Foster woke up in the morning, he slept on the floor with his pillow pressed against the edge of the bed to find Sofia still deeply asleep. Her wavy black hair fanned out wild across the mattress, a dark halo tangling into itself, spilling over the edge like ink. She’d kicked off her sneakers—one still lolling by the bed, the other somehow halfway across the room—and her socked feet twitched faintly, toes flexing then curling in some dream-chased rhythm. Her breathing settled into a soft, steady hum, lips parted just enough to let out a quiet huff now and then. There was something vaguely feline about it—limbs tucked in tight yet sprawled with a lazy confidence, like a cat that’d found the one sun-warmed spot and refused to budge. Even her fingers, splayed loosely near her face, curved inward slightly, reminiscent of paws pulled close.

  I don’t know what her motivations are, but I do know - you - like her.

  ‘Of course. She’s a friend.’

  Mm.

  ‘Shut up Hedy, she’s a child, I’m like… a thousand years old or some shit, I can’t even really remember.’

  Well… if you don’t have any of those memories… are you really? I’d say you’re closer to an amnesiac teenager with delusions of grandeur right now.

  Foster moved over next to his computer and jabbed at the power button.

  I really need to get a new place. A place with chairs. There, that was safer to think about.

  ‘No arguments from me on that.’

  The ancient PC groaned to life, its fans wheezing like a dying animal. The screen flickered on, casting a dim glow across the room. Dr. Vex’s words gnawed at him: “You’re going to trigger. It’s not an if—it’s a when.” Curiosity—and a flicker of impatience—drove his fingers to the keyboard. He opened the search engine, the text based one that still limped along on dialup connections this close to the Wall, and typed: "forcing a trigger."

  The results loaded slowly - dial up speed - a patchwork of speculation and shadows. A forum post from a user named “TriggerChaser99” claimed certain black-market drugs—like something called “Dust” made from smashed up beast cores —could force a trigger, but the trade-off was brutal: half the users died, the other half ended up with powers too unstable to control. Another site, buried in pop-up ads for survival gear, mentioned old military experiments—subjects strapped to machines, dosed with radiation or exotic chemicals. Most just turned into corpses; a few allegedly triggered, but the records were “lost.” A conspiracy blog ranted about government cover-ups, insisting the PRU had a secret lab still trying to force triggers Warnings littered every page: forcing it was a dice roll with death or madness as the house odds.

  Foster frowned, scrolling through the chaos. Sounds like a bad bet, he thought. Waiting’s obviously smarter. But the uncertainty itched at him. F-rank most likely, he mused, Dr. Vex’s words echoing: “You probably won’t end up very powerful.”

  A useless power sounded like his luck—maybe he’d trigger into something dumb, like making his fingernails glow. But the thought stuck with him. If he landed higher on the power scale—say, C or B—he could do something real with it. Would he even want to? Did he owe this world anything? Not really…

  He closed the tabs, the screen’s flicker dimming his thoughts. Money in the bank, a trigger looming, and no clue what came next. He needed a plan.

  A soft rustle broke his focus. Sofia stirred on the bed, her eyes fluttering open. She blinked, groggy, then froze as realization hit—her gaze darted around the room, landing on Foster sitting nearby. Her face flushed crimson, eyes widening in a mix of panic and embarrassment.

  “Oh my god,” she muttered, bolting upright, hands fumbling to smooth her tangled hair. “I—I didn’t mean to stay here all night. I’m so sorry, Foster, I just—” She scrambled off the mattress, nearly tripping over her own sneaker as she snatched it up.

  “It’s fine,” Foster said, standing, hands raised to calm her. “ I didn’t mind.”

  “No, no, this was too dangerous and so weird—I shouldn’t have—” She yanked on her shoes, avoiding his eyes, her cheeks burning, she slapped a palm over one of her eyes and winced, staring down at the ground and not meeting his eyes. “I just needed to see you were okay, and I wanted to bring you your phone from the store… I snatched it.” She pulled the phone, now sporting a new crack running through black only screen. “I—I’ll go. I’m sorry!” She grabbed her jacket, clutching it around herself like a shield, and bolted for the door, her voice a rushed jumble. “Thanks—bye—see you later!”

  The door slammed shut behind her, the echo bouncing off the bare walls. Foster stared at it, blinking, caught between amusement and confusion.

