“Welcome to Sloppo’s Tacos! Which of our meats can we stuff you with today?” Sofia leaned over the front register, winking at a gangly teenager whose face bloomed pink. Caramel skin glowed under the flickering fluorescents, her wide smile flashing as her dark eyes gleamed with mischief. Wavy black hair erupted from beneath the store-issued beret, while the tacky uniform—fit just a little too snug across her small frame. The festive shirt stretched slightly over her chest, and she wore it like she was proud of it.

  From his closet-sized office, Foster paused his count of the till, “That’s not the line, Sofia!”

  “Sorry, Boss.” She giggle-snorted—somehow, still charming. Locking eyes with the scrawny teen, she tried again. “I meant to say... Welcome to Sloppo’s Tacos. Ready to get stuffed?”

  She turned and flashed Foster a grin. “Better, boss man?”

  Ok…the company greeting sucks. Foster thought, shaking his head in amusement, He turned his attention back to the money. A dozen Mega Munch Tacos pinged through the system—Valerie could handle that. But her count was off. Twenty bucks short. Policy meant a write-up; three strikes, and she’d be out. Instead, he slipped a crumpled twenty from his pocket into the drawer, signed it off, and locked it in the safe. Out here, on the city’s jagged edge, anyone who showed up was gold. He’d void a cash order later to balance it out.

  He stepped to the line, nodding at Val. “All good.” Her left eye, a milky, sightless haze from some unspoken accident, contrasted the sharp hazel of her right. Dark circles carved hollows beneath them, her fair skin roughened by too many sleepless nights flipping between dead-end gigs. Now, she just burned midnight oil here. Tension eased from her hunched shoulders at his words. Her broken English kept her quiet—when she spoke, which was rare, it was barely a whisper.

  “You got the line?”

  She nodded.

  “Call if you get backed up.”

  A shout erupted from the back—Russell and Leon, at it again.

  “I don’t care what you say, that don’t make you gay!” Leon’s voice boomed. Mid-forties, deep brown skin, his shaved head caught the light, gray flecking his trimmed beard. Years of hauling steel at the iron works when he was younger had forged him solid.

  Russell fired back, “Screwing a girl up the ass? That’s so gay. One hundred percent gay!” Early twenties, light brown skin, chiseled from high school ball, his short dreads bounced as he laughed. Quick with a quip and quicker on the line, he dreamed of music but kept his dreams low-key here.

  Foster knew the fastest way to end it was to pick a side, and cut in, decisive. “That doesn’t make you gay Russel. It’s still a woman.”

  “Shit, I’m surrounded by booty freaks!” Russell clutched his ass crack and bolted to the back, cackling.

  Sofia materialized behind Foster, smirking. “Sorry, boss man, I’m with Russ—that’s kinda gay. But, y’know…” She winked. “I’m all about rainbows.” Her dark eyes softened whenever a pretty girl hit the counter. Subtle, but the curve of her lips betrayed her at times.

  Foster rubbed his forehead, exhaling hard. “Really, Sofia? Why aren’t you up front?”

  “Pete’s got it,” she chirped. “Drive-thru’s dead. Wanted to talk to you about my friend, she’s still single!.”

  “Later, maybe. After work.”

  Sofia’a eyes dimmed, “Aye aye Cap’n.” She wandered off and Foster’s thoughts turned inward.

  The shift manager gig wasn’t that bad. Sloppo’s, though? It squatted on the City’s outer rim, where life chewed you up and spat you out. The chain thrived out here, snapping up gutted gas stations—relics from before the high outer walls severed the roads—and it turned them into a taco empire built on mystery meat. Whispers swirled about the stuff: grade-D beef spiked with bioreactor sludge? Beast-tide scraps blended with grasshopper mash? Foster didn’t know, didn’t care. He just knew management wouldn’t touch the beef filler.

  Grilled chicken, steak upgrades? They’d scarf those sometimes. But the frozen flat-packs, humming in the rethermalizer? Hell no. Foster, though—he ate it. Shift manager pay was a joke, a hair above the minimum, with no overtime no matter how many hours he bled. He was broke and not so stubborn that he could afford to starve.

