Glimmer: The Whole Story (Chapter 1) (ambitiousleather8309)

ambitiousleather8309 · December 16, 2024, 3:17am

The rocky, mottled sand stretched across the vast expanse of arid emptiness. At sunset, the Southern California desert softened just enough to let the fleeting beauty emerge. The setting sun painted the sky with molten orange and streaks of red, the colours spilling outward and melting into deeper shades of purple and blue. Each hue seemed to linger just a moment too long, as though reluctant to give way to the encroaching night.

The land itself was rugged, marked by jagged rock formations and sprawling stretches of coarse sand, dotted with the defiant green of creosote bushes and the occasional yucca tree. These plants stood like sentinels in the wasteland, their spindly arms stretched skyward as though pleading for rain that rarely came.

Farther out, the mountains rose like dark sentinels, their outlines softened by the haze of the day’s lingering heat. They loomed over the flatlands in silence, ancient and inscrutable. The air shimmered where the bleak earth met the horizon, the last vestiges of the sun’s brutal heat warping the distant asphalt into mirages that flickered like water.

The abandoned gas station sat quietly under the deepening twilight, its crumbling walls and skeletal pumps barely distinguishable from the encroaching desert shadows.

The headlights of the van flickered briefly as it slowed, sweeping across the desolate scene. The beams illuminated the battered pumps, the shattered glass in the station’s windows, and the peeling paint of its walls. Then they caught something else—two black sedans, parked parallel to one another, their sleek bodies almost invisible in the growing darkness. The nondescript black cars sat like predatory animals, waiting in silence, their engines off and their interiors obscured by heavily tinted windows.

The van rolled to a stop a few yards from the sedans. Its engine idled briefly, its rumbling an intrusion on the eerie quiet, before cutting off. For a moment, nothing moved. The van’s brake lights glowed like dying embers, casting faint red reflections on the cracked pavement.

The driver’s door of the van opened slowly, and a young woman stepped out, her silhouette slim against the soft glow of the interior light. Spindly, like the stubborn trees that dotted the landscape, the foliage of her head was soft and translucent mousy brown curls. Dr. Maggie, star of FluffTV and heir to the Hasbio family fortune, stubbed out her cigarette on the vinyl of the dash and leaned her frail frame against the side of her busted-up van.

From the sedans, two sets of doors opened simultaneously, and four figures stepped out, two from each car. Their faces were partially obscured, but the way they carried themselves—rigid spines, squared shoulders—betrayed a confidence born of authority or danger.

Maggie knocked the sole of her battered Converse against the driver’s side wheel, kicking off the dust that had grown sticky in the evening dew. She stood still for a moment, letting the tension settle over the scene. “You’re early,” she said, her voice hoarse and cracking from chain smoking.

One of the men from the sedans stepped forward, adjusting the cuff of his jacket with a measured motion. “So are you,” he replied, his tone as smooth and practiced as the dimple in his tie.

Behind him, the other three men stayed in formation, their eyes fixed on the van. One of them shifted slightly, the glint of something metallic catching the light at his side. A gun, perhaps, though it wasn’t drawn. Not yet. Their immaculate composure couldn’t hide their surprise at Maggie’s appearance. The twenty-something-year-old former child star looked positively ancient.

The man from the van glanced at the group, his expression unreadable. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, turning and walking toward the back of the van.

As he reached the rear doors, the other men moved closer, their footsteps muffled against the cracked asphalt. The leader of the group nodded toward the van. “Open it,” he said, his voice clipped and impatient.

The frail young woman hesitated for the briefest moment, her hand resting on the latch. Then she pulled it open, the creak of the hinges loud in the stillness. Inside, the van’s cargo area was dimly lit by a single bulb. Stacks of unmarked boxes were neatly arranged, their edges taped messily with duct tape and coloured washi tape.

One of the suited men stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he peered inside. “Everything there?” he asked, though the question sounded more like a demand.

“It’s all there,” Maggie croaked, scratching at her forearms. The long drive had left her jonesing for another fix.

The leader of the suited men gestured to one of his companions, who stepped forward and reached into the van. He pulled a knife from his pocket, the blade glinting briefly before slicing through the tape of one of the boxes. He lifted the lid, revealing neatly packed vials of shimmering blue liquid.

The man examined the contents carefully, holding one of the small bottles up to the light. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded toward the leader.

“Good,” the leader said. “Load it up.”

