Monday mornings at Michael & Cole always carried a nervous energy.
Chase leaned against his desk, scrolling through an email. It was an invitation to the Viento Influencer Media division, promising “authentic digital storytelling” and “competitive compensation.”
He stared at the message for a full minute, his cursor hovering indecisively over the trash icon. “Still pulling that string,” he muttered. “Absolutely not. I’m a lawyer, not a billboard.”
“Talking to yourself again? That’s the first sign of insanity. Or a very lonely boy.”
Chase spun around to find Snakes in the doorway, leaning on his mop and chewing on a toothpick, his eyes fixed on the glowing monitor.
“You ever get mysterious job offers from questionably ethical corporations, Snakes?” Chase asked, gesturing toward the screen.
“Only the ones that involve water and shit,” Snakes said. “What’d they promise you? Fame? Fortune? A shiny new identity?”
“‘Authentic digital storytelling,’” Chase read aloud.
Snakes laughed. “Sounds like pyramid scheme poetry to me, kid. El Viento? Don’t they own the coffee machine now?”
“They own the concept of coffee now,” Chase corrected.
Snakes pointed his mop handle at the desk. “You’ll take it. You always do. You spend three days arguing with fate and then you file the paperwork anyway.”
Chase looked down at the screen, deleting the email. When he looked up, the doorway was empty. The floor where Snakes had stood gleamed under the fluorescent lights, polished to a mirror finish.
Amelia sat in the clinic breakroom, editing a vlog titled Probably Overthinking This (Again). Her small subscriber base loved her for the gentle, self-mocking honesty she brought to the screen. Her notification bar dropped down, revealing a new email with that same gold, circular logo Chase met. They had sent her a link.
She clicked the link and immediately buried her face in her hands. A seventeen-year-old Amelia appeared on screen, wearing fuzzy bee antennae and a striped sweater, reviewing Digimon episodes with a level of enthusiasm that was painful to watch. “That’s gotta sting!” the younger version of herself chirped, punctuating the pun with aggressive finger guns.
“The internet never forgets,” she whispered to the empty room.
She read the email three times. It sounded harmless—wellness, community impact, a “unique voice.” But in her experience, harmless was usually just suspicious with a better PR team. Still, the reality of her bank account was louder than her pride. Her hours had been shredded, her rent was due, and she and Chase were currently looking at loans just to fund her move.
She looked at her phone’s camera lens. “Okay, hypothetical audience: what do you do when a morally ambiguous tech conglomerate offers you a lifeboat? Follow-up: why do I suddenly feel like the main character in a cautionary tale about selling your soul?”
She closed the email, but she couldn’t bring herself to delete it. “I’m going to ask for a second opinion,” she told the room. “I BEE responsible like that.”
The Master Debate Off
Chase picked Amelia up at the end of her shift, the heated leather seats of the Acura providing a brief sanctuary from the damp Orangeside air. She looked sharp in her blue blazer, but her eyes were tired.
“Vincenzo reached out to you too, didn’t he?” Chase asked as they pulled away from the curb.
“He found ABeeWin, Chase. He sent me a link to my high school Digimon reviews. I think it’s technically a form of blackmail.”
“He’s thorough,” Chase said. “He wants us in on this VIM project. He’s looking for leverage because I wouldn’t bite on the ‘consulting’ gig. We have to be careful not to become…”
“Evil?” Amelia grinned. “Are we doing the ‘Evil’ debate again? The Master Debate Off?”
“Orangeside Community College versus Viento Primeval,” Chase confirmed. “The man, the myth, the medical manipulation: Jeremy Johnson.”
“ERMEE,” Amelia corrected.
They hit the door of Summers Brew in perfect unison, their steps synced and shoulders brushing.
“And then,” Chase said, picking up the story mid-beat, “ERMEE tried to vault out of his wheelchair. Straight at me. A full flesh-torpedo.”
Amelia laughed, shaking her umbrella. “You caught him! You looked like someone had just handed you a live grenade.”
“And he used me catching him as an example of the inherent goodness of man,” Chase said, bumping her shoulder. “I was completely stun-locked until you stepped in and gave me that kiss. I didn’t even hear the rest of the debate. I just know you won with a simple ‘man is evil’ after I finally dropped him.”
“The judge applauded,” Amelia said, beaming at the memory. “Sharon started panicking about werewolves. It was a whole thing.”
They reached the counter, where Tabitha was already grinding beans with a jagged, aggressive force. She looked up, her expression shifting from boredom to her signature brand of guarded curiosity.
“Did all your college debates involve attempted assault?” Tabitha asked. “Or was it that classic ‘Orangeside’ effect?”
“Oh—hey, Tabs. Two coffees. One black, one whatever mystical heart-foam situation you’ve got going today,” Chase said.
Amelia nudged him. “Don’t call it mystical. She puts effort into those.”
Tabitha grabbed a Sharpie and attacked a cup sugically, waving it at Amelia. TOO GOOD FOR THIS.
“At least it’s positive,” Amelia noted.
“You don’t sound super positive.” Tabitha noted.
Amelia leaned on the counter, her voice dropping. “It’s been slow at the clinic, Tabs. Ever since the new owners took over, they’ve been ‘restructuring’ my hours into nonexistence.”
Tabitha’s hand paused on the grinder. She looked at Chase. “And you? How’s the world of briefcases and moral ambiguity? Still standing?”
“For now,” Chase said. “But the ship is taking on water. El Viento pulled every contract. Ninety percent of our caseload evaporated in an hour. We’re the biggest firm in town, and we’re currently looking for an iceberg to crash into.”
Tabitha slid Amelia’s latte across the counter. A perfect, delicate heart sat in the foam. “You always do this,” Amelia said, her eyes brightening. “It’s so sweet.”
“I was aiming for a skull,” Tabitha muttered. “My aim was off.”
Chase took a sip of his coffee and looked at his two favorite people.
“Vincenzo has this new thing,” he said, his voice dropping. “Viento Influencer Media. He reached out to both of us. He wants fresh voices—commentary, news, lifestyle. He thinks we have ‘The Spark’ the public is looking for.”
Amelia looked down at her cup. “It could help stabilize things.”
“Imagine it,” Chase said, leaning in. “Student loans gone. Amelia’s hours become a non-issue. We get paid to just… be us. To talk. To have opinions.”
Tabitha looked at him, her eyes dark and unreadable. “Viento Influencer Media? VIM? As in ‘Invader Vim’? You really think something with a name like that doesn’t end up conquering your lives?”
“I think you mean ‘Invader Zim, and besides your overthinking the branding, kid,” Chase said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s a lifeline. And honestly, the market isn’t exactly flooding with those right now.”
The bell over the door jangled—hard. Snakes shuffled in, his mop cart squealing. He walked straight to the counter and dropped a torn, stained napkin in front of Tabitha.
On the napkin, the El Viento Securities logo was circled three times in red. In the center, drawn in a cramped, frantic ballpoint, was the name AMELIA.
Swarming over her name were dozens of tiny, black, frantic ants.
“Sugar spills,” Snakes murmured, his voice a low rattle. “Ants don’t know who they bite. They just bite. They just take whatever’s in the way.”
He turned his head slowly, his gaze landing on Chase.
“Warn your friend of collateral damage,” Snakes said, looking directly at Chase. “The man sees the candy worm. He doesn’t see the hook.”
Chase wanted to defend himself, but couldn’t. Snakes shuffled back toward the door, his cart squeaking a rhythmic, metallic warning as he vanished back into the mist.