I staggered back, chest tight, breath shaking.
"I don't understand a word you're saying… how can someone just fabricate my whole life?"
Prime Vector tilted his head, lips curling into a grin like he'd rehearsed it for decades.
"That's the catch, my boy. You finally think you've figured out life—got it all neat and tidy—and then—" he punched the air like a boxer— "bang. A clean shot straight to the chest from the universe."
"So you're telling me my whole life wasn't real?" My voice cracked. "I'm just something someone made? Everything I've lived… loved… is just made up?"
Prime Vector's eyes gleamed. "Bingo."
Arthur wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. "Hey, kid. Don't listen to him. The life you lived, the people you loved—those were real. That's why you're feeling this weight in your chest right now."
Prime Vector scoffed. "Or you're sad because the whole pathetic script you've been calling a life just got tossed into the dumpster."
Peter lunged forward. "You shut the fuck up."
Prime Vector laughed, not even flinching. "Woah there. I wouldn't do that if I were you."
In the corner, Fletcher sat alone, elbows on his knees, eyes far away from all of us. Prime Vector sauntered toward him like he was bored.
"And you," he said. "You think you're the damaged good. The man who lost his family and now walks around pretending he's fine. But deep down? You still replay that day over and over. The moment you couldn't save them. The moment you were helpless."
Peter moved again, fists tight and shaking. "I swear to God, if you say one more word—"
"You'll what?" Prime Vector interrupted. He tapped his own chest. "Slit my throat? Bad news, champ. You can't. See, you're not familiar with the word immortal. Hello?"
Arthur kept holding me upright. "How are you immortal?"
Prime Vector didn't look away from Fletcher. "Let's just say the Dusk Society hated me and wanted me erased. So I found a workaround. Now I get the pleasure of being everyone's bad memory. That's all you get for now."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "So you're not with the Society?"
Prime Vector barked a laugh. "Fuck no. I'd rather kill myself."
Peter threw his hands in the air. "Okay, what the hell? You said someone's coming for the kid, you show up looking like Arthur's better-looking twin, you claim you know everything about us, and now you're saying you're not with the Dusk Society?"
Prime Vector shrugged. "Just because I'm all of that doesn't mean I'm with them. It could just mean I've spent an eternity drifting through endless time, gathering knowledge the way you people gather regrets. And now all I want—maybe—is to help the kid. Because if I do… I might finally get to start everything right from the moment I lost it all."Arthur's grip on me tightened, jaw locking. "Or maybe you just want to play God again."
Prime Vector's grin faded. Just for a breath. "Trust me, Arthur. If I wanted to play God, none of you would be talking right now."
Arthur stepped forward. "I don't trust you."
Prime Vector rolled his eyes. "Shocking. Truly."
Before anyone could blink, Arthur swung. A clean punch across Prime Vector's face. It should've knocked a normal man down. Instead Prime Vector barely turned his head, cracking his neck to the side like it was an itch.
"Oh, we're doing this? Cute."
Arthur attacked again. This time Prime Vector moved—too fast—catching Arthur by the wrist and flipping him onto the floor like he weighed nothing.
Peter swore and jumped in. Fletcher finally rose from the corner and charged, silent and angry, a knife in his hand.
For a moment it was chaos—three against one, fists, metal, rage, desperation—yet Prime Vector moved like time had slowed for everyone but him. He dodged, redirected, countered. Every strike against him felt pre-calculated, predicted years in advance.
Within seconds all three were on the ground, groaning and trying to breathe.
Prime Vector dusted off his sleeves. "And that was me being polite."
Peter spit blood. "Fuck you."
"Language," Prime Vector chided.
Arthur dragged himself up, still glaring. "If you're really here to help him, then quit acting like a goddamn puppet master."
Prime Vector hesitated. For the first time, the jerkish mask cracked—just slightly.
"Fine. I help. You three don't die. We call that a win."
"We're not a team," Arthur growled.
