn’t even blink. “By the time we figured out it wasn’t just Florida being Florida, we had other problems. California, Nevada, most of what’s left of the Midwest—they were covered in green.

Oddly enough, by the time we finally got to Florida, things were pretty much wrapped up. The fighting was already over. Jacksonville, Tampa, the Panhandle—you name it. Half the state was already armed, the other half got armed within hours. Tampa had a scoreboard up at their university for kills. In Jacksonville, some guy had spray-painted ‘Goblin Slayer General’ on his truck and was handing out beers and ammo like it was Halloween.”

She shook her head. “One of our squads hit Tallahassee and got waved off by a guy named Scooter—shirtless, covered in green blood, flipping goblin ribs on a makeshift barbecue. Just nodded and said, ‘We’re good here.’ Then offered our staff dinner.”

She glanced over. “Florida’s been doing its own thing since then.”

“And casualties? How’s the country looking?” I almost didn't want to know.

Riley's expression hardened. “Current estimates put it at about two and a half million confirmed dead. Another ten million missing.” She paused. “Though 'missing' is complicated now. Some people just... changed. Or got pulled elsewhere.”

I felt a knot form in my stomach. I was partially responsible. Not that I'd meant for any of this to happen, but still. I was there when the System Core integrated. I was the one who'd—

Nope. Not going there. Not now.

Guilt was a luxury item—like clean socks or emotional stability—and I couldn’t afford either while the world was actively unraveling.

Besides, that would trigger some serious backstory info dumping, and ain’t nobody got time for that.

“And the System?” I asked, changing the subject. “How many people can see it now?”

“Less than a tenth of a percent of the population, last count. Mostly military and emergency responders who were close to the initial integration sites. Plus random civilians with the right... predisposition, I guess.”

I nodded. The right predisposition. That was one way to put it.

“You see it too, right?” I asked. “The HUD, the notifications?”

Riley hesitated. “Partially. I get threat assessments, basic stats. No menus yet. No abilities.” She glanced at me. “Nothing like what you have.”

Because I was first. Because I was there when it all went sideways. Because a System Core that should have taken centuries to integrate had instead done it in one explosive moment, with me at ground zero. Lucky me.

“We've been trying to awaken more people,” Riley continued. “Intentionally expose them to System energy to jumpstart their integration. Results have been... mixed.”

“Mixed how?”

She looked away. “Sixty percent mortality rate. And the rest… well. Lieutenant Hanes was one of our more successful test subjects.”

“Who?”

She shook her head then added reluctantly. “Cactuar?”

“Oh, Jesus.”

They were basically playing Russian roulette with people's lives, desperate for more awakened humans to fight back.

“That's why you're so valuable,” Riley added, as if reading my thoughts. “You're fully integrated. Stable. Combat-ready.”

“I puke rainbows and can't wear pants.”

“Like I said. Stable by our current standards.”

The soldier who'd been eavesdropping let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

Then—

“Watch out!” Riley shouted but it was too late.

A green blur the size of a minivan slammed into the side of our personnel carrier like a pissed-off bowling ball. The whole thing rocked violently. Metal crunching, and something wet snapping filled the air.

It hit again before anyone could react.

The vehicle lifted off the ground.

And flipped.

We went airborne.