The bulb swayed faintly above, a lonely star in a ceiling of shadows. Its pale glow bled into the small room—bare concrete walls, a steel table, two chairs. No windows. No clocks. Time felt erased here.
On one chair sat an old man. His clothes were gone, stripped down to his undergarments, his body held open by iron shackles that bit into his wrists. His head hung forward, silver hair falling across his brow, as if gravity itself had chosen sides against him.
Opposite him, a man lounged in the second chair. Younger, sharper. His face was a portrait carved with cruelty—one clean scar ran diagonally across his cheek, giving him a permanent smirk no matter the expression. His suit was immaculate, every thread deliberate. A pen twirled idly between his fingers, clicking softly, a predator's tail flicking before the strike.
"Once a plumber, always a plumber," he said, his voice calm, smooth, almost conversational. "You were always the first to say it, Max. So it'd be… hypocritical, wouldn't it, if you didn't live by it?"
The pen spun. The bulb buzzed. The old man did not move.
The scarred man leaned forward, elbows on the table, his smile thinning. "That lifestyle doesn't exist anymore. I gave you the chance to let it die with dignity. To disappear with it." He gestured lazily toward the chains. "But here we are. And here you are. Just as I promised."
He lifted his hand. The steel rattled. The chains constricted, pulling the old man's arms taut. Max twitched, a flicker of pain cutting across his face, but his silence held like stone.
"I don't want this," the man went on, his voice lowering, almost tender. "Not for you. Not for the two children you dragged into this."
He slid two photographs across the table. They landed with a slap. A boy. A girl. Their faces innocent, startled—eyes wide with fear at something unseen. Around the boy's wrist gleamed a watch, alien and out of place.
The man tapped the photo with the pen. "Tell me what this device is. Who sent it. And why."
Max's head stayed low. The silence was no longer empty; it was defiance.
The scarred man sighed, leaning back in his chair. The pen stopped spinning. For a moment, he simply studied Max, as if searching for cracks in a wall. None appeared.
He sighed, rising slowly from his chair, sliding his jacket over his shoulders with meticulous grace. At the door, he paused, casting one last look over the hunched figure across the table.
"You won't speak? Fine." His tone was casual, almost disappointed. Then his eyes hardened. "But perhaps your… accomplices will."
He gave a half-wave, casual, cruel, and stepped out.
The bulb flickered once, then died, leaving Max in darkness.
The door shut behind the scarred man with a whisper of steel. His footsteps echoed down a narrow corridor, past reinforced walls, until he entered a larger chamber pulsing with quiet activity. Rows of operators hunched over consoles, screens casting blue light across their faces. The hum of machinery filled the air, punctuated by the occasional crackle of comms.
At the center of it all sat a bank of monitors, each one alive with feeds—infrared scans, aerial views, and the cold red glows of patrolling drones. The scarred man lowered himself into the central chair, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate ease.
"Report," he said. His voice was calm, but the room stilled as if the order carried weight heavier than gravity.
One of the operators adjusted his headset, speaking without turning from his screen. "Search operations continue in the Ashwood Forest. Multiple drones lost—estimated fourteen units neutralized. Remaining forces are recalibrating sweep patterns. Current scans suggest the targets are moving south by southwest. No confirmed visual reacquisition at this time."
The scarred man's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest. "And the device?"
Another voice answered, clinical, precise. "Preliminary analysis consistent with alien origin. Subject—designated Ben Tennyson—has activated three distinct transformations. First: crystalline lifeform, capable of generating projectile-grade diamonds. Second: pyrokinetic entity, flame projection with thermal output exceeding three thousand degrees Celsius. Third: aquatic adaptation, amphibious physiology, fluid manipulation. All forms present unique combat capabilities."
The scarred man's smirk deepened across his scar. "Good. Keep the pressure on them. I want to see the full extent of what this device can do"
A chorus of voices replied in unison: "Roger."
He leaned back, eyes fixed on the nearest monitor. The feed showed a drone's perspective gliding between the skeletal trees of Ashwood—its red light scanning the undergrowth, casting long shadows that seemed to breathe. The screen sharpened, panning across black bark, dead leaves, the whisper of movement in the dark.
