No drones, patrol bots, or gunfire echoing from a neighboring quadrant. This place is silent in the way of forgotten ruins and bedtime stories. Too peaceful, safe.
It’s suspicious.
I reach a split-rail fence that looks like it’s been slowly eaten by the sun and time. Beyond it, a gravel access road winds through the trees, and I follow it—limping, stiff, head on a swivel. Every car that zips past in the distance sounds like an incoming fighter until I force myself to breathe.
Focus.
Priorities.
I whisper them aloud like a prayer.
“Parts. Weapons. Food.”
My stomach growls then, like it’s agreeing emphatically. It’s been at least twelve hours since I injected a nutrient cartridge. And my metabolism—especially while healing—is nothing short of predatory.
But parts come first.
This town... Collinsville, if I remember the signage correctly... must have salvage. I saw a junkyard on my scan. Maybe a mechanic’s shop. I need something that can stabilize my power matrix, and I need itnow. If the drive core degrades any further, it’ll cascade into thermal collapse and then nothing in this county’s going to survive.
The gravel road ends at pavement, and suddenly I’m walking past tidy suburban lawns with flags and flamingos. Children’s toys are scattered across front yards. One man across the street is hosing off his sidewalk for reasons I cannot begin to understand. He nods politely at me.
I nod back.
“Hello,” I try. “I am person. Enjoy... hose protocol.”
He frowns slightly.
I keep walking.
A woman jogs past with a leash in one hand and earbuds in her ears. She barely glances my way. I must be blending in better than I thought.
Soon, the neighborhood thins and shops begin to appear—strip malls, delis, a tire shop with an enormous inflatable bear on the roof. The bear is... disquieting. Its smile is too wide. Its eyes track the wind.
I turn away before it curses me.
And there it is.
Across the intersection—a dingy sign that reads “Collinsville Auto Parts & Salvage.” A warehouse squatting beside an open lot filled with the skeletons of cars, rusted and sunburnt.
Perfect.
I mutter to myself as I cross the street, sidestepping a plastic bag that dances across the asphalt like a drunken ghost.
“Let’s find something that doesn’t explode. For once.”
And just like that, Richard begins his mission.
Hungry. Burned. Undercover.
And already, weirdly, starting to hate shoes.
CHAPTER 4
VANESSA
Saturday mornings are my sanctuary. At least, they’re supposed to be. There’s a sacred rhythm to it—fuzzy socks, questionable coffee, and the sound of Sammy humming through her pancakes like a sugared-up jazz saxophonist. I let the sun creep in through the window just enough to bathe the floor in that golden morning hush, the kind that makes the chaos of the week feel like it belongs to someone else. My head is still halfway buried in the pillow when the bedroom door bangs open like she’s storming a castle.
“Mom!” Her voice rings out, loud and righteous. “The new guy is absolutely an alien.”
