On the ride to Summers Brew, Amelia signed the contract blindly. She was trusting Chase’s legal instincts to ensure she wasn’t consenting to anything too weird.
She pushed open the door to Summers Brew, the bell chiming a single, thin note that was immediately swallowed by the hum of the espresso machine.
Winona was near the pastry case. “And congrats to you for showing up,” she murmured into the air, not looking up. Tabitha was behind the counter, looking like a storm cloud. She finished writing on a cup with aggressive flair before finally glancing at the door.
When she saw Amelia, her scowl deepened, but her shoulders dropped an inch. Amelia knew she looked like a disaster. Her hair was escaping its clip in frantic strands, and her cardigan was still buttoned wrong.
“Hi again!” Amelia said, stepping up to the counter and beaming. “Could I get a latte? Whole milk is fine.”
Tabitha uncapped her marker without a word. She wrote AGGRESSIVELY CHEERFUL in jagged block letters and slid the cup across the counter. Amelia read it and let out a bright, unbothered laugh. “I appreciate the honesty, Tabs.”
“It’s free with purchase,” Tabitha said, priming the espresso shot. “No returns.”
“Strict policy,” Amelia replied, leaning her forearms on the wood. “But the ambiance might convince me to keep coming back.”
Tabitha tamped the grounds harder than necessary, her jaw tight. She poured the milk, and despite her best efforts at cynicism, the foam settled into a perfect, delicate butterfly. She slid it across the counter, looking mildly traumatized.
Amelia just took a quiet breath and moved to the far corner, taking Chase’s usual stool. She leaned on the wood, the heat of the cup seeping into her palms. Her fingers wouldn’t stop moving—tap-tap-thump, tap-tap-thump.
“Twenty One Pilots?” Tabitha asked suddenly.
Amelia froze, her hand hovering over the ceramic mug. She looked up, caught in the act. Then she grinned. “Caught me. It’s the drums in ‘Overcompensate.’ It’s been stuck in my head on a loop for a while now.”
Tabitha raised an eyebrow, re-evaluating the woman in the sensible cardigan. “I didn’t peg Vet Barbie for the Skeleton Clique.”
“Please,” Amelia laughed. “I practically lived in their albums through college. The anxiety? The screaming? It was cheaper than therapy and more fun.” She sighed, tracing the rim of her latte. “I always promised myself I’d see them live.”
“So go,” Tabitha said, wiping down the steam wand. “They still tour.”
“Yeah, but…” Amelia slumped slightly, gesturing to her outfit. “I feel like those days are behind me. I have rent now, houseplants, and fish that judge me. I think my mosh pit license expired when I bought a rice cooker. Now I’m just… adulting. If I went now, I’d be the lady in the back worrying about where the fire exits are.”
Tabitha let out a half-chuckle, half-snort. “You make mid-twenties sound like old age. It’s a concert, not a war zone. You don’t need a license to lose your mind for two hours.”
Amelia looked at her, her eyes brightening. “You like them too, don’t you? You’re a fan.”
“They’re… tolerable,” Tabitha deflected. “They understand that the world is mostly just stress and noise. It resonates.”
“Exactly,” Amelia said, leaning forward. “Okay. If they ever come near Orangeside—or even just the Northeast—we go. No excuses.”
Tabitha blinked. “We?”
“Yes. We,” Amelia insisted. “You can protect me from the mosh pit, and I’ll buy the overpriced t-shirts. Tentative plan?”
Tabitha looked at Amelia—smart, put-together, currently unbuttoned Amelia. “If they come,” Tabitha said, finally allowing the smile to win. “Tentative plan. But I’m not holding your purse.”
The bell clanged, harsh and sudden. A kid, fourteen, stumbled in with scuffed sneakers and messy hair. He wore a jacket two sizes too big and marched to the counter, slamming a crisp twenty-dollar bill down.
“One hot chocolate,” he announced. “Extra whip. And don’t skimp, I’ve got paid.”