  Deeper towards the inner City, or along the last veins of highway with gates to the outside, you’d find McKings or Waffle Hut—glossier joints for people with credits to burn. Out here, a few coins got you stuffed, if you could stomach the gamble on what happened the next morning. This Sloppo’s, though, was a cut above. Near Starlight College, it snagged a better breed of desperate—kids with quotas and dreams.

  A trio of coeds strutted in, loud and loose, half-drunk hiccups punctuating their laughs. Fresh from a haul beyond the wall, judging by their swagger. Starlight College wasn’t the most elite even if it bore the city’s name—The inner districts owned that title—but it churned out tradesfolk with grit, dull kids that came from cash or bright ones on scholarships, bound for minor fame or infamy. Around here, locals knew better than to mess with them. Any one of them could be a latent super, and so all the misery stayed homegrown.

  Three blocks around the college was a bubble—of almost safe. Sloppo’s sat just past that, on a rare road with a live Wall-Gate, siphoning that traffic.

  Sofia bolted over, snagging Foster’s hand. “Please, please, please!”

  He sighed. “They can pay, Sofia.”

  “She hinted for the free tacos! God—just look at them!”

  He did. Stunners, all three. Six-foot goddesses— one blonde, two brunettes—blue eyes cutting through tight school uniforms. Minor supers, probably. Triggering did that: chiseled muscles, fluid grace, turning decent into gorgeous, gorgeous into divine. Worked for guys too. Downside? The narcissism. Power flipped kind hearts into something colder when the world bowed at your feet. Foster shoved his old ghosts down, now wasn’t time to be obsessing over an ex.

  “They’re red-carpet fresh,” Sofia pressed. “I need this, boss man. I’ll close tonight!”

  He arched a brow, slipped the manager card off his neck, and handed it over. “Fine. You’re acting shift manager for—” he checked his watch—“fifteen minutes. Don’t lose me my job.”

  Officially, nobody ate free. Unofficially? Starlight cops got half-off, and big-shot supers ate gratis—kept the riffraff out. College heroes didn’t rate that perk, but drunk enough…

  Foster peeled off, tapping Pete on the shoulder. The kid manned drive-thru, all bony limbs, saucer ears, and bug eyes. “I’ll take it for a bit.”

  “Nah, man!” Pete clutched his headset, ears flapping as he shook his head. “Gunning for five numbers tonight!”

  Foster had laughed the first time Pete bragged that. Then he’d watched the kid snag ten by closing, girls slurring through the window—“You’re cute, gimme your number!”—beer goggles in full force as the college clubs dumped their leftovers here well past midnight.

  “Your call. Sofia’s got my card—”

  Pete yanked the headset off and sprinted.

  Foster grabbed it, muttering into the mic. “Welcome to Sloppo’s Tacos.” A beat, then, grudgingly: “Ready to get stuffed?”

  Cheers erupted from the front, clapping too. That meant it’d happened. The night’s holy grail.

  Tits for tacos.

  Sofia had swiped the card, and some coed was flashing for her freebies like it was Mardi Gras. A day shift manager had laughed at his surprise when Foster first saw it happen. “Good for morale,” he’d said, smirking. Damn right it was.

  Russell poked his head out from the back of the house, lettuce-shredding paused, pissed. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me, and you’re out here in the drive-through - see this is why I know you’re gay!”

  “And you saying shit like that is why I didn’t tell you,” Foster shot back.

  Sofia twirled later, hands clasped behind her, spinning like a kid when the place was dead—dishes done, floors mopped. Everyone else had bailed. Foster couldn’t fathom her energy this late. Or why her folks let her grind out these awful hours. He didn’t ask. People had their reasons.

  “Worth it,” she sang.

  “The more you comp, the less you eat free. You know that.”

  “Still so worth it. Nobody here touches that slop anyway! You know what I fished outta the meat yesterday?”

  He threw up a hand. “Don’t. I still eat here.”

  “Damn, you’re broke for a white boy.” She laughed, whipping out her phone, Foster’s brow wrinkled, a cell-phone had to be expensive if it worked out this close to the wall, he’d lucked out getting one with assistance from the store - not out of kindness - they just needed him to be on call - it struck him as odd for a moment - people that could afford expensive things usually didn’t work here. Sofia held it up proudly, “She let me snap a pic!”

