“It’s about Dudleytown,” Amelia said from the passenger seat, her thumb flicking through a forum. “Vincenzo wants to brief us on the hazards. Did you know the Dark Entry Forest Association arrests people for hiking there?”
“Because it’s private property, Ames, not because of ghosts,” Chase replied, turning the Acura onto the main road. “Locals protect it because they’re tired of teenagers chasing fame. It’s not a curse; it’s a trespass issue.”
“It’s not just ghosts,” she countered. “Locals report mass hysteria, phantom noises, and too many accidental deaths. They say the ground itself is sour.”
Chase smirked. “The ground isn’t sour. It’s rocky, New England soil. And the ‘mass hysteria’ was probably ergot poisoning in the rye bread back in the eighteen-hundreds. It’s biology, not boogeymen.”
“You’re no fun,” Amelia sighed, locking her phone and tossing it into the cup holder. “You’re going to Scooby-screw me out of actually enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“If the scares involve pulling a mask off to reveal ‘Old Man Grey’ was behind it all, then absolutely.”
They walked through the revolving doors of the VIM headquarters. The lobby was empty, save for the rhythmic, wet squeak-squeak of a mop. Chase stopped mid-stride, his shoulders dropping.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
Snakes was there, pushing his bucket across the marble floor in a slow crawl. He was wearing the same gray jumpsuit he wore at Michael & Cole and at the café.
“You get around, don’t you?” Chase called out. “Does El Viento pay overtime, or do you just use shadow clones to be in every building I visit?”
“Dirt doesn’t clock out, Wright. Neither do I.”
Amelia giggled, stepping closer. “Hi, Snakes. We’re just here for a meeting.”
The janitor stopped mopping. He leaned on the handle, his eyes tracking 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. “The floor is slippery even when it’s dry.”
“You’re the janitor,” Chase pointed out, gesturing to the sloshing yellow bucket. “If the floor is slippery, that’s on you, buddy. Maybe put out a sign.”
Snakes stared at him. “I’m not a janitor.”
“You are holding a mop,” Chase said. “You are wearing a nametag that says Custodial. You are currently, as we speak, cleaning a floor.”
“I’m tidying the narrative,” Snakes said.
He picked up his bucket and shuffled toward the service elevator. “Watch your step. The nostalgia is sticky.”
Chase shook his head, looking at Amelia. “I swear, he practices those lines in the mirror.”
Amelia looked at the empty hallway, a little unease creeping back into her expression. “He wasn’t joking, Chase.”
They met Vincenzo and Grey near the elevators. Vincenzo was grinning, dressed down in jeans and a vintage polo. He declared that logistics were for emails and that tonight was for “vibe curation,” leading them down a long hallway to a heavy oak door.
Amelia gasped as they stepped inside. It was a time capsule from 2004. Lava lamps cast undulations of purple light against posters of The Matrix Reloaded and Linkin Park. A massive, chunky fifty-two-inch plasma TV dominated the far wall, facing 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 and my MySpace top eight.”
“Atmosphere,” Vincenzo said, spreading his arms. “We call it the ‘Decompression Zone.’ Come on. Sit.”
He led them to the sectional. Chase and Amelia sat, until Grey handed them each a wireless controller. The TV flickered on to a chaotic menu screen accompanied by a heavy-metal remix of a cereal commercial jingle.
CEREAL KILLERS: BOWLOCAUST The Battle for the Breakfast Table is Crunch Time!
“What is this?” Chase asked, his brow furrowing as he scanned the roster. “Some kind of PlayStation All-Stars Battle Royale knock-off with cereal mascots?”
The room went silent. Vincenzo and Grey stared at him with identical looks of profound offense. Even Amelia gave him a side-eye.
“PlayStation All-Stars?” Vincenzo asked, sounding personally insulted. “That’s your reference point? Not Smash Bros? Or hell, even Power Stone?”
“I grew up with PlayStation,” Chase defended, holding the controller up. “Kratos vs. PaRappa the Rapper was peak for a thirteen-year-old.”
Vincenzo laughed. “You are such a contrarian, Wright. This is a prototype from one of our shell divisions. It’s a satirical mascot fighter. You want to see Tony the Tiger beat up Count Chocula? This is the place.”
Chase looked at the screen, then at Vincenzo’s grin. It wasn’t the shark-smile from the VIM office; it was the golden boy smile—cocky, warm, familiar. Chase relaxed, leaning back into the cushions. “Fine. But I’m picking the Toucan. Flyers tend to be broken in these games.”
For the next two hours, the corporate overlord vanished. Chase locked in Toucan Sam, Vincenzo picked Tony the Tiger, Grey selected Count Chocula, and Amelia chose BuzzBee. The match began in a flurry of saturated colors and frantic button-mashing.
“Follow my nose!” Chase’s character screeched, launching into a flurry of aerial beak-pecks that kept Vincenzo pinned in a corner.
“You’re spamming the aerials!” Vincenzo shouted. “That flight mechanic is cheap, Wright! Flyers should be grounded!”
“It’s called air superiority,” Chase said calmly, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Maybe if you learned to block instead of just roaring, you wouldn’t be knocked off the stage so fast.”
“I’m trying to use my stun!” Vincenzo argued. “But you won’t stand still long enough for the animation to trigger!”
Amelia was cackling, her shoulders shaking as she mashed buttons. On screen, BuzzBee’s meter filled up, and the character entered a frenzied, uncontrollable spin that sent everyone flying. “I have no idea what is going on!” she 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 the others while they fought.
“Grey is zoning us,” Chase warned, his eyes narrowing. “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 toward Chase with his controller. “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 too hard to breathe.”
Amelia burst out laughing. “You tickled him? For real?”
“It was a psychological tactic,” Chase claimed, executing a recovery move to save his Toucan Sam from falling off the stage. “And it worked flawlessly. The ref didn’t have a rule against it.”
“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. You had the whole faculty questioning their own disciplinary codes.”
Amelia watched them, her heart feeling lighter than it had since the move. 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,” she offered, taking a sip of her 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, exactly?”
“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 actual credit.”
“No way,” Vincenzo laughed. “A legitimate college offering credit for eating sundaes?” He unpaused the game, Tony the Tiger immediately getting hit by a chocolate bat.
“It was an exploration of culinary heritage,” Chase said, his fingers flying across the buttons. “And for the record, it was a massive success. The ‘History of Ice Cream’ was full on the first day. There was a wait-list.”
“I’m still in shock the Dean 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, a small, triumphant smile on his face. “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?”
“Yeah, passed out.” She smiled.
“I create opportunities, Ames. I’m a facilitator,” Chase said slyly, his character finally knocking Vincenzo off the platform.
“You’re a hustler,” Vincenzo corrected. “I wish you had joined us sooner, Chase. We could use a ‘Value of Pizza Parties’ seminar in HR.”