The hum of its rotors grew louder. The view dipped between trunks, scanning again.
And then, seamlessly, we were there.
The forest was black as ink. The only light came in brief sweeps—red beams from the drones gliding between the trees, their mechanical hums cutting the silence like saws.
Two figures pressed low to the ground. Children. Barely more than shadows against the bark. The girl's eyes were sharp, her breath steady despite the cold knot of fear in her chest. She scooped up a pebble, kissed the weight of it in her palm, and flicked it into the brush.
Clack.
The nearest drone spun, red light sweeping the sound. Its rotors clicked, searching. In the brief blind spot, she motioned with two fingers. The boy beside her slipped forward, quiet as a deer. Then he froze behind the next trunk, waiting for her signal again.
They played this game again and again, leapfrogging through darkness, until two drones overlapped their patrol arcs, crossing light and shadow like bars of a cage.
The girl raised a hand—wait. The boy crouched low, obedient, while the machines lingered too long. She chewed her lip, eyes darting between their paths, thoughts racing. Then her face lit with a sudden idea. She snatched a branch, snapped it deliberately, and hurled it deeper into the thicket.
The crack splintered the quiet. Both drones pivoted toward the sound, scanning. Their beams split apart, leaving a narrow passage open.
She waved. Go.
The boy didn't move.
She frowned, signaling again, sharper this time. Still nothing. Then she squinted through the dark and her heart lurched—his head was slumped forward, chin tucked to his chest. He was asleep.
"Ben…" she mouthed, urgent. No reply.
The drones began to overlap again, beams sliding closer to the boy's hiding place. She hissed under her breath, "Dang it!" and ducked just as one beam grazed her boot.
She acted fast—hurling a rock across the opposite side, where it clattered loud enough to draw both drones' attention. Their red eyes swerved, and she sprinted to Ben, dropping to her knees.
"Ben, wake up!" she whispered fiercely, shaking him.
Too late. The nearer drone pulsed red, its mechanical voice flat:
"Compromise detected. Capture sequence initiated."
The two drones twisted mid-air, limbs unfolding, metal shifting into lean, predatory shapes. From their wrists unfurled canisters—spitting strands of liquid steel that hardened into nets midair.
A web lashed past. The girl threw herself aside, rolling, but a strand clipped her leg, locking her in place. She clawed at it, teeth gritted. "Ben!"
The boy stirred, bleary-eyed, mumbling as if waking from a nap. "…Gwen?"
Her heart nearly broke with relief. "Run!"
But instead of running, his hand, almost instinctively, drifted to the strange watch locked on his wrist. A green light flared. The dial twisted.
He slammed it down.
The forest erupted in emerald. Gwen flinched, squeezing her eyes shut against the blaze. The air grew hot, acrid, thick with the stench of something she couldn't place—rotting fruit and acid rain mixed together.
When she dared to open her eyes, Ben was gone.
In his place, a nightmare of wings and chitin hovered above the ground. Its insectoid body was black and mottled green, limbs jointed too many times, wings vibrating with a droning thrum that shook the trees. A maw of needle teeth clicked, drooling something corrosive. And from its abdomen oozed thick globs of slime that hissed when they struck the dirt.
The drones recalibrated instantly.
"Target identified. Alien detected."
Their cannons glowed.
The creature—Ben, somehow—lurched upward on twitching wings. Its movements were jerky, sluggish, as though even in this monstrous form, sleep weighed him down. His first attack was clumsy: a jet of foul mucus that sprayed wide, missing both drones but dissolving a tree trunk where it landed.
The smell hit Gwen like a slap. "Ugh!"
The drones strafed, firing lines of webbing. Ben swerved crookedly, bouncing off one trunk, spinning midair before righting himself. Another jet spat from his abdomen, this time catching a drone across its sensor. The machine shrieked and spiraled, crashing into the ground with smoke hissing from its seams.
The second drone fired again. Ben looped—if it could be called that—clipping branches, wings rattling unevenly. Then, almost by accident, another spray hit dead-on. The webbing arm corroded in seconds. The drone collapsed, sparking.
