“We’re almost at the clinic!” Allison yelled through the driver’s window.

DeSean stuck his arm out and gestured okay where she could see from side-view mirror. The whipping, smoky air blew over his outstretched arm.

Allison drove the monstrous pickup truck with authority down a side-trail, red-black patches of wildfire blurring by. Above their heads, dark thunderheads gathered. Cooling gusts clashed with hot vapors, spinning the air into mini, fiery flurries. It was chaos incarnate, and DeSean was along for the ride with everyone else who decided to stick with him.

The main roads were clogged with abandoned vehicles and piles of wreckages. Since they had to find detours, the way north toward the Lake of Ozark was slow-going. So, the golden gal sped up when she could, tearing up dirt, loam, and gravel under the truck’s large wheels.

It was a bumpy ride from the bed. It also afforded DeSean the awe-inspiring and grotesque views of the apocalypse. They passed smoking air plane wreckages, the crumpled hulls bursting at the metal seams with the blackened skeletons of their passengers. They passed bloody fields where fights had broken out in the open between heated neighbors or Chaos Marked and Enlightened Chosen. They hadn’t passed any live Enlightened Chosen, though, which worried DeSean even though there could be only so many statistically.

Instead, they would find oblong tubes of hard light containing more Enlightened Chosens like bugs waiting to hatch from their cocoons. The tops didn’t shine up into the sky anymore, so they weren’t as easy to spot as before. They remained indestructible no matter what round DeSean used to blast at them. It had been a wasted effort to break into when he tried, but he just wanted to make sure they could preemptively strike them down.

The monstrous fanatics weighed heavily on DeSean’s mind now. Especially now that he knew they would get radically stronger every couple of days. Let one of them have the training of a special ops killer and DeSean could see them scoring an obscene of amount of kills. Chances are we have some out there who doing just that right now.

The chances would simply increase with each wave, pouring out more mass-murder capable Chosen. Not many people would have what it took to put those well-trained psychopaths down. Not unless DeSean and a select team of high-leveled and high-trained warriors came at them guns and magic blazing.

These thoughts bugged DeSean a lot. He was not a glorified killer, but he’d taken to the reaping of lives seriously. There are monsters that need killing, and I want to be there to see it done.

A flash of rage passed through him when he thought of Hypersun.

Lylothia poked him in the cheek with her thumb claw. That was the first gesture of goodwill she committed in the past couple of hours. Her conversation with Quinton hadn’t ended amicably. For once, DeSean had felt like a child seeing his parents argue over him.

***

“Every person has something they could contribute to this unit,” Quinton said. “Even if it’s not as direct as killing, there’s more to chasing down these levels and gaining powers. There’s logistical support. There’s communications. There’s engineering. And, gosh darn it, I’ll even say having some artistic storytelling involved is just good for morale. We can’t just ditch all of that just to sharpen the blade. You’ll reach a point where the blades so sharp it breaks.”

“This is foolish, golden mortal,” said Lylothia. “It is beneath me to argue this point with you, but for the sake of my dear summoner’s learning, I shall extend to you audience that’s above your station. For this, like many things, is warfare. The war of thought is mine to conquer, just as it is in the arena of supply maneuvering, scry messaging, and the entertainment of basic troops. All of these things are known to me, for I rule over it. And I can tell you now that this group will drag the summoner down and slow his development. You aren’t as capable as him. And everything you offer, he could summon once he’s further along his path.”

“First, I want to say thank you for granting me your attention, princess,” Quinton said forcefully, like he had a mouth full of lemons. The American in him was rebelling, but he was willing to settle that score for another. “Secondly, there is no reason that we can’t have both. I… I have a conversation that’s waiting to be had between DeSean and me on rules of engagement⁠—and before you say anything DeSean, I do know that the rules are going to change now. You can say there aren’t any. But that’s a conversation for later. But right now, I bet you if you give these people a chance, we can pull out all of the surprises that you wouldn’t normally have with minions who aren’t familiar to this world.”

“The only rule of engagement that stands above all else is the one that leads to your victory,” Lylothia said with a deep, air-trembling edge. “All other rules are those that you establish for all others to follow. Your concerns on the treatment toward hostile enemies is unfounded, and proves that you would spread weakness to my dear summoner like a disease. Out of everyone here, golden mortal, you are the most troublesome. I am quite tempted to have him do me a favor and remove you from this group.”