  She certainly seemed embarrassed, Hedy chimed in, her tone teasing. Maybe she does have feelings for you. Confused ones.

  ‘Or maybe she just realized how awkward it is to crash at her boss’s place’, Foster shot back, shaking his head. He stretched, joints popping, and glanced at the empty mattress. Time to move forward—get a new place and new plans… and he supposed it was time to check his messages.

  He picked up the cracked phone Sofia had left behind, its screen a spiderweb of fractures radiating from one corner. He pressed the power button, half-expecting it to stay dead, but it buzzed faintly, the black and white display flickering to life with a dim, stuttering glow. The battery icon blinked—barely clinging to life—but it was enough. A string of unread messages scrolled into view, most from the last few days, piling up while he’d been strapped to a Super Ward bed.

  He swiped through the notifications, mostly calls placed from the company landline. A couple voice mails from Russell—“Yo, you alive, man?” and Sofia “Are you… oh… your phone’s still here… uhm, I’ll bring it to you!”—and one from Val, a terse “Sorry about Pete,” that hit harder than he expected. Then, at the end, a voicemail timestamped yesterday afternoon. The sender: “Mgr.” Foster’s stomach twisted. He tapped it, pressing the phone to his ear as the static crackled.

  A gruff voice rasped through the speaker—Dan, the day shift manager, a barrel-chested guy with a permanent scowl and a habit of chewing toothpicks until they splintered. “Foster, it’s Dan. Look, I don’t know what’s goin’ on with you—heard some wild shit went down, somethin’ about a super bustin’ up the place—but you’ve been no-call, no-show for a coupla days straight. Policy’s clear: that’s it, you’re done. We can’t run short-handed out here, not with the rush. Your last check’s in the mail—minus the hours you missed, obviously. Don’t bother comin’ back, we don’t need any of that super-revenge heat coming down on us here.”

  The message cut off with a click, leaving a hollow buzz in Foster’s ear. He lowered the phone, staring at the fractured screen. Fired.

  “Those motherfuckers…” He couldn’t help himself, the rage sputtered out and he laughed. “This would sting a hell of a lot more if I wasn’t now rich for a wall-dweller. Well looks like there will be no more mystery meat for me.” He didn’t need Sloppo’s anymore, that was for when he was laying low and his memories were zeroed out. Now with the settlement money sitting in his account and some of his memories recovered…

  ‘Hedy you never told me… how much did I lose.’

  Memory wise - pretty much everything. You have your first life of course, it was etched into the nether-shard so it’s a bit hard to remember but it’s still there - but other than that you’re left with less than one percent. One percent of all those years is still a lot… But the memories are too fragmented, bits and pieces here and there too with many gaps in between. It doesn’t form a cohesive whole. Given enough time we might be able to fill in some of the pieces - extrapolate from my memory archives, but I'm afraid those memories - for the most part - are not coming back. On the upside you were kind of an ass - so you’re now ninety-nine percent less of an ass. I've maintained a detailed record of your existence since my integration but… It would be sort of like you reading the autobiography of your own life, and converting any of my records into something you could interpret as a now mostly organic being will take a considerable amount of time and extra processing power we don’t currently have on hand.

  ‘Mostly organic?’

  Well - You've still got a digital ghost in your head and an interface with the Nether Shard. You’re a pseudo-cyber of sorts I suppose… energy based rather than silicon.

  Foster thought of the glowing text screen he’d seen… it had been able to peer into his past… maybe he could get it to do so again? Then again it hadn’t spoken to him even once since then.

  ‘I wonder how much of me is still me…’

  You are you, no worries there. The host was far too damaged when we got here, so the neural architecture was regenerated based on your own original Nether-shard imprint. Of course that's merely the form of your thoughts, meat isn't going to be able to put out the pure operations per second that your synthetic minds were once able to… but given time… you’ll usually get to the same place. Just slower. Sometimes significantly so.

  ‘So… this is my life now. I’m going to need to learn to adjust my expectations.’

  He sighed, leaning back against the peeling wall of his efficiency apartment, tapping the back of his skull against it. The cold was seeping through his thin T-shirt and the room felt smaller than ever, the wheezing PC and sagging mattress mocking him with their inadequacy... but he was still oddly proud of it. He’d earned everything here.

  ‘I was rich wasn’t I?’