Gwen exhaled, relief washing through her—until a sudden, wet splatter covered her from shoulder to boot.
Her eyes widened. "Ben!"
The stench was unbearable. She gagged, waving the slime from her face.
The drones, though broken, pulsed their last transmission before shutting down:
"Backup units dispatched. Location compromised."
The insect form buzzed once more, shuddered, and dissolved back into a boy. Ben collapsed onto his knees, rubbing his eyes, yawning like he'd just woken from a nap. Gwen grabbed his hand, urgency overriding her disgust.
They tore through the trees, their breaths sharp, feet crunching leaves. Behind them, faint hums already stirred—more drones on the way.
Ahead, a glow broke through the forest canopy. Not red, not mechanical—warm, inviting, flickering like firelight. They ran harder.
The trees thinned. Neon spilled into view. A wheel of colored lights spun against the night sky, the faint sound of music drifting on the breeze. A carnival.
Gwen's chest heaved. She pointed, urgency softening to strategy. "There. We can find someone to help us."
Ben rubbed at his face, still half-dreaming, but nodded. As the two began making their way towards the light.
The carnival lights loomed larger the closer they came—neon wheels spinning lazily, strings of bulbs strung across the tents, colors painting the night sky. The music they had heard from the forest was still playing, faint and cheery, but it carried on like a loop, repeating itself without a single change.
Gwen tightened her grip on Ben's hand as they stepped through the sagging flap of the first tent. Inside, the glow of string lights cast everything in a soft haze. Booths stood in neat rows, games still humming with life—milk bottles stacked and waiting, a ring toss spinning slowly, a dartboard with balloons half-inflated and swaying in the draft.
But there were no people. No players. No laughter.
The sweet smell of popcorn clung to the air, mingling with the sharper scent of fried dough. Gwen wrinkled her nose—it was a cruel combination with the sour stench still clinging to her clothes from Ben's alien mishap. The smell had followed them like a curse, and she prayed it wasn't obvious.
She glanced at her cousin. "Stay close, alright? If there's someone here, maybe they can help us find the road out of the forest."
Silence.
Her chest sank. She didn't need to turn to know—Ben had already wandered. She spun around to catch him vaulting over the counter of a food stand.
"Ben!" she hissed, storming over. "We don't know if it's safe yet!"
He was halfway through a tray of nachos, cheese stretching from chip to chip. "C'mon, Gwen, I just need one bite. If I don't, I'll crash and fall asleep on the spot."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "…Fine. One bite."
His grin widened as he scooped another triangle chip, dunked it deep in cheese, and shoved it into his mouth. His eyes brightened almost instantly. "Better," he said, spraying crumbs across the counter.
"Good?" Gwen asked dryly.
He nodded, cheeks full.
"Fine. Now as I was say—"
She cut herself off with a gasp as her shoulder smacked into something solid. No—not shoulder. It was more like her whole body had collided with a wall of muscle.
She staggered back and craned her neck upward. A man loomed above her, broad as a pillar, dressed in carnival staff garb: striped vest, red bow tie, white gloves. His face was shadowed under the brim of a bowler hat.
Ben froze mid-chew, the tray of nachos still in his hands. His other hand, very slowly, inched toward the watch on his wrist.
Gwen caught it in both of hers and forced it down, her eyes never leaving the man. Her heart hammered. "S-sorry. We didn't see you there."
The man's voice rumbled low, mechanical in its rhythm. "Tickets."
"…Tickets?" Gwen echoed, throat dry.
"Tickets for the carnival." He pulled a metal stapler from his vest pocket, clicking it once in his hand. "Where are yours?"
Gwen blinked, scrambling for words. "Oh, uh, yeah—about that. We're… actually not here for the carnival. Long story. We just got lost in the forest. We were hoping maybe you could point us to the main road?"
The man's head turned slightly, the bowler hat creaking as he tilted it toward Ben. His gloved finger extended, pointing. "But you took food."
Gwen snapped her gaze to Ben. He was still clutching the nachos, cheeks full, cheese smeared on his lip.