The others moved into action, a model of quick and efficient teamwork they began transferring the boxes from the van to the trunks of the sedans. Maggie stood off to the side, her eyes flicking toward the horizon where the last traces of light had disappeared. Her hand hovered near her belt, where the poorly concealed holster jutted from her baggy jeans like a misplaced erection.

The transfer was nearly complete, the last of the boxes being hefted into the trunk of one of the black sedans. Maggie stood by the open back doors of the van, her arms crossed, her face set in its customary sour expression. The desert night had grown colder, and the sharp bite of the wind made her jacket feel thinner than it should have.

The leader of the men stepped closer, pulling a thick envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket. He held the envelope out to her, his hand steady, but his eyes were roving over Maggie’s jutting collar bones, her goose-pimpled flesh, the outline of her nipples through her threadbare, dirty clothes.

“This should cover it,” he said, his tone curt.

Maggie took the envelope without a word, her fingers brushing against the coarse paper. She opened it and glanced inside, her brows tightening when she saw the stack of bills. It was smaller than she’d been expecting—much smaller. She ran her thumb over the top of the stack, quickly counting the edges.

“This isn’t what we agreed on,” her voice cracking with the strain of holding back her anger.

The man tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “It’s what you’re getting,” he replied. “Take it or leave it. Or we can arrest you right now. I’d want to personally strip search you, and make sure you’re not packing any weapons or explosives. Hasbio sure has had a lot of explosions and fires lately, I’d want to search you thoroughly.”

Maggie felt her jaw clench, a tightness settling in her chest that she fought to suppress. She wanted to argue, to push back, to demand what she was owed. But the four men standing nearby, their eyes flicking between her and the leader, were a silent reminder of the precariousness of her position. One of them rested a hand on his belt, where a gun sat holstered, the subtle gesture enough to keep her anger in check.

She nodded once. “Fine,” she said, her tone flat.

The leader’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. “Good Little Girl. Now run along.”

Without another word, Maggie turned and walked back to the driver’s side of the van. The gravel crunched angrily beneath her tennis shoes. She climbed into the seat and shut the door with more force than necessary, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she took a steadying breath.

In the rearview mirror, she watched the men finish loading the last box, slamming the trunks of their sedans shut. They didn’t spare her another glance as they moved back toward their cars, their silhouettes sharp against the dim glow of their headlights.

Maggie started the engine, the van rumbling to life with a groan. She pulled away from the gas station without looking back, the desolate road stretching out before her like a black ribbon unfurling into the night.

Her hands tightened on the wheel as the first few miles passed, the envelope in her jacket pocket feeling heavier with each turn of the tires. Her jaw ached from holding it clenched, her thoughts churning with unspoken rage.

She had spent weeks arranging this huge shipment, rounding up hundreds, probably thousands of fluffy ponies, even killing off most of her personal breeding stock and research subjects. Each of those thousands of vials was headed to god knows where and each had the potential to take a life, just like glimmer was slowly taking Maggie’s life. And for what? For a fraction of what she was owed, handed to her like a consolation prize.

The darkness outside the van was oppressive, the desert lit only by the faint glow of the moon and the occasional flash of headlights from distant, unseen roads. The radio was off, the silence inside the van broken only by the hum of the engine and the rhythmic thud of the tires over the cracked pavement.

Maggie forced herself to breathe deeply, her fingers flexing on the wheel. She’d done worse for less—she reminded herself of that. This wasn’t the first time she’d been shorted, and it wouldn’t be the last. She had to stay focused. She had to keep her head down and keep moving forward.

The highway signs for Los Angeles began to appear in the distance, their reflective surfaces catching the van’s headlights. Each mile brought her closer to the city, to the chaos and noise and anonymity that she both craved and despised.

As she drove, her anger slowly subsided, replaced by the cold calculation that had kept her alive this long. She would take the money, small as it was, and find a way to make it stretch. She always did. And next time—next time—she’d make sure they couldn’t short her without consequence.

For now, she kept her anger to herself, burying it deep where no one could see it. The road stretched on, endless and unforgiving, just like the city she was driving toward.

~

Maggie had managed to turn the 5 hour drive back from the border into nearly twelve with her repeated need to pull over and recover from the waves of nausea that Glimmer withdrawal caused. She had found herself just at lunch hour traffic on the edge of some white suburban enclave on the southern california coast. The air smelled like clean ocean and entitlement. But amid the plain stucco corporate chains, Maggie was enchanted to discover a grimy little hole in the wall bar. Alcohol sounded amazing.