  You possessed wealth beyond the dreams of common avarice, but you weren’t a financial genius, or really any kind of genius… a long life and interest bearing accounts simply makes that easy over time. You simply outlived your first life’s poverty.

  ‘Damn. Now I’m just barely back to - not dirt poor. I guess it might be fun to start over…’

  He would eventually need a new place— somewhere at least a little better, more space, but not too far in. The Inner City was absolutely out of the question; everything there cost a fortune, and the last thing he wanted was to burn through his cash that quick. No, he’d stay near the edge, where life was cheaper.

  ‘I’ll need a car —something that runs on gas, not one of those fancy hover jobs that fry out here. Something reliable and tough. I don’t want to be stranded and I’m tired of cab rides …’ Foster nodded to himself, mapping out his next steps.

  A sharp knock on the door jolted him from his thoughts. He froze, glancing at the clock—just past noon. Who the hell would be knocking now? Had Sofia returned? Another knock, firmer this time. It wasn’t Sofia - the knock came from higher up the door. He pushed himself to his feet, crossing the small room in a few strides, and peered through the peephole.

  His stomach dropped. Standing in the hallway, gleaming in her silver armor, was the Platinum Paladin.

  Foster’s jaw clenched, a surge of anger bubbling up from deep inside. What the hell was she doing here? He debated ignoring her, letting her stand there until she gave up, but something told him she wasn’t the type to walk away. With a grunt, he yanked the door open, glaring at her through the crack.

  “What do you want?” he snapped, not bothering to hide his hostility.

  The Paladin’s mirrored helm tilted slightly, her posture stiff and formal. She didn’t flinch at his tone, though her gloved hands twitched at her sides. “I’m not here to cause you trouble,” she said, her voice low and steady, filtered through the suit’s modulator. “I just wanted to check on you.”

  Foster’s eyes narrowed. “Check on me? Why?”

  There was a pause, the silence stretched until finally, the Paladin reached into a compartment on her belt and pulled out a small, sleek card. She held it out to him, her movements careful, almost hesitant. “I am not a Doctor, but I have been in that ward enough to recognize the readings on the scanners. You’re pre-ascension - for better or worse. Things don’t always go smoothly.”

  Foster grimaced, Everybody talked about the people who got super powers, very few people liked to talk about those whose bodies were twisted into abnormal monstrosities when they triggered, or whose very powers made their lives a living hell… but it still happened.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “If you find yourself in trouble you can call me - but if you can’t call - rip this card in half, the paper is embedded with micro-crystals that will shatter and release a radioactive tracer the spires scan for - and I will come as quickly as I can.”

  Foster stared at the card, his mind racing. He trusted this - not - at - all. This didn’t make sense. The Platinum Paladin, the same woman who’d warned him away from Katey, who’d manipulated his life like a chess piece, was now offering help? He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But there was something in her tone, beneath the metallic edge. Guilt, maybe. Or regret.

  Or maybe she’s a Super-Supremacist and now that he was going to be part of their super-special club he rated care and concern - that was more likely… or this thing would let her track him where-ever he was… there was just no telling what this nutjob was up to.

  He snatched the card from her hand, glancing at it briefly—it had her name, and a contact number, nothing else. “Fine,” he muttered, shoving it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

  She nodded once, the movement sharp and precise, then turned on her heel and strode away, her metal boots echoing down the hallway. Foster watched her go, his brow furrowed.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’

  Perhaps your super-power has already triggered - it’s Super-Rizz. Has to be for her to slum it all the way out here in the E-zone.

  ‘Ha-fricken ha Hedy.’

  Foster shook his head, closing the door. Whatever game she was playing, he didn’t have time for it. He had things to do.

  Step one on that list - it was time to get mobile.

  New Old Ride

  The P-District wasn’t exactly a hub of luxury but you could still buy most of what you needed, as long as you didn’t need it new.

  The closest car lot was a twenty-minute walk, tucked between a pawn shop and a burned-out shell of a convenience store, just off the main road between the wall gate and the college, where the few streetlights that still worked flickered like they were on their last legs.

  The lot sprawled like a graveyard of metal dreams—rust-eaten hulks and dented relics slowly baking under the gray P-District sky. Tires sagged on a cracked asphalt lot, weeds clawing through the gaps. A faded sign swung crooked above the entrance: Honest Eddy’s Auto Emporium, the paint peeling and the rusted chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounding the lot suggested anything but honesty. Still, it was one of the few places that dealt in gas-powered vehicles, the kind that could handle the Aether interference near the Wall.