Tabitha raised an eyebrow. “Big spender. Win a tournament or something?”
“Better,” the kid said, grinning. “I got relocated. You know the Harrison Home?”
Amelia froze, her tea cup halfway to her mouth.
“Sure,” Tabitha said. “Creepy place. Bad plumbing.”
“Not anymore! Sold! To El Viento,” the kid crowed. “They’re turning it into the Harrison Academy for Brilliance. They moved us out while they’re fixing it up.”
“Relocated by who?” Tabitha asked, her eyes narrowing. “To where? The street?”
“Nah, the Orangeside Square Mall! The wind people—El Viento—they set up these temp-homes in the old department store wings. It’s awesome. Video games, food court access, and no creepy ghosts.” He took a slip of his drink. “My buddy just got adopted into the El Viento family. New shoes, private tutor.”
Tabitha huffed, “Great expectation much.”
Amelia’s face lit up. She turned to Tabitha, her eyes shining. “Maybe they really are trying to do some good, Tabs.”
Tabitha deadpaned. “What do they call the program, kid?”
He saluted them with his cup. “Sparks of Brilliance. Or ‘Spark to the Future.’ Whatever it is, my future is secured!” He bounced out the door, the bell jingling behind him.
Amelia watched him go, feeling lighter than she had in days. The ants on the napkin felt far away now.
Only Winona’s quiet, distant look had her second guess.
“See?” Amelia said to Tabitha. “’Secure Your Future.’ That kid certainly looks secured.”
“Maybe,” Tabitha said.
Amelia finished her tea and stood up, gathering her things. “I should go. People are waiting.” She paused, looking at Tabitha. “Hey. If you ever want to show me the notebook… the real parts… I promise not to tell anyone. Even if I find your soul in there.”
Tabitha looked down, a flush rising up her neck. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”
Save for the faint murmer of the television, the apartment was quiet when Amelia arrived. Chase had already placed the finalized contract on the coffee table. It was done. Their digital signatures were processed, the world-building was beginning, and the signing bonus was pending.
Amelia sat on the couch, pulling her legs up to her chest. She stared at the document. “We’re really doing this,” she whispered.
“We are,” Chase said, sitting beside her and taking her hand. “We’re going to be SilverTongue and ABeeWin.”
His eyes drifted to the TV, where a sleek, high-production commercial was playing. Soft piano music underscored images of a serene, temperate forest.
“Justice isn’t about endings,” a voiceover said—smooth and reassuring. “It’s about continuity.”
The screen shifted to a rendering of a black cube sitting quietly in a manicured backyard, surrounded by a tasteful garden. Then, it cut to a vast wilderness where a lone figure walked near a massive, unmoving cube.
“The El Viento Personal Prison System,” the voice continued. “Utilizing XTC to create a humane, permanent alternative to the ultimate sanction.”
Amelia frowned, her grip on Chase’s hand tightening. “Why are they running commercials for this? You can’t exactly buy one Walmart.”
“It’s not a sales pitch,” Chase said, his analytical instincts kicking in. “It’s conditioning. They want the public to get used to the shape of it. They want us to look at a violent criminal tethered to a three-ton weight and see ‘safety’ instead of a cage.”
On screen, text flashed: PROTOCOL ALPHA: REDEMPTION. PROTOCOL BETA: SURVIVAL.
“It’s kind of like VIM,” Amelia murmured. “It’s the same pitch. Not punishment… just management. They find a way to keep you, to make you generate value, without ever letting you go.”
“A contract isn’t a chain, Amelia. We can walk.”
Amelia looked at him, her eyes wide and reflecting the blue light of the screen. “Can we?”
Chase wanted to argue, to use his silver tongue to spin the logic back to safety, but the word hung in the air between them. He turned back to the TV. The commercial ended with the familiar tagline: SECURE YOUR FUTURE.
Chase reached for the remote and turned it off. The screen went black, but their reflections remained, sitting side by side in the dark.
Amelia realized she was still tapping the rhythm of “Overcompensate” on her knee.