  He turned away, catching nothing more than a pink blur on the screen. “Pass.”

  “Boss, are you really—”

  No!” He exhaled hard, the sound scraping the air. “No… it’s just that tired old tale. Boy meets a girl in high school, falls deep, finds out she didn’t feel the same thing. I haven’t been in any shape to look for anything since.”

  Sofia cocked her head, looking confused, “You’re not still in school? You work nights, so I figured you were using the cash to pay for one of the private college feeders?”

  He shook his head, he could barely afford to support himself - much less a private school. At eighteen technically he should be a graduating Senior this year, but things had gone wrong with his education and he’d taken the gen-ed cert instead so he could get a job and support himself. You did what you had to.

  She socked his shoulder. “Well school sucked anyway. Get back on the damn horse, boss man. One chick doesn’t get to ruin you. You’re not even that ugly. I mayyy know some desperate girls who’d bite.” Her grin flashed wicked. “I’ll wing-woman for you. Or… even better there’s my friend.”

  “No thanks,” Foster said, deadpan. “Hooking me up with your pals would probably land me in cuffs.”

  “I’m an adult!” Sofia snapped, her eyes darting away.

  “Sure you are.” He cracked a tired smile. “C’mon, let’s lock this dump up.”

  Foster scraped by.

  The first half of the month’s pay vanished into rent for a shoebox efficiency. Inside: discount soda, ramen bricks, frozen pizza—junk, sure, but it packed calories and played nice with his mini-fridge, microwave, and toaster oven lineup. Bed? A memory foam slab flat on the floor—no frame. Tech? A scavenged junker PC, wheezing to life, too outdated for the Core-Zones but an advantage of being ancient was it still worked fine this close to the wall. High-end gear fritzed out here.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  His closet was a Sloppo’s uniform depot—more polyester taco emblazoned assaults on the senses than real clothes. Without the free food he snagged at work, saving would be a pipe dream.

  His one splurge: dog-eared copies of Heroes Monthly, paper relics stacked in a corner. Tales of fresh triggers and their flashy powers. When he’d turned eighteen, when no spark hit, he’d finally buried the dream. Ninety-nine percent of supers trigger before then. Leaping rooftops or frying foes with laser eye-beams? Didn’t look like that was in the cards.

  Still, he kept the place tight. Small, but clean. It was more than he had a year back. Depression hadn’t drowned him yet—he’d clawed out of that pit.

  Then the city sent the letter that stamped his parents “legally dead.” The letter stung, but no check followed. The League had rushed his medical after his half remembered ‘incident’ a couple years back, but they didn’t foot the bill. The city ate the death benefits to cover it, leaving him a tab he never signed for. Special Super Ward, they said. “Emergency Powers Act,” they said—he was their temporary ward, and it was their call. But the debt? That was all his.

  He remembered the lawyers he’d talked to: “Can’t sue the government.” Not without cash he didn’t have.

  The PC groaned awake, clicking like a dying engine. “OS Out of Date and Unsupported,” it whined. Back in school under Aether shields, instant response tablets fed him the world. Out here, wall-adjacent, tech choked—it was a slow hardline connection or bust. Cells barely squeaked a call through the static. Core-Zoners lived plush; P-district out in the E-zone up against the wall was mostly for the broke or the wall-hoppers…

  He clicked past the warning, punched up a Hyper-Search: Western Expedition 67 updates. Nothing new in months.

  Did you mean Expedition 68? 69? 70?

  No word on his aunt’s lost survey mission. No one cared. News bullets scrolled: budget bleed, inflation spikes, politicians slinging mud. Same old rot. He killed the screen, glanced at the lone photo of his aunt, pinned to the wall—and flopped onto the mattress.

  Skills to roam Beyond the Wall danced in his head. He’d need an Aether suit at a minimum, even the janky ones wall hoppers cobbled together were pricey … it was useless to dream about that without cash. The west’s living forests swallowed all traces in months. Didn’t stop him dreaming. Saving. One day, he’d go. He owed her that much, the woman had raised him.

