“It’s about Dudleytown,” Amelia said from the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone. The glow of the screen illuminated her furrowed brow. “He wants to brief us on the ‘hazards.’ Did you know the Dark Entry Forest Association literally arrests people for hiking there?”
“Because it’s private property, Ames. Not because of ghosts.”
“It’s not just ghosts,” she countered, reading aloud. “‘Locals report mass hysteria, phantom noises, and a disproportionate number of accidental deaths. They say the ground itself is sour.’”
“The ground isn’t sour. It’s rocky,” Chase said, turning the wheel. “And the ‘mass hysteria’ was likely ergot poisoning in the rye bread back in the 1800s. It’s biology, not boogeymen.”
“You’re no fun,” Amelia sighed, locking her phone. “You’re going to Scooby-screw me out of actually enjoying this aren’t you?”
“If the scares involve pulling a mask revealing ‘Old man Grey’ was behind it all, absolutely.” Chase joked back.
They pulled up to the VIM headquarters. At night, the glass building looked less like a startup and more like a monolith, reflecting the city lights in a way that made the world look distorted.
***
They walked through the revolving doors. The lobby was empty, save for the rhythmic squeak-squeak of a mop.
Chase stopped. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Snakes was there, pushing his bucket across the marble floor. Wearing the same jumpsuit he wore at Michael & Cole, and at Summers Brew.
“You get around, don’t you?” Chase called out. “Does El Viento pay overtime, or do you just use shadow clones?”
Snakes didn’t look up from a stubborn scuff mark. “Dirt doesn’t clock out, Wright. Neither do I.”
Amelia giggled, stepping closer. “Hi, Snakes. We’re just here for a meeting.”
Snakes stopped mopping. He leaned on the handle, looking at them. “Meeting. Right. At night. In the belly of the beast.”
“It’s a strategy session,” Chase said. “Standard stuff.”
“Working for these people can be dangerous,” Snakes said, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that usually preceded a riddle. “The floor is slippery even when it’s dry.”
“You’re literally the janitor,” Chase pointed out. “If the floor is slippery, that’s on you, buddy.”
Snakes stared at him. “I’m not a janitor.”
“You are holding a mop,” Chase said, gesturing to the bucket. “You are wearing a nametag that says Custodial. You are currently cleaning a floor.”
“I’m tidying the narrative,” Snakes said. He picked up his bucket, which sloshed audibly, and shuffled toward the service elevator. “Watch your step. The nostalgia is sticky.”
He vanished around the corner.
Chase shook his head. “I swear, he practices those lines in the mirror.”
Amelia looked at the empty hallway, a little unease creeping back in. “He seemed… serious.”
“He’s always serious, Ames. That’s the bit. Come on, Vincenzo’s waiting.”
They met Vincenzo and Grey near the elevators. Vincenzo was grinning, dressed down in jeans and a vintage polo.
“Ready to talk logistics?” Chase asked, shifting into lawyer mode.
“Boring,” Vincenzo declared. “Logistics are for emails. Tonight is for vibe curation. Follow me.”
Chase and Amelia exchanged a look – a silent question of what is happening? But Vincenzo was already walking, and Grey was holding the door. With a shrug, Chase followed. What was the harm in a vibe?
Grey, silent as ever, led them not to a conference room, but down a long hallway that ended in a heavy oak door. He opened it.
Amelia gasped.
It was like walking into a time capsule from 2004.
The room was dimly lit by lava lamps and neon signs. Bean bag chairs littered the floor. Posters of The Matrix Reloaded and Linkin Park covered the walls. In the center, facing a massive, chunky 52-inch plasma TV, was a sprawling sectional couch.
“What is this?” Chase asked, looking around. “Did we time travel? I feel like I should be concerned about the Mayan Calendar.”
“Atmosphere,” Vincenzo said, spreading his arms. “We call it the ‘Decompression Zone.’ Come on. Sit.”
He led them to the couch. Chase and Amelia sat, looking confused. Vincenzo dropped onto the cushion next to Chase, clapping him on the shoulder. Grey sat on the end, handing them each a wireless controller.
The TV flickered on. A colorful, chaotic menu screen appeared, accompanied by a heavy-metal remix of a familiar jingle.
CEREAL KILLERS: BOWLOCAUST Tagline: The Battle for the Breakfast Table is Crunch Time!
“What is this?” Chase asked. “Some kind of PlayStation All-Stars Battle Royale rip-off with cereal mascots?”
The room went silent.
Vincenzo stared at him. Grey stared at him. Even Amelia gave him a look.
“PlayStation All-Stars?” Vincenzo asked, offended. “That’s your reference point? Not Smash Bros… Or hell Powerstone?”
“I grew up with Playstation,” Chase defended. “Kratos vs. PaRappa the Rapper was peak.”