  Foster stepped onto the grounds, boots crunching gravel, and felt eyes on him before he saw anyone. A couple of guys in grease-stained coveralls lounged near a gutted sedan, smoking and muttering, their gazes sliding over him with all the warmth of a snake sizing up lunch. They didn’t move, didn’t call out. Just watched.

  The inventory was a mess—cars with missing doors, hoods propped open to expose engines that looked more like modern art than machinery, and a pickup with a windshield so shattered it’d blind you with refractions. Foster wove through the junk, hands in his pockets, keeping his face blank. He wasn’t here for a showpiece; he needed something that ran, something that wouldn’t strand him. Worst case, it’d double as a backup crash pad if his luck went spiraling the wrong way again.

  Then he spotted it—a beat-up white van parked near the back, half-hidden behind a rusted hatchback. The paint was chipped, streaked with grime, and the driver’s side door sported a dent, but the tires looked solid, and the windshield was intact. He circled it, peering through the dusty glass. No gaping holes in the seats, no ominous puddles under the chassis. He popped the hood—engine was old, but clean enough to suggest it’d been cared for, not just abandoned.

  “Nice, huh.” A voice drawled behind him, lazy but edged. Foster turned to see one of the coverall guys—lanky, with a buzzcut and a cigarette dangling from his lips—ambling over. He didn’t look eager to sell, more like he’d been dared to bother.

  “Does it run?” Foster asked, keeping his tone flat.

  Buzzcut shrugged, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Yeah, sure. Starts up, drives straight. Ain’t pretty, but it’ll get you around.” He flicked ash onto the ground, eyes half-lidded. “Three grand.”

  Foster raised a brow. Three grand for this relic? Steep for the P-District. The whole setup felt off—nobody’d approached him when he walked in, no sales pitch, no pressure. Just Buzzcut going through the motions, like the sale was a chore. The other guy was still leaning against the sedan, staring at nothing, and a third figure—a woman in a flannel shirt—poked her head out of a shack office, glanced at Foster, then ducked back inside without a word. It didn’t feel like a car lot.

  Money laundering? he thought, the idea clicking into place. The apathy, the half-dead stock, the way they barely blinked at a sale—it tracked. Not his problem, though. He just needed some wheels. “That’s steep for this heep. How about two thousand and I pay right now,” he said, pulling the black debit from his pocket. Buzzcut’s eyes flicked to it, a faint smirk tugging his mouth.

  “Sure.” He jerked his head toward the shack and shuffled off.

  Inside, the office was a haze of smoke and the desk sat piled with papers—some yellowed, some stained—and a clunky terminal hummed in the corner, its screen glowing green with numbers that didn’t add up to a car lot’s books. The flannel woman tapped at it, barely glancing up as Foster slid the card across the desk. She ran it, printed a receipt on a dot-matrix printer that screeched like a wounded animal, and tossed him a set of keys without ceremony. “Title’s in the glovebox. Don’t bring it back, our warranty is - there isn’t any,” she muttered, already turning away.

  Foster pocketed the keys, feeling the weight of the transaction—or lack thereof. No questions, just him filling out some papers, a swipe and a shrug. Shady as hell, but the van was his now. He stepped outside, the keys jangling in his hand.

  ‘Crap. Hedy… do I have a driver’s license?’

  In this world… technically… no.

  ‘Damn it.’

  P-district was a police desert but driving without a license was a risk he just didn’t need, not with his awful luck of late, so he headed to the DMV winding through streets that radiated despair. He went past sagging tenements and a flickering neon sign for a bar called Last Call that never seemed to close.

  The Wall loomed ever present on the horizon, a black slash against the gray sky, its shadow leaching color from everything below.

  The DMV squatted at the edge of Zone E, a concrete slab of a building that looked like it’d been dropped there and forgotten. Its facade was stained with streaks of grime, the few windows filmed over with thick layers of dust. A crooked sign above the entrance read P-District Motor Registry in chipped letters, the whole thing was one bad day from falling.

  A line of people snaked out the door—slumped shoulders, dead eyes, the kind of crowd that radiated resignation. Foster joined them, hands stuffed in his pockets and began to exercise patience..