  That’s why he was half-ok with his forced transfer here to the wall’s edge. Starlight College dangled survival know-how—he could audit a class, maybe.

  But his stash of cash was still laughably short and it didn’t grow quick.

  Eyes shut, he braced for nightmares. Once, he’d floated over the city, rising up to space, then plummeted—waking just before impact - sweat-soaked and terrified. Another night, he was a crystal man that strode the Sun’s surface - shining with refracted light and burning all the while. Worst was the dark room, in that one he was just screaming… unheard—he’d jolted awake, heart hammering, debating the ER. Debt kept him put - waiting it out. He didn’t need a mind-melter to tell him he had problems.

  Exhaustion finally claimed him just hours shy of dawn. He dreamt of a countdown: 3 years, 2 months, 3 days, 14 hours, 37 minutes… That was strange… he never saw letters or numbers in his dreams? He snapped awake.

  What the hell was that? Better than terror, sure—probably his brain mocking how long ‘til he could scrape one class’s tuition.

  Groaning, he rolled upright, shuffled to his feet. Shower. Shave. Then it was time to slap meat into tortillas for just a few pennies above the minimum. He wouldn’t give up… one day he’d make it past the wall.

  Day 1 - Fight or Flight

  “So, Foster… what’s your type?” Sofia smirked up at him, at it again, eyes glinting with troublesome thoughts. “Spicy? Short n brown, and ready to get down? Or those tall, golden-haired queens?” She stuck her tongue out.

  “Legal,” Foster deadpanned, hefting two bags—ten double-meat tacos each—to the drive-thru. He played runner tonight, keeping the line from choking. Someone out there was prepping for an extra large sacrifice for the porcelain gods, truly living on the edge. He peered down into the car: a scrawny white kid, gold foil gleaming over teeth, blaring Gangsta Mage Maister 9000 loud enough to crack glass. A souped-up rocket ride hovering above the road - now that was living dangerously out here hover-cars sometimes tended to forget they should be hovering. College brat with daddy’s cash or low-rent dealer? Could go either way. He turned his gaze back to Sofia and raised an eyebrow.

  “I am legal, damn it,” Sofia huffed, puffing her cheeks. “I’m way older than I look, my friends are older too - and, are you even sure you’re older than me?.”

  “Nifty thing about working in Zone-E is there’s no gene-ID required. I don’t know how old you are, so as far as I’m concerned, you’re a baby.”

  She froze, gears jamming, then sputtered back to life.mumbling something under her breath, then sniffed, “I’m not a kid.”

  “Sure.” His grin widened, teasing.

  “You never even flirt back!” she pressed, leaning in. “You could at least play along. Maybe I’m secretly crushing on you!”

  “When a pretty girl hits the counter? You’re blushing, twirling those pretty curls, and chewing your nails when they turn away. Nervous as hell. You’re not like that with me Sofia.”

  “Jesus.” She blinked, caught. “You see all that?”

  “Sofia, if I thought you were into me.. Well, you’re gorgeous, so I’d probably just ask to see your real gene-ID.” He smirked, “But I think we both know I’m not your type.”

  “You think I’m gorgeous?” Her voice hitched.

  “Back to the counter pretty girl!” Foster pointed, “Business is heating up.”

  When you’re the only joint slinging food past midnight near a college in session, slow nights don’t exist. This one, though? It wasn’t hell. Pete manned the front, Sofia held the drive-thru, Leon and Russell owned the line. A rare night where the gears didn’t grind — until the super crashed in.

  Foster’s gut clenched the second the door swung open.

  Occasionally a super blew through, got some free food, took some pictures. It was rare, but fun… this one didn’t look like he was here for a gratis Nacho platter. He looked pissed off and piss drunk.

  Supers often stretched tall—some trigger-fueled super growth hormone, probably—but this guy was a damn monument. He ducked, twisting sideways just to fit his slabbed shoulders through. Unkempt blonde hair tangled over a jagged face, yellow eyes glinting feral. Claws tipped his meaty paws, and his “outfit”? Leather pants, nothing else, flaunting abs like a carved eight-pack altar.

  From hIs stacks of trashy Super mags Foster recognized him…

  Wolfen. Ex-Forester. That super group booted him out hard with a press-release singing a song about “teamwork differences” and “values.” Bullshit. Everyone knew he got blasted and threw fists.