Parking the van out front, a familiar dark green caught her eye. Behind the dumpster was a small colony of fluffy ponies, with a thin, muddy green unicorn obviously the smarty. The ponies all turned to maggie with their programmed response, nyu fwen?

The smarty stood his ground and puffed his cheeks at the intruder.

“Gu ‘way! Nu huwt fwuffy hewd! Nuu meh hawgas dannyoh!”

“Was that fuckin Spanish?” Maggie thought aloud as she walked into the bar.

The bar was a hole-in-the-wall tucked into the forgotten edges of a strip mall, the kind of place you only found if you were looking for it—or trying to disappear. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap whiskey, mingling with the faint trace of cigarette smoke that clung to the walls, despite the smoking ban decades before. A basketball game on the tv, and boring pop rock from twenty years ago on the radio were the only sounds. A neon sign above the bar flickered intermittently, casting garish pink light over the cracked leather stools and sticky wood countertops.

Maggie sat hunched over the bar, her jacket draped over the back of her stool and her fingers wrapped tightly around a sweating glass of whiskey. The bartender, an older woman with crow’s feet and a no-nonsense vibe, poured her another without asking, sliding it across the counter with a knowing nod. Maggie had already lost track of how many she’d had, but the liquor had finally dulled the sharp edges of her anger, replacing them with a heavy, reckless warmth.

To her right, a man in a rumpled but expensive-looking suit nursed a glass of scotch. He was tall and lean, with tousled blonde hair that looked like it had been raked through one too many times, and a face that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a glossy magazine. But there was a slump to his shoulders and a hollow look in his striking blue eyes, as though the weight of the world had settled on him all at once.

To her left sat a younger man who looked out of place, like he’d wandered in by accident. His brown hair was overgrown and messy, brushing the tops of his ears, and a scruffy beard did little to offset his boyish features. He wore a designer polo under a fleece vest, the kind of outfit that screamed “finance bro,” and a pair of high-end glasses with an attached earpiece. His fingers tapped nervously against his glass of beer, the motion slightly erratic, as though he couldn’t quite keep still.

Maggie hadn’t intended to talk to either of them. She’d come to the bar to drown her frustration in liquor, but the alcohol had loosened her tongue, and the two men had gravitated toward her like moths to a flame. Lonely, misunderstood people were the only ones who seemed immune to the bristly, sour energy Maggie carried around like stones on her neck.

The man on her right was the first to speak. “This place has character,” he said, his voice smooth and resonant, tinged with dry humor. He swirled his scotch in his glass, the ice clinking softly.

Maggie snorted. “That’s one way to put it. You look a little out of place.”

He took another sip of his drink, then added, “I wasn’t planning on being here tonight, but plans… changed.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “What kind of plans?”

He let out a low chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “The kind where you’re supposed to get married at two o’clock, and by 5 you’re halfway through a bottle of scotch in a bar your friends would never set foot in.”

Maggie blinked, unsure whether to offer sympathy or another drink. Oz waved a dismissive hand before she could say anything. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just easier being here than listening to my family leave voicemails about how ‘everything happens for a reason.’” He glanced at his phone on the bar, its screen lighting up with another incoming call. He silenced it without looking.

“Hell of a day,” Maggie said after a pause.

The man nodded. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I’m Oz, by the way,” he said, offering his hand.

Maggie hesitated for a moment, then shook it. His grip was firm, with callouses on his palms from working with his hands. “Maggie,” she replied.

“Nice to meet you, Maggie,” Oz said, leaning back slightly

On her other side, the younger man cleared his throat awkwardly, his voice barely above a mumble. “T-tough break, man. Seems … Sh- shitty days are going around t-today. ” he said. His stutter was faint but noticeable, adding a layer of hesitancy to his words.

Oz turned toward him, one eyebrow raised. “Thanks,” he said, his tone polite but detached.

“And you are?” Maggie asked, tilting her head toward the man in the fleece vest.

“Uh, Lucas,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “From San Francisco. I, uh, I work in finance.” He looked down at his drink as if it held the answers to every awkward pause.

“Finance, huh?” Maggie said. “What brings you to a place like this?”

Lucas hesitated, his fingers drumming on the glass. “Funeral. Gotta drive back home now. Thought I’d, uh, check out the l-local scene.” He offered a shy smile that didn’t quite land.