“That’s a decision he can make without… without making a favor out of. All I’m saying is give us a chance. You don’t really know what we’re capable of.”

“Other than dying. Other than falling to feebleness and weakness. Other than leeching on the strength of the summoner?”

Quinton shifted uncomfortably as Princess Lylothia drummed him down. To his credit, he didn’t look elsewhere for help. He stayed in the ring with the demoness and took his beating like a man. Effort alone didn’t sway the populace, however, because the argument gathered more than just DeSean’s attention.

Mariah was fully awake and listening in with a single eye cracked open. Allison and Roberto had returned at the start of the debate; Art History and Botany wasn’t far behind. There were also a bunch of randos getting drawn by the verbal conflict, especially with the strangeness of Lylothia’s demonic voice.

A few of them had guns out as they stare warily at a blond man facing off against a little demon bat. No doubt, it looked crazy from an outsider’s perspective, but DeSean kept one ear for trouble and one ear to the conversation as it shifted into the final half.

“I’ll be the first to admit, Ma’am, your tongue is like a lash, and it’s quick to make me flinch,” Quinton said.

“I’m a ruler among Seventy-Two Hells, little one. It is the sharpness of my mind that has you cut a thousand ways before I utter a word,” she said proudly.

“That’s the thing. I’m an American. So is DeSean and everyone else here. We don’t have your long standing history, and the power of your rulership, but we got the blood of rebels in us. Each and every one of us. And I believe if you give it longer than a day, you’ll see that even Francis or Dazzle will take up the rebel flag and turn an impossible situation into a victory.”

Quinton seemed to grow stronger, taller, more golden than ever before. Opposite of that, Princess Lylothia’s confidence chipped, and she missed her opportunity to oppose him. The Missourian kept charging ahead.

“The strength of our nation⁠—our people, our world⁠—isn’t homogenous. It isn’t born from the best being funneled down preordained tracks. Even our most advance science can’t predict it. Because humanity is more than the sum of predictions. Our strength is born from a dream that we can do anything we put our mind to. Our strength is incredible as individuals and as communities. That means even a kindergarten teacher can pick up a rifle, or a magic sword. He can gather with him the factory worker and the mailman who’d never seen action. And together they can put steel in the eye of the bastards invading our homes.”

Shit, DeSean thought, he’s right. The golden bastard is right.

Lylothia looked away from Quinton and met DeSean’s eyes. It was there, before the surrounding Missourians burst into a motivate roar of approval, that the princess realized she had lost the warfare of words. Instantly, her face became a mask of rage. She flew up to DeSean’s shoulder, dug her talons deep enough to pierce his leather jacket and draw blood, and fell into a foreboding silence.

There were more conversations held with Quinton and Allison and the people of these rural parts. Most of it surrounded basic lessons on how to utilize the Status Tablet and being wary of the Enlighten Chosen. Most farmers planned to hole up regardless of the threat of utter destruction. Others were planning to hike it out with their friends and families. A few were prior military, had caches of weapons, and saw it fit to give others some advice and tips and offers to trade. Undoubtedly, the people the most likely to survive the longest were those who were willing to separate themselves from the more concentrated hubs of humanity, but most of these people steered clear of the central dominant point of Quinton’s argument.

It echoed through DeSean’s mind, distracting him and keeping him distant from the attention of others. Most of the talk passed over him like water over a duck’s back.

“I heard from the boy that the black man there killed half the attackers at Riley’s Farm.”

“He looks like he’s been at the front of the push into Fullujah. The guy’s a bloodied mess.”

“Hells and damnation, the man has the eyes of a stone-cold killer to him, I swear it.”

“He looks like he’s just as crazy as the Chosen. And look. He got some sort of gremlin on his shoulder.”

“What has this world become. At least we got decent folks like the Jacksons. I hope Allison stays safe. A wild man like that might just be worse than the invaders.”

“Hey now. We need men like that more than ever.”

The conversation surrounding DeSean had mixed opinions. But they all failed to rouse his attention because they hesitated to engage with the idea of American rebels taking the fight to the invaders taking over their homes. Quinton hit the hammer on the nail. No matter who they were, where they came form, and what traumas were born in their backgrounds, anyone could pick up the rifle⁠—or the magic sword⁠—and take the fight to the enemy.