  He lurched to the counter, swaying, then slammed both palms down. The cheap laminate cracked like brittle bone. “Which one o’ you fuckin’ perverts… took a picture of my girl?” His roar rattled the walls, booze-stink rolling off him in waves.

  Foster moved, brain ticking off steps. Defuse first? Call the PRU? The Powered Resource Union - with their rapid deployment Powered Response Units was the only outfit built to handle a sloshed, raging super. Order mattered—screw up step one, and he’d be trying to dial with stumps. He fished for his phone, would he even get cell service this close to the wall? On the other hand could he make it to the land-line in the office in time?

  Then Wolfen snagged Pete’s uniform, yanked him over the counter, and slammed him to the floor. A wet thud. Pete wheezed, stunned, he didn’t look O.k.

  Fuck. No talking this down. Foster punched the PRU’s three digit emergency line, praying they’d haul ass before Pete’s skull caved.

  “Get off him!” Sofia—Sofia!?—bolted from the drive-thru, faster than he’d ever seen her move. She charged Wolfen, vaulting the counter. He snapped his glare up from Pete, lips curling, and swatted her mid-air. A backhand that sent her crashing into a table—wood splintered, she hit the deck. Then, impossibly, lifted her head, blood trickling from her nose, wiping it away she tried to clamber to her feet but just fell down again.

  Wolfen growled out “I know that smell, you bi-”

  Time stalled. The world hung, heavy and still.

  Wolfen wasn’t leaving ‘til someone was pulp. Foster could’ve stayed back, let it play out—but Sofia in the fray flipped some switch. Some dumb, protective streak he couldn’t shake roared awake. No, not AGAIN… he had to do something.

  He stepped forward—or tried.

  The world wasn’t moving.

  Then a voice slid into his skull—feminine, familiar, a velvet whisper laced with crystal edges, each word a deliberate hum, like a cello’s echo in a dead room.

  “You have a choice to make.”

  Low, rich, it settled warm in his ears.

  “Flee. Or fight.

  If you flee - your associates may die but if you fight, I’m sorry, your life will end.”

  He thought about running, for about half a second, crushed that thought and bitterly muttered, “I’m not gonna run.”

  “Choice confirmed. Infiltration mode terminated. Full consciousness descent unlocked.”

  Pale blue words flickered across his view, faster than he could make them out.

  Something vast—alien—hijacked his eyes, its cold disdain a buzz in his skull. Foster-and-Other_Foster scanned through a litany of blazing blue messages at impossible speed.

  Infiltration Mode Countdown

  3 years, 2 months, 3 days, 7 hours, 12 minutes

  Neural Re=Alignment Mission Abandoned - Terminal Threat Detected.

  He could hear thoughts echoing in his head, like someone turned the bass to maximum - shaking his skull - and he was just sliding into the noise.

  ‘I’m in meat? Ugh. This is disgusting.’

  At first he thought his body was being stolen away… and then a more terrifying understanding began to bleed-through. The body had been stolen away already - years ago- this wasn’t some - alien entity - this was him. The two divergent minds collapsing together - like a pitiful red dwarf being shredded by a neutron star, he was ripped to nothingness… and then he was so much more…

  Realizations exploded into his widening consciousness.

  The world wasn’t frozen—it just crawled. A NetherShard was overclocking his perceptions, a screaming engine of immortality that anchored him to this reality and it was barreling towards a meltdown to try and keep him alive… and strangely he wasn’t quite as worried about his life and death. He’d died… many times before.

  He scanned the chaos: Sofia, crumpled, Wolfen, snarling, Pete, twitching. He examined his newest memories - this newest life - and felt …something. Perhaps mild affection? They were like pets? They certainly rated as more important than most meat people. So he should probably do something.

  The Nether-Shard had accumulated immense energy from theill fated jump across realities and the shard was nearing chaos cascade levels. That was a rather big problem of the potentially explosive variety. Then this - Super-human? Enhanced meat-person? Was threatening him and his subordinate_pet_friends? That was another problem. They could have the same solution. Yes… that could work - let one problem solve another…

  Command Line Access GRANTED.