Prime Vector smirked. "Good. Teams are annoying. We're allies by hostage situation"
Arthur said "We are nothing!! We gotta go fi-" Prime vector interfered "oh yes gotta find the beautiful serena the love of your life...trust me!! She's safe right now where she is...we gotta focus on something else right now.Prime Vector walked ten paces ahead of us like we were his unpaid interns. He didn't look back once. Arthur limped behind, still bleeding from the fight, and Peter kept muttering how he should've "brought a bigger fucking knife."
The path cut through the skeletal remains of the city—burned walls, collapsed apartment blocks, rebar sticking out like broken bones.
I finally broke the silence. "So… where are we going?"
Prime Vector sighed dramatically like a babysitter dealing with toddlers.
"To neutral ground. A place that doesn't make me want to stab my own skull."
Peter frowned. "Why the hell would anyone stab—"
"It's a figure of speech, sunshine."
Arthur wiped sweat from his brow, wincing. "You sound like you've been alive way too long."
"Oh, I have," Vector replied. "Nothing ages you faster than immortality. It's exhausting."
We stopped by the remains of a market square. Dead neon signs flickered overhead like ghosts that hadn't gotten the memo.
Fletcher finally spoke, voice low. "Why help the kid?"
Vector glanced at me, then at Fletcher. "Because I'm bored. And because maybe this idiot is the cosmic key to undoing a very rude timeline mistake. And also because I enjoy making the Dusk Society shit themselves."
Arthur set me down carefully. "That's not an answer."
"It's the one you get."
Fletcher aimed his pistol at Vector's spine. "Try again."
Vector didn't bother turning. "Put the gun away, Fletcher. You're not going to shoot. Not until you know if I can actually save the kid."
Fletcher hesitated. Then cursed under his breath and lowered it.
Vector smirked. "See? We're making progress. Teamwork is beautiful."
Peter muttered, "This is the worst team-up in history."
Vector winked. "I've been in worse. The Mongols were fucking nightmares at charades."
Arthur blinked. "…what?"
"Never mind, long story."
Night fell fast—like someone yanked the sun offstage with a hook.
By the time we reached the edge of the district, our legs were jelly and Arthur was one cough away from keeling over. Prime Vector called the halt at a rundown gas station with a flickering MART sign—half the letters gone, the remaining ones buzzing like drunk hornets.
"This'll do," he declared, kicking open the door.
Inside smelled like dust, gun oil, and the kind of snacks that expired before half of us were born. Shelves knocked over, bullet holes in the soda fridge, wrappers everywhere. Home-sweet-apocalypse-home.
Arthur sank to the floor against an empty chip rack, clutching his bandaged side. Peter tore open a candy bar and sniffed it suspiciously before taking a bite.
"Still good," he mumbled, mouth full.
We barricaded the door with a vending machine Vector crushed onto its side like it weighed nothing. Then we camped in silence, each of us pretending sleep was an option.
I lay on the counter, staring at the ceiling tiles. They looked like constellations from the old world—coffee stains, water damage, bullet holes forming fake star maps.
I whispered, "Vector."
A sigh floated from the shadows. "I'm listening, prodigy."
"You really think Serena's safe?"
He didn't answer immediately. That scared me more than anything.
Finally: "Safer than you. And certainly safer than us."
I nodded, even though he couldn't see it.
Arthur wheezed, "We're dead tomorrow if we don't get more ammo."
Fletcher checked his pistol, his face unreadable. "We've survived worse."
Vector chuckled. "I'm immortal. That gives me unfair optimism."
None of us slept, not really.
Suddenly a static—hissing inside our heads, like metal scraping metal.
Peter jolted upright. "Oh hell no—"
The windows shattered in unison. Red targeting lasers swept the room like angry insects.
"Shields UP!" Vector barked.
He threw his hand out and a shimmering distortion field crackled into existence—instant but thin, like stretched glass.
They flooded in through the front and back: six of them, maybe seven—they looked like jacob, the guy we escaped from, the guy whom peter was with while the society did experiments on them.
Peter threw a knife that bounced uselessly off one's jaw. They looked different now....and Jacob entirely looked like he's been revived stronger from death.