Ben swallowed hard. "I didn't really take anything." He grinned, sheepish, and slid the plate back onto the counter. "See? Good as new."
Gwen forced a laugh. "Ha… nothing taken. So. About the road?"
The man didn't move. His voice was a flat bell toll. "You touched property without tickets. That requires the cage."
Gwen's stomach sank. "…The what?"
"The cage," he repeated, calm as the stapler clicked in his hand.
Ben shifted, his thumb hovering dangerously close to the watch face. Gwen slapped her hand over it, whispering urgently, "Don't. He's just a man."
Ben muttered back, teeth clenched. "Doesn't feel like one."
Before either could say more, the man's enormous hands clamped down on their collars. Gwen yelped as her feet left the ground, the stench of alien slime on her clothes hitting her own nose even stronger as she dangled helplessly. Ben kicked, grunting, wrist still half-raised, but Gwen shook her head furiously.
"Not here. Not now."
The man carried them with mechanical precision, deeper into the carnival. His stride never faltered. The bright stalls passed by, the lights spinning overhead, the scent of sugar and grease thickening until Gwen thought she'd choke.
The man's grip was iron. Neither Ben nor Gwen could wriggle free as he hauled them across the carnival grounds, one massive fist clutching the scruff of each collar like they were misbehaving children. Gwen's nose still carried that sharp, sour stench from earlier in the woods, and she couldn't help but wrinkle it, wondering if the brute could smell it too. The man didn't so much as flinch—his expression was set, his pace steady.
They passed glowing bulbs strung between poles, games still whirring on their own—spinning wheels clicking against nothing, stuffed prizes swaying in the still air as though waiting for players who never came. The deeper they went, the louder the hush of silence felt, like the carnival itself was holding its breath.
The man ducked his head beneath the flap of the largest tent and carried them inside. At the center stood a cage—an honest-to-goodness steel cage with thick bars, like something meant for wild animals. Without ceremony, he lifted them over the threshold and dropped them inside. The door clanged shut, the lock snapping like the crack of a whip.
"Hey, wait—" Gwen started, gripping the bars. "We can talk thi—"
The man's deep voice cut her off. "Stay here until Grog tells the ring leader."
Gwen blinked. "Wait… who's Grog?"
The man's heavy brow lowered. "I am Grog." He turned without another word, boots thudding against the canvas floor as he left them in the dim glow of swaying lanterns.
Silence.
Then—munch, munch.
Gwen's eyes narrowed. She turned. Ben sat cross-legged on the floor, orange cheese smeared across his fingers. He was shoving chips into his mouth, each crunch echoing against the tent walls.
"Ben," she hissed. "How—where did you even—"
He grinned sheepishly, holding up a gooey handful. "Saved some. Pocket stash. Y'know—just in case." He shoved another into his mouth, speaking through a messy chew. "Apparently 'later' came earlier than I thought. Want some?"
Gwen pressed her forehead against the cool iron bars and rubbed her temples with both hands. "Unbelievable. If you had just waited five minutes before filling your mouth earlier…"
Ben shrugged, licking cheese off his thumb. "It's been three days, Gwen. No real food. No sleep. I needed one of the two."
She snapped her head around, eyes sharp. "Hello? Same here. And you don't see me lunging at the first concession stand like some starving raccoon."
Ben muttered under his breath, not quite soft enough. "…Yeah, well, I was doing most of the fighting."
Her head whipped toward him. "And I was doing all the thinking!" The words came out sharper than she intended, her voice cracking with fatigue. She clenched the bars so hard her knuckles went white, then forced herself to stop, dragging in a breath. Her voice dropped. "…Forget it."
Silence again.
Then Grrroooowl. Gwen's stomach betrayed her..
Ben's eyes flicked sideways, smug. He lifted the nacho tray toward her like an offering. The cheese had gone mushy, the chips soggy, but the smell—salty, rich, comfortingly greasy—hit her hard.
She hesitated. Her pride screamed no. Her hunger screamed yes.
Finally, she shuffled over, snatched a chip, and slumped down beside him. The cheese stretched in a long string as she took her first bite. It was messy, lukewarm, but—oh. It was exactly what her body had been begging for.