  NetherShard MAX cycles -> Warning Subspace Overload Imminent!

  Clock to 200%. Run until chao-thermic limit hits 99%, Radiative Emission origin - Nether Shard - set purge to bio-marker Origin - arc - Host Distal Phalanx plus 1m.

  That would yield - around three minutes of full consciousness to operate in before he was crippled by his pitiful organic limits. That would be two more than he would need. He would have words with Hedy about the indignity of this host’s circumstances later… but for now, it was time to handle business.

  He could dimly hear Hedy’s voice - trying to say something, distorted as his mind settled into double speed - more warnings no doubt - always with her warnings - no time for that now!

  The world lurched back into slow syrupy motion.

  ***

  Sofia dragged herself up, tears streaking through the blood dripping down her face.

  She heard customers screaming in the background, “Somebody call the PRUPRU!” One of them yelled. It wouldn’t matter… the Powered Response Units never made it on time…

  That bastard Wolfen. How was she supposed to know that ditzy blonde was his flavor of the week? Now her friends were collateral damage to her utter fuck-up. She grit her teeth, shoved against the floor, but her body didn’t move like it should. When she was working she was on her pills, pills she needed so she could hold herself together - but they made her weak and slow.

  She looked over at Foster, started to shout a warning, tell him to run - but something was wrong with his eyes.

  They were usually warm and weary but now they were glacial. She’d nearly told him some of the truth - but chickened out every time - and now she might never get that chance. She regretted it...

  She saw him swipe a pepper bottle off the counter, had she ever seen him move so fast? He smashed it and hurled the broken shards and spice at Wolfen’s face. The super’s nose, a freak-show of a sniffer, betrayed him. He roared, clawing at his eyes, tiny fragments of glass biting deep.

  Fuck yes! Wait… NO! Wolfen will kill him! Her mind tangled up with worry, her clumsy body still not moving right - then Foster pivoted, just strolling off… What the hell was he doing?

  “Mistake, you taco-slinging shit!” Wolfen bellowed, voice raw. “I’ll tear you open from ass to—”

  Foster returned from the back, looking at Wolfen like he was staring at trash, with a greasy pitcher in one hand. “Sorry, I don’t speak dog.”

  Wolfen launched himself up into the air, a screaming blur of rage. The instant Wolfen left the ground Foster swung—a scalding arc of fryer grease erupted from the now heat deformed plastic pitcher usually used for their tea. It splashed Wolfen’s face, sizzling flesh, melting skin. He crashed, thrashing, claws raking his own ruined face, smearing the burn deeper.

  “Surrender or die,” Foster said, “Your choice.” His voice was flat as hammered steel, indifferent.

  “You think you’ve won, you prick?” Wolfen gurgled, choking on his pain. “I … heal. I… always …heal, I can’t be killed! I’ve got your scent now—I’ll hunt you all, kill you all, starting with that whore—”

  As Wolfen spewed his threats she saw Foster walk over to him, just a few steps away, crouch down and point a single finger. “Poor choice.” There was something - a twisting arc of darkness filled with swirls of color like a rainbow on an oil slick - it leapt from his outstretched finger and struck the screaming Hero… almost instantly Wolfen’s head and most of the rest of his body exploded in a blast of blood and gore that left the rest of him suddenly still.

  That wasn’t possible… Wolfen would always recover… he’d been set on fire, poisoned, run over, shot with machine guns… he always- her mind froze - terror gripping her… Foster was a super? A super! No way, no way, no way!

  Then she saw him looking over at her and for a brief moment, he tilted his head and smiled at her, but it was all wrong.

  She felt a pit of terror open up inside herself and she tried to scramble back away, but her body wasn’t listening. Finally she gave up… Sofia stared, body frozen, breath hitching, her mind couldn’t process everything - she found herself fixating for a moment on the smells - the air that stank of grease and the copper tang of blood.

  She looked at Foster - waiting - he was staring down at his outstretched finger, a contemplative look on his face, “So that’s what the warning was about… well shit.” His twisted smile widened and for just a moment he laughed before falling to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.

  Outside, blue lights flashed—the PRU had finally arrived, late as ever.