“‘Local scene’?” Maggie echoed, glancing around the bar with a smirk. “Guess you nailed it. Clearly this is the finest establishment in wherever the fuck we are, Orange County. Or is this still San Diego County?”

Lucas chuckled softly, though his shoulders tensed, as if bracing for the ribbing he was used to receiving.

The three fell into an oddly natural rhythm, trading quips and snippets of their stories between drinks. Oz, despite his glum demeanor, was eloquent and surprisingly thoughtful, his words carefully chosen about his heartbreak and confusion even as he drank. Lucas, for all his nervous energy, was disarmingly genuine, his stutter occasionally breaking through as he rambled about his overbearing boss, his overbearing mother, her funeral, how terrible he felt about his relief, that she wasn’t hurting anymore and that his deep desires to break out of the rut he felt like he was in.

Eventually, the conversation turned toward Maggie. Oz leaned against the bar, his sharp eyes studying her with a kind of curious detachment. “So, Maggie,” he said, “what’s your story? What brings you here?”

Maggie hesitated, her bony hand tightening around her glass. “Work,” she said finally, keeping her tone light. “I had a… long day.”

Oz tilted his head, sensing there was more to the story but not pressing. Lucas, however, leaned forward slightly, his curiosity outweighing his shyness. “W-what do you do?” he asked.

Maggie considered her answer for a moment, the warmth of the alcohol dulling her usual caution. She didn’t lie, exactly, but she didn’t tell the truth, either. “Let’s just say it’s freelance,” she said, her lips curling into a faint smile.

Oz’s eyebrows lifted. “Freelance? That could mean a lot of things.”

“It does,” Maggie replied, draining her glass and signaling the bartender for another.

Lucas opened his mouth to ask another question, but Oz caught his eye and shook his head slightly, a silent warning not to push. Maggie appreciated the gesture. She wasn’t ready to lay her cards on the table—not yet. For now, she was content to let the whiskey and the company take the edge off the night.

Lucas instead changed the subject. “So did you hear the shitrats by the dumpster? Little green leader, unicorn bastard yelled at me in English and Spanish. Wild how s-smart those stupid things can be s-sometimes. Like, I don’t hate fluffy ponies, I’m not so gung ho for abusing them like, ‘grr! eradicate!’ but they are really dirty and really annoying. The infestation is way worse down here than it is up north. I don’t know. I don’t know how you cope with all this. Like, it’s so bad. So bad.”

The conversation had drifted into that peculiar territory where booze loosened the tongue and absurdity felt like logic. Maggie, Oz, and Lucas were laughing in the dim, sticky bar, the bartender absorbed in her crossword puzzles by the register.

“You’ve dealt with them, right?” Lucas asked, leaning forward on his elbows, his drink nearly forgotten. His shy demeanor had melted into the wide-eyed exuberance of a man a few drinks past cautious.

“Seen one?” Oz scoffed, raising his eyebrows. “Try having a herd destroy your lawn. Those little bastards are everywhere. I swear, I emptied my parent’s Geldie unit twice last week. and they just keep … coming and coming.”

“Oh my God,” Lucas groaned, shaking his head. “You had to say ‘coming?’ Because it’s a Geldie, it’s a castration machine, that’s a terrible pun, dude. You should be ashamed. I’m embarrassed for you.”

“Amateurs,” Maggie muttered, swirling her watery whiskey.

Oz turned toward her, his blonde hair catching the neon light like a halo. “You’ve got thoughts on the fluffy pony menace?”

Maggie smirked but kept her eyes on her glass. “Thoughts? I’ve got a whole goddamn manifesto.”

“Oh, here we go,” Lucas said, grinning. “Let’s hear it. You sound like you’ve got some personal beef.”

Oz nodded enthusiastically, his face slightly flushed. “Yeah, spill. You sound like you hate them even more than I do.”

“Hate doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Maggie said, leaning back in her chair. “They’re dirty, destructive, and stupid. Everyone wanted them to be the next big thing, but now look—half the city’s overrun. They are actively destroying the planet, but no one wants to admit it because they’re ‘cute.’”

Oz snorted. “Cute? With those dead little eyes and those stupid tiny horns? They look like someone mashed a hamster and a pig together in Photoshop and called it horse. And don’t even get me started on the noise.”