  When he finally made it inside the air was stale with the faint tang of something chemical added into the mix. The waiting room was a sea of cracked plastic chairs bolted to the floor, most occupied by people who looked like they’d been waiting there since the Wall was built. Water stains bloomed across the ceiling, brown and jagged, and a lone vending machine hummed in the corner, its glass front smeared with fingerprints and offering nothing but a sparse selection of off-brand candy bars. A digital ticker above the counter flashed numbers—B-47, B-48—moving at a pace that suggested time had given up here too.

  The employees were - strange. Not all looked wholly or even vaguely human.

  Triggers didn’t always go the heroic route, and the P-District DMV was one of the places where the government dumped the ones who couldn’t fly or punch through steel but also couldn’t hold regular jobs. Mutants —people whose powers twisted them into something less than super, if somewhat more than human. One clerk, a woman with skin that was gray like shark scale and eyes that glowed a dull yellow, shuffled papers with hands that sprouted too many webbed fingers, each tipped with a white claw. She barked orders in a voice that rasped like sandpaper, her name tag reading Doris. Another worker, a guy with a hunched back and arms that stretched too long, dragged himself between desks, his rubbery limbs leaving faint smudges on the linoleum. His tag said Carl, and his face was a permanent grimace, like he’d forgotten how to do anything else.

  Foster’s number finally blinked—B-63—and he trudged to the counter, where Doris fixed him with those glowing eyes. “Gene-ID,” she snapped, holding out a claw-tipped hand. He slid his ID card across. She swiped it through a reader that beeped like it was in pain, then shoved it back at him. “Test’s over there. Sit. Pass, you’re certified. Fail, come back next week.”

  “No road test?” Foster asked, frowning.

  Doris snorted, a wet, guttural sound. “Out here? Go.” She jerked her head toward a row of desks along the wall, each with an oversized computer that was chained down like someone might steal the damn things.

  Foster took a seat, the chair creaking under him, and tapped the computer awake. The screen flickered, then loaded a test titled P-District Driver Certification – Basic. Fifty questions, multiple choice, a timer ticking down from thirty minutes. He skimmed the first one: When approaching a hover-lane merge in Zone A, what is the minimum altitude clearance required? His stomach sank. Hover-lanes? He’d never even seen one up close—those were Inner City concerns, useless near the Wall where Aether fried out finer circuits. His van ran on gas, rattling and real, it was not some floating fantasy.

  He scrolled. What is the maximum thrust ratio for a Class-C hover vehicle during peak traffic hours? When engaging vertical ascent in a residential zone, what signal must you broadcast? Question after question, all tailored to a world he didn’t live in. His palms started to sweat. He’d figured it’d be basic—stop signs, speed limits, maybe how to parallel park. Not this.

  ‘Hedy, what the hell is this?’ he thought, jabbing at a random answer—50 meters—and moving on.

  Looks like they didn’t bother customizing the test for the outer zones. One-size-fits-all bureaucracy means you’re stuck with Inner City problem sets.

  ‘Great. I’m gonna bomb this.’ He rubbed his temple, eyes flicking to the timer—twenty-five minutes left. A few questions made sense or sparked half forgotten memories from his host: What’s the penalty for driving without a certified Gene-ID? (Six months suspension.) What’s the maximum speed on a Wall-adjacent road? (45 mph.) He nailed those, but the hover stuff was a crapshoot. He guessed wildly—Level 4 thrust limit? Sure. Blue signal for ascent? Why not? The tablet’s screen glitched every few clicks, forcing him to tap harder, each delay chewing at his nerves.

  Across the room, Carl slouched over to a desk, his stretchy arms dangling as he handed a woman her updated ID. She had scales creeping up her neck, glinting dully under the lights, and muttered a thanks before shuffling out. Foster caught her eye for a second—hers were slit like a lizard’s, tired and empty.

  Back to the test. If a hover vehicle’s Aether-shield fails mid-flight, what emergency protocol applies? Foster stared, then picked Deploy emergency landing gear, because it sounded vaguely plausible. The timer hit ten minutes. His answers were a mess—half guesses, half desperation. He finished with seconds to spare, submitting it as the screen flashed Processing. He leaned back, exhaling hard, the chair groaning under him.

  The tablet beeped, spitting out a score: 62% - PASS. Barely. Foster blinked. Passing was 60—he’d squeaked by, probably thanks to the handful of Wall-relevant questions he’d actually known. The screen flickered again, then displayed Certification Pending – Submit Biological Sample.