"WHY ARE THEY STRONGER NOW?!" peter screamed.
"Upgrades," Vector hissed. "Someone's been busy."
They opened fire, bullets shredding shelves and ripping soda cans in half. Arthur dragged me behind the counter as Vector's shield began to spiderweb with fractures.
"Fletcher!" Arthur yelled. "We need covering fire!"
Fletcher rolled over the counter, gun barking three precise shots—two in a Soldier's throat seam and one in the eye socket. It collapsed with a metallic shriek.
But then the room went cold.
Like—spine-turning-to-ice cold.
The soldiers parted, stepping aside like servants revealing the arrival of royalty.
Through the broken doorway he stepped.
Jacob.
Seven feet of muscle threaded with obsidian armor, cloak torn and trailing smoke. The man we barely escaped from the road.
His voice was deep enough to rattle teeth.
"Found you."
Arthur whispered, "We're dead."
Vector didn't respond. He just flared with energy—blue sparks crawling up his arms like living lightning.
The shield shattered.
Everything exploded into motion.
Arthur fired his last shells. Peter swung a metal pipe at a soldier's face until it snapped in half. Vector tackled Jacob through the snack aisle, bottles and wrappers flying like confetti.
I tried to crawl away, vision ringing, ears buzzing. The air tasted like copper and smoke.
A soldier lunged. Fletcher intercepted, slamming its head into the shattered fridge glass until wires ripped out of its jaw. He pulled me up.
"On your feet, kid!"
Before I could speak, Jacob hurled Vector across the room—he hit a freezer door so hard the entire frame dented inward.
Jacob turned to us, eyes glowing through his helmet visor.
"Give me the key."
He meant me.
Fletcher didn't hesitate. He stepped in front of me and fired point-blank into Jacob's helmet. The rounds sparked off harmlessly.
Jacob grabbed Fletcher by the throat.
Arthur screamed. Peter lunged and got swatted into a shelf.
I reached for Fletcher, but Jacob hoisted him off the ground like a trophy deer.
Fletcher's face reddened, fingers clawing at the grip. He spat blood into Jacob's visor.
"Go to hell."
Jacob didn't take the bait—he just twisted.
A sickening crack.
Fletcher went limp.
Jacob tossed him aside like scrap metal. He hit the ground in a heap—too quiet, too still.
Time slowed into molasses.
Vector roared, the building trembling as energy rippled off him. Arthur dragged me back as another volley of bullets erupted.
Everything blurred. Smoke. Screaming. Metal. Heat.
Then—sudden silence.
The soldiers retreated with Jacob, disappearing into the dark as fast as they came.
All that was left was the ruin of the gas station… and Fletcher
Arthur crawled to him first, knees shaking.
He touched Fletcher's cheek with trembling fingers.
"Hey… hey c'mon man… wake up…"
Peter knelt opposite, lip quivering, hands stained with machine oil and blood.
"He was just—he was just talking. He was just—"
Vector stood over them, shoulders slumped, expression gone—too old, too tired to pretend immortality made him numb.
Arthur pressed his forehead to Fletcher's forehead like he was trying to transfer life by contact alone.
"Open your eyes," he whispered. "Please. You can't—"
His voice broke.
Peter sucked in tiny gasps, rocking back and forth. "We— we should've brought a bigger knife… I should've— I should've—"
I crawled closer. Fletcher's eyes were half-open, staring at nothing. His hand was still warm.
I whispered, "You saved me."
My tears hit his collarbone and soaked into his jacket.
Vector finally knelt—a king lowering himself to the dirt.
He closed Fletcher's eyes with two fingers.
"There," he murmured. "Warriors deserve dignity."
No one moved. No one breathed. The world outside kept going like it didn't care someone important just stopped existing.
Then Vector whispered, almost to himself:
"He hated my long monologues."
Arthur let out a strangled laugh that turned into a sob. Peter covered his face.
The neon MART sign flickered one last time, buzzing out entirely—leaving us in darkness with the body of the man who shouldn't have died first.
And somewhere in the distance, Jacob's vehicles hummed into distance.