“Right?” Lucas chimed in, his hand gesturing wildly. “That screeching. It’s like… it’s like if a baby were possessed by a banshee. My building has a whole colony living in the alleyway. Management says they can’t do anything about it because there are too many and exterminators are expensive.”

Maggie tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips, “And its not like you can poison them without poisoning everything around them, and if predators get ahold of them, the nanotechnology that holds their DNA together contaminates the coyotes and carrion birds, everything, and the only way to neutralize the nanotech is with more nanotech and it just spread and spreads and now there’s junkies shooting up fluffy pony brain puree and sprouting wings and horns. But according to the wisdom of the American government, that’s not a national emergency or anything. They’re gonna ignore it until they can’t. Like Heroin, Like Crack, Like AIDS… nobody gives a shit.”

“Wait,” Oz said, narrowing his eyes. “You sound like you know a lot about them.”

Maggie shrugged. “I might.”

Lucas’s curiosity was piqued. “What do you mean? Like, you’ve studied them?”

“You could say that,” Maggie said cryptically. She finished her drink and set the glass down with a soft clink.

Oz leaned closer, his expression turning sly. “What aren’t you telling us?”

Maggie smirked, finally meeting his gaze. “Fine. You really want to know?”

“Hell yes,” Lucas said, practically bouncing in his seat.

She leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping low. “I’m fucking Dr. Maggie Phillips.”

“The fluff tv show, Dr. Maggie? You’re sleeping with her? She’s only like twenty something years old and you are way older than …” Lucas cut short his own rambling. “OH SHIT you are … you are Dr. Maggie. Oh fuck.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, the bar’s ambient noise seeming to recede as both men stared at her in disbelief. It was hard to see the frail, sunken eyed woman with limp, dirty curls as the beautiful, bright eyed teenager from the T.v. Maggie looked ancient and crumbling compared to the persona she played on tv all those years ago.

“You’re joking,” Oz said finally, though his tone betrayed the faintest hint of uncertainty.

Maggie shrugged again, her smirk growing. “Believe what you want.”

Lucas gawked at her. “W-wait, wait. You’re saying you… invented fluffy ponies?”

“I didn’t ‘invent’ them,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “They’re not a toaster. My parents and I developed them. Genetic splicing, crossbreeding—long story short, they took some DNA that shouldn’t have gone together, and I made it work. And yeah, it was a mistake. A big one.”

Oz blinked, then laughed incredulously. “You’re telling me you’re the mad scientist behind the shitrat menace?”

“Mad scientist?” Maggie said with a mock-wounded expression. “I was just a kid. At the time, it seemed like a good idea.”

Lucas’s jaw dropped. “B-but why? Why would anyone…?”

Maggie sighed, her expression shifting into something more serious. “It was supposed to be a controlled experiment. Fluffy ponies were supposed to be my birthday present when I was six years old. A testament to my parents love for me, a toy that could walk and talk and be my friend. Being smart isnt exactly a way to endear yourself to other children. I’ve never really had friends. Fluffies exist because I couldn’t fit in. A luxury pet, engineered to be perfect—clean, docile, sterile. But you know how these things go. A few prototypes got out, the atlanta fires, the cleveland riots, and now… well, here we are.”

Oz shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus. You’re like the Dr. Frankenstein of ponies.”

“More like Dr. Frankenstein’s underpaid, uncredited assistant,” Maggie muttered.

Lucas was still staring at her like she’d grown a horn herself. “So, wait, you’re the heir to Hasbio, now? Like, with your parents dead in that explosion, you’re in charge now? Can you correct some of the wrongs? because from what I know about the stocks and the state of the company, like… you have the power and money to change the world now, don’t you? Fix this??”

Oz scowled across the bar down to Lucas, “Jesus, dude, have some tact.”

“It’s alright. Its a fair question. Technically no but also technically yes. I am the last living Phillips but the company is public now, or something, and belongs to the board of directors, not me,” Maggie said. “But yeah, sure, blame me. Everyone else does. Put it on the shoulders of a twenty two year old to save the fucking world.”

Oz raised his glass in a mock toast. “To Maggie, creator of the rainbow menace, the fluffy chaos, who has doomed us all.”

“Don’t get cute,” Maggie said, though her smirk betrayed her amusement.

Lucas shook his head, still trying to process. “This is… I don’t even know what to say.”

“You could say, ‘Thank you,’” Maggie said dryly.

“For what?” Lucas asked, incredulous.