Vincenzo laughed. A genuine bark of a sound that erased the billionaire persona instantly. He sounded exactly like the kid Chase used to trade hall passes with.
“You are such a contrarian,” Vincenzo said, shaking his head. “This is a prototype from one of our shell divisions. It’s a love letter to the 90s. Satirical mascot fighter. You want to see Tony the Tiger beat up Aunt Jemima? This is the place.”
Chase looked at the screen. He looked at Vincenzo’s grin. It wasn’t the shark-smile from the stream. It was the ‘golden boy’ smile…cocky, sure, but warm.
Chase relaxed, leaning back. “Fine. But I’m picking the Toucan. Flyers tend to be broken.”
Seeing Chase’s shoulders drop, Amelia let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. This wasn’t a trap. It was just guys being guys.
For the next two hours, the “corporate overlord” vanished.
They loaded into the arena: The Silver Spoon Spire.
Chase locked in Toucan Sam.
Archetype: Rushdown/Flyer.
Vincenzo picked Tony the Tiger.
Archetype: All-Rounder/Balanced.
Grey selected Count Chocula.
Archetype: Zoner/Summoner.
Amelia, feeling the sting of familiarity, chose BuzzBee.
Archetype: Wildcard/Berserker.
The match began in a flurry of colors.
“Follow my nose!” Chase’s character screeched, launching into a flurry of aerial beak pecks.
“You’re spamming the aerials!” Vincenzo shouted, mashing buttons as Tony tried to land a hit. “That flight mechanic is cheap, Wright! Flyers should be grounded!”
“It’s called air superiority,” Chase said calmly. “Maybe if you learned to block instead of just roaring, you wouldn’t be dying.”
“I’m trying to use my Grrrreat! stun!” Vincenzo argued. “But you won’t stand still!”
Amelia was cackling, mashing buttons. On screen, BuzzBee’s meter filled up, and he entered a frenzied, uncontrollable spin.
“I don’t know what I’m doing!” Amelia yelled happily. “I’m just a bug having a breakdown!”
“That’s the meta,” Grey said dryly. His Count Chocula was standing at the edge of the stage, safely throwing chocolate bats at everyone else while they fought.
“Grey is zoning us,” Chase warned. “Don’t let him build meter for the Cocoon of Darkness.”
“Good opportunity assessment Mr. Wright,” Grey nodded.
“That’s his entire personality,” Vincenzo told Amelia, gesturing to Chase. “High school. Junior year. We’re on the wrestling team. I’m trying to pin him, using actual strength. And what does Chase do? He tickles me. I lose the match because I’m laughing.”
Amelia burst out laughing. “You tickled him?”
“It was a psychological tactic,” Chase claimed, executing a Fruity Cyclone recovery move to save himself from falling off the stage. “And it worked. Flawlessly.”
“He was a menace,” Vincenzo said fondly. “The teachers couldn’t handle him. He’d argue his way out of everything. ‘Mr. Spaulding, is it really worthy of a detention if I’m learning a valuable lesson about civil disobedience?’”
Chase grinned. “I got us out of that suspension, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Vincenzo admitted. “Silver tongue even back then.”
Amelia smiled, watching them. It was nice to see this version of Chase. The one who had friends who knew his tricks and loved him anyway.
“He was worse in college,” Amelia offered, taking a sip of soda. “He didn’t just talk his way out of trouble. He talked the faculty into inventing it.”
Vincenzo paused the game right as a Marshmallow Grenade exploded near his character. “Meaning what?”
“He treated the curriculum like a suggestion box,” Amelia explained, animating the story with her hands. “He actually convinced Dean Starmer to institute a ‘Wine Tasting’ class. And a ‘History of Ice Cream’ class. For credit.”
“No way,” Vincenzo laughed. “A legitimate college offering credit for eating sundaes?” Then unpaused the game.
“It was an exploration of culinary heritage,” Chase air-tech’d back onstage like it was muscle memory. “And for the record, it was a massive success. The ‘History of Ice Cream’ was full. First come first serve only. The Dean even made a wait-list for it.”
“I’m still in shock he fell for it,” Amelia said, shaking her head. “I walked past the lecture hall once, and it was just thirty students eating Rocky Road while watching a documentary about cows.”
“It’s called immersive learning,” Chase said. “Wilson Firestone took the Wine Tasting class. He said it was the most educational experience of his life.”
“Because he was blasted by noon on Tuesdays,” Amelia countered.
“He passed, didn’t he?” Chase grinned.
“Yeah, passed out.” She smiled.
“I create opportunities, Ames. I’m a facilitator.” Chase said slyly.
“You’re a hustler,” Vincenzo corrected, but he looked impressed. “I wish you joined us sooner. We could use a ‘Value of Pizza Parties’ seminar in HR.”