***

DeSean sighed leaned against the bed side as Allison slowed the truck and exited out of a tight trail. They rolled onto a highway that was lacking heavy wreckage and started heading west in the direction of the sunset. Heavy rain water pattered down. The coming thunderstorm eclipsed the waning sunlight before snuffing it out. Allison flicked on the low-beams, the headlights passing over flipped cars and Enlightened Chosen cocoons.

They were disturbingly close to the rural clinic they were heading to. DeSean eyed them as Quinton’s words echoed in his mind.

Lylothia poked his cheek again. “Are you ignoring me on purpose? Did I displease you with my lost to the golden mortal?”

DeSean started in surprise.

“Uh, no. I was just deep in thought, Princess. I’m not displeased.”

Lylothia puffed her cheeks. “I’m displeased. I’ve never… lost like that before. Not in a long time. I’ve underestimated my lack of influence in this realm. I’m not rooted deep enough, yet. And that wretched mortal….”

“Heh.”

“You laugh!” she squawked, batting him with her wing. “Do not laugh. I don’t want you to find this humorous. I’ve been made to look the fool by a weakling. How can that be? I have more Focus than him. I can see him struggle. Yet, he won, still.”

“Can I break in and give my thoughts on the debate?” Art History looked hungry for attention. Mariah and Botany’s attention seemed elsewhere, but DeSean knew Mariah was always paying attention.

He wasn’t sure about Botany, though.

Lylothia gave Art History a flat look. “I want you gone, artsy one. I do not wish to hear from more lowly mortals who do not know their place, unlike hateful girl and the herbalist female. Do not speak to me any further today.”

“At least it’s only for today,” Botany croaked. “There’s hope for you yet, Francis.”

Art History mumbled unhappily to himself.

The pitter-patter grew stronger, wetting DeSean’s head. He looked up and honed his Focus, spotting individual droplets among the countless drumming down. He spotted his optiling managing to stay aflight even with the adverse weather conditions.

Before the weather fell into cats-and-dogs territory, Allison turned off the road, followed another trail, and climbed a grassy hill. Passed a hedge of trees, they turned into the parking lot of a homey clinic belonging to a Doctor Patterson, his name on a board near the entrance set into a brick facade surrounded by blue and orange flowers.

There were other vehicles filling up the parking lot as well as two Enlightened Chosen cocoons. DeSean sighed, letting go the need to seek and destroy. They weren’t a threat for the next three days. He had time to prepare before the second wave.

Everyon disembarked from the truck. Roberto carried Social Media in his arms, his sister hovering with a rifle pressed against her shoulder. Allison stayed close to her son as they went for the front entrance.

“We aren’t far from Ozark,” Botany muttered. “Can we go while they’re getting checked.”

DeSean leaned against the trailer hooked up to the back of the pickup. The rain was crashing down hard now, and he was soaked to the bone. Princess Lylothia remained on her perch, either unaffected, or unwilling to bend to the elements.

“DeSean?” Botany called.

He looked at her. She was a short girl on the plump side. But she carried the extra heft well, and could be described as curvy. Set in her round face are half-lidded stoner eyes darkened by the tragedies she’d experienced today. Out of all of the university students, she seemed the most unpredictable to DeSean.

Art History was a oval-shaped young man in a tattered sweater. He stood like a water-downed shadow behind Botany. His unkept brown locks were draped over his face and matted by the rain. He shifted uncomfortably in the rain as he waited. He was a known quandary to DeSean, at least, and that made him the most likely to be ditched and left behind.

If there was a moment to tell people they weren’t needed anymore, it would be here. The heavy rain would conceal the conversation from those with heightened Focus.

“I was thinking,” DeSean said, “that once I ensure you a measure of safety, I’ll split with you three. Where I’ll go will be bloody, evil, and not for the faint of heart.”

“We were probably thinking the same,” Botany said.

“Which leads me to wonder. Do you want to be on the sidelines or do you want to be in the thick of action?”

Botany turned to Art History. He nodded at her. The strange university girl returned her attention to DeSean.

“Where do we sign the dotted line, Sergeant?”

DeSean smiled