“For sharing my birthday present with the world,” Maggie deadpanned, earning a laugh from Oz.

The conversation drifted on, the absurdity of Maggie’s revelation mingling with the warmth of alcohol and the strange camaraderie of strangers sharing secrets in the middle of nowhere. For the first time that night, Maggie felt the weight of her earlier anger lift, replaced by the strange comfort of laughing at her own mistakes with people who didn’t seem to care who she was—or what she’d done.

Maggie staggered as she stepped out of the bar, her battered converse scuffing the cracked pavement. The cool night air hit her like a wall, a harsh reminder of just how much liquor she’d consumed. Lucas hovered at her side, one hand awkwardly outstretched, ready to catch her if she toppled.

“I’m fine,” Maggie slurred, waving him off with a loose, unsteady gesture.

“You’re not fine,” Oz muttered, his tone clipped as he pulled the keys from her jacket pocket. “There’s no way you’re driving like this. Where’s your van?”

Maggie turned and pointed down the block, her finger wobbling in the air. “That way. Big white thing. I wrote ‘free sketties’ in the dirt. hah! those ponies would be so mad if they could read. I never had sketties. I hate tomatoes.”

Oz sighed and started walking, Lucas trailing behind him with Maggie leaning heavily on his arm. She was giggling at something Lucas had said, her laughter high and unrestrained, the kind that bubbled up without warning when alcohol and exhaustion stripped away inhibition.

“Well your entitled to your wrong opinion. Im not saying you’re crazy, that would be rude, but pasta is pretty much the best thing ever, the ponies aren’t wrong,” Lucas said, his voice bright and cheerful as they approached the van, “So… what’s the deal with this thing? Does it have a name? All cool vans have names.”

Maggie squinted at him, her expression serious. “It’s a van. It doesn’t need a name.”

“Wrong,” Lucas replied with a grin. “Its a mighty steed!! All vehicles need names. It’s, like, a rule of the universe. If you don’t name it, it’ll just end up cursed or something like a Stephen King book.”

Maggie barked out a dry laugh, leaning harder against him as they reached the van. “Cursed? What is this, a pirate ship?”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Lucas said, opening the side door for her. “Better safe than sorry. You don’t want this thing breaking down on you in the middle of nowhere.”

“She’s got a point,” Oz muttered, climbing into the driver’s seat with a grim look, “Though i think its the named cars you gotta worry about in a Stephen King universe.”

“He’s got a point,” Lucas corrected himself, settling Maggie into the back before hopping into the dirty empty cargo of the van. “And I’m just saying, give it a name. Like… I don’t know, something tough. Like ‘Beast.’”

“Beast?” Maggie repeated, snickering. “It’s a van, not a damn tank.”

“Fine,” Lucas said, pretending to be offended. “What would you call it, then?”

“Van,” Maggie said simply, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

Lucas sighed dramatically. “You’re impossible. I thought innovating what like… your thing. I mean its not impossible to imagine someone with a stunted imagination, but I guess Oz and I will just have to open up your skull and stuff it full of movie references so you can be creative and keep up with the conversation.”

Maggie almost smiled, “that wasn’t creepy at all, Lucas.”

Oz tightened his grip on the steering wheel, glancing at the two of them through the rearview mirror. Lucas was grinning, his hands gesturing animatedly as he rambled about something—probably more van names, judging by Maggie’s intermittent bursts of snorting that would almost be mistaken for laughter. Oz shook his head, his jaw tightening. It wasn’t like he was jealous, exactly. But Lucas’s sudden confidence, the easy way he kept Maggie engaged, felt out of character for the shy, stammering guy he’d met earlier in the bar.

“Lucas, buckle up,” Oz said tersely, his voice cutting through the laughter as street racers zoomed around the clunky van on the freeway.

Lucas shrugged, flashing Oz a sheepish grin before settling cross legged on the deck of the empty van. “There’s no seats, or I would, Captain,” he muttered, winking at Maggie, who smirked in return.

The drive wasn’t awful long in the light weekday evening traffic, but the conversation filled the silence. Lucas’s chatter kept Maggie engaged, her head lolling against the bare metal siding as she chimed in with sharp, sarcastic quips. Oz stayed quiet, his focus on the road, though his lips twitched a few times as Lucas’s humor found its mark.

When they finally pulled up outside Maggie’s place, Oz frowned. The place was a rundown brick building tucked into an abandoned industrial area, its edges softened by shadows and graffiti. The faint glow of a distant streetlamp barely lit the rusted metal steps leading to the second floor.