  Doris waved him back to the counter, her claws clicking impatiently. “Blood and id-card, need to know you’re really you” she grunted, sliding a small device across—a gene-scanner, its needle glinting under the fluorescents. Foster pressed his thumb to it, wincing as it pricked him. A red drop welled up, sucked into the machine with a faint whir. The scanner hummed, then spat back his Gene-ID card, now newly stamped with a tiny DL in the corner—Driver’s License, P-District Certified.

  “Congrats,” Doris said, her tone flat as the linoleum. “Don’t crash. Next!”

  Foster pocketed the card, the weight of it oddly satisfying despite the ordeal. He’d done it—barely, but done. The DMV’s gloom pressed in as he headed for the door, the mutants behind the counter already fading into the background noise of shuffling papers and muted curses. Outside, the gray sky hadn’t changed, but the van waiting for him felt a little more his now.

  ‘Hedy, I’m legal,’ he thought, a faint smirk tugging his lips as he trudged back.

  Great - now try not to hit anything—or anyone.

  He climbed back into the van, the engine coughing to life, and pulled onto the road. One more box checked. Next up: a new place, but for now Foster pulled into a spot outside his building, the engine ticking as it cooled. He leaned back in the vinyl seat, staring at the bare metal ceiling. The van was pretty alright. Worst case, he now had a backup place to crash if he ever needed it —four wheels and a cargo hold beat the streets.

  Foster hauled himself up the chipped steps and then down the hall to 107. The door creaked open, and he flopped onto the mattress. The room still smelled vaguely of stale pizza and desperation, but it was quiet at least.

  His cracked phone buzzed and he squinted at the fractured screen. A text from Sofia glowed through the web of cracks: Just found out they fired u. Fuck Sloppo’s—I quit. The timestamp was ten minutes ago. Before he could type a response, another knock rattled the door.

  He peered through the peephole and there was Sofia again, her wavy black hair a mess, dark eyes red-rimmed. He swung the door open, and she stormed in, fists clenched, her too-big jacket. “They’re such dicks!” she spat, pacing the tiny space. “Dan called me in to cover your shift—your shift—like nothing happened. I told him to shove it and walked out.”

  Foster leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You didn’t have to do that. Everybody needs money.”

  “Yeah, I did.” She stopped, turning to him, her voice softening but still edged. “If you’re not there I’m done.” She hugged herself, shrinking into the jacket, then looked up at him, hesitating. “Hey… if I didn’t have a place to stay some nights, would you let me crash here? Just for a little bit?”

  Foster blinked, caught off guard. Her family situation was a black hole—he didn’t know if she had parents, siblings, a couch to surf on, or nothing. He didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to assume. But her eyes pinned him, searching, and he couldn’t dodge it. “You’re a friend, Sofia,” he said, slow and deliberate. “If you need a place, I’ll make it happen.” Mentally, he was already shuffling plans—seven digits meant he could hand her this shoebox apartment and grab something new, no sweat.

  Sofia’s face softened, a flicker of something raw breaking through. “You really mean that.” she sniffed, voice small. “I’ve… I’ve got my own place—I just don’t like sleeping there and… I wanted to know.” She sank onto the mattress, knees pulling up, and then the dam broke. Tears streaked down her cheeks, silent at first, then hitching into sobs. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she choked out, hands twisting in her lap. She looked up at him. “I’m just afraid to lose you—”

  Fosters thoughts accelerated, not the insane speed of an overclocked nether-shard, just the desperate speed of someone facing a situation in which they had no idea how to react to. ‘Hedy… a little help here.’ He felt a surge of panic flowing through him. Suddenly Foster felt… wrong. He felt hot and cold then he felt like he was freezing and on fire. He grabbed his skull. ‘Oh… that doesn’t feel good.’

  Foster… I think… Hedy’s voice drifted like she was suddenly far away.

  He realized it was happening. He was triggering… not in the midst of a super brawl or a battle to survive… just in his own apartment facing an existential crisis over a pretty girl confessing her inner feelings.

  ‘So… Fucken…Lame.’ Foster collapsed back onto the bed.

  The last thing he saw was Sofia’s wide worried eyes. “You’ll be-” He saw her reaching down towards him and then everything dissolved into a haze of colors…