“This is where you live?” Lucas asked, his tone light but curious.

“Yup,” Maggie said, fumbling to find her footing. “Welcome to paradise.”

Oz parked the van and got out without a word, moving to the passenger side to help her out. Lucas followed, his eyes scanning the area nervously as Maggie leaned on him for support. Together, they managed to guide her up the narrow, creaking staircase, Maggie laughing softly under her breath as she stumbled.

“What’s so funny?” Lucas asked, his hand gripping her arm to steady her.

“Nothing,” Maggie said, hiccupping. “You’re just… both very bad at this.”

“Hey, I think we’re doing great,” Lucas replied, his voice mock-defensive.

“You’re not,” Maggie said, grinning.

“Noted,” Lucas said, shooting Oz a helpless look over her head.

They reached her door, the peeling paint catching faintly in the dim light. Maggie fumbled for her keys, muttering curses under her breath until Oz plucked them from his own pocket and unlocked the door.

A bright red unicorn peeked out from under the stairs and scowled up at the three humans who woke him. “Nyu fwen?” his programmed response faded into a low rumble of a growl as he recognized his Daddeh with the strange men, “Daddeh otay? Dee-man heaw, Daddeh! Nee hewp?”

“Demon! at ease!” Maggie barked the order, causing the unicorn to shie away under the stairs.

Lucas let out a chuff of surprise, “that quite a security guard you got there. Wow, that’s a big pony. Looks like a tank just… huge. Like fluffy ponies are small, but wow…”

The loading dock was dark and full of silent, sleeping fluffy ponies in their kennels. The awkward trio clambered gracelessly up the stairs to a loft apartment that was more rust and dust than proper home.

“Charming,” Oz said dryly, guiding her to the unmade futon mattress on the floor.

Maggie flopped onto the mattress with a groan, her converse still on and her jacket half hanging off her shoulders. Lucas hovered awkwardly near the door, his eyes darting between her and Oz.

“Think she’ll be okay?” Lucas asked quietly.

“She’s fine,” Oz replied, pulling the jacket off Maggie and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

“‘She’s fine,’” Maggie repeated, her voice muffled by the pillow. “She’s right here.”

Lucas laughed softly, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. Get some sleep, Dr. Frankenstein.”

Maggie took a coughing heave and vomited on the floor next to her. This sobered her up enough from her drunken, blurry haze for her to look over in the corner to Bongwater cowering in his laundry basket nest, wide eyed and awake, staring at the two strange men.

Laying at an awkward twist, she found herself unable to move. Unable to turn her head to see, but she could still hear the quiet conversation of the two men. Her breathing was labored from the poor angle and from her head seeming to swim.

Maggie realized she never gave them her address.

Lucas flapped his arms angrily at Oz, “Well what do you want to do instead?!” Lucas brandished a dirty knife from the pile of dishes in the sink, “Here, we’re just gonna shank her, HBO style, ‘The Lannisters send their regards!’ “

Oz batted the knife away with a dismissive hand, “We both know you’re not capable of that. We’ll just give her the rest of the dose and be done with it.”

“I gave her all of it.”

Oz was gobsmacked.

“All. Of. It,” Lucas emphasized.

“Damn, what the fuck was this girl doing to have a tolerance like that?!” Oz strided over to the futon and the crumpled figure, “Hey, you still alive? I gotta know… you’ve got enough conflicting coded dirty glimmer in you to kill out an elephant, how the fuck are you still alive???”

Lucas and Oz worked together to turn her over.

“Fuckin assassins, took you lazy bitches long enough to find me,” Maggie croaked out in a weak voice, “Get me a cigarette and I’ll tell you. Take the last confession of an irredeemable monster.”

[Chapter 2] [Chapter 3]

Toofy · December 16, 2024, 4:52am

You did very well setting the scene all throughout this story! I especially liked this bit:

The driver’s door of the van opened slowly, and a young woman stepped out, her silhouette slim against the soft glow of the interior light. Spindly, like the stubborn trees that dotted the landscape, the foliage of her head was soft and translucent mousy brown curls. Dr. Maggie, star of FluffTV and heir to the Hasbio family fortune, stubbed out her cigarette on the vinyl of the dash and leaned her frail frame against the side of her busted-up van.

(Aw, hello again Bongwater. Poor little dude)