Ben smirked. "Better?"
She chewed, swallowed, and leaned back against the cage bars. "…Better."
Gwen leaned back against the bars, the last traces of cheese still on her tongue. The brief calm was almost enough to make her forget where they were. Almost. She pushed herself upright, brushing dust from her jeans, and paced the small cage.
"Alright," she muttered, scanning the tent's shadows. "We can't just sit here. There has to be a way out before… whoever that ring leader is shows up."
Ben perked up, already lifting his arm. "How about we break the cage?" His hand hovered over the glowing dial of his watch, thumb itching to slam it down.
Gwen spun on him. "No. And stop trying to use that thing for every small inconvenience."
Ben's eyebrows shot up. "Small inconvenience? We're locked in a cage, Gwen. That's, like, textbook big inconvenience."
She hesitated, chewing on her lip. Maybe he had a point. Her eyes fell on the watch as the dial rotated, silhouettes of alien forms flickering in green light across his face. A single hit and the bars would be splinters. A single hit and the forest would light up like a beacon.
Ben caught her staring, waiting for her word.
Gwen's eyes lingered on the glowing dial longer than she meant to. The little holographic silhouettes spun past in flashes—some huge, some winged, some bristling with claws. Trouble waiting to happen. Still, her voice came out quieter, softer than her usual sharpness.
"…Is there a small one?" she asked, almost against her own better judgment. "Something that won't… blow the whole place up?"
Ben blinked, surprised by the crack in her resolve. He leaned closer to the dial, twisting it carefully until the shape of a stubby, round-shouldered alien flickered into view. Its outline looked harmless—almost comical compared to the others. His grin spread wide.
"Yeah. Yeah, I've got one." He lifted his wrist, thumb hovering over the faceplate. "This little guy won't cause any trouble. Easy in, easy out."
The watch gave a faint whine, the core spinning faster, ready to flash. Gwen swallowed, torn between relief and dread.
And then—
Muffled voices drifted toward the tent, low at first, then clearer as footsteps squelched through the damp earth. Shadows shifted outside the canvas walls.
Ben froze, finger still above the dial. His eyes flicked to Gwen's.
She shook her head quickly. "Not now."
The glow dimmed as he eased his hand back.
The voices grew louder. Whoever ran this circus wasn't sending drones anymore. They were sending people.
The voices drew closer, heavy boots dragging in the dirt, laughter low and careless.
The voices grew closer, clearer now.
"Grog, if it's another pack of raccoons, I swear someone's gonna call PETA on us," a man said, voice rough but playful.
Then, lanternlight cut through the dark. A tall figure appeared, framed by a wide-brimmed hat decorated with a crane's feather. His sharp eyes fell on the cage.
"Kids?" he exclaimed.
Grog stood at attention, almost sheepish. "They didn't have tickets."
"For Seuss's sake, Grog!" The man slapped his forehead, striding forward. "That's the cage for criminals, not children! Look at them—scared out of their minds." He hurried to unlock the door, the metal groaning as it swung open.
Ben and Gwen exchanged a quick glance before stepping out, stiff-legged and wary.
"Please, come out. Terrible misunderstanding. Grog here is… very serious about his job." The man chuckled, though the sound didn't quite reach his eyes.
The twins gave small, awkward laughs of their own.
The man tipped his hat, studying them. "Do your parents know you're here? I'd hate for anyone to accuse us of—ah—mistreating children. You look worn out. I hope Grog didn't rough you up."
Gwen hesitated, then shook her head quickly. "No, no. Uh—actually…" She bit her lip, thinking fast. "We kind of… lost our parents. In a… car accident. And since then, we've been wandering in the forest. Trying to find our way out."
Ben, catching on, added a hurried nod.
"And a bear was chasing us," Gwen said, the lie tumbling out before she could stop it. "We came here looking for help. To… get to the main road."
The man's sharp features softened with something close to pity. "Ahh, no wonder you two look a mess." He rested his hands on his knees, leaning in slightly. "But the main road's quite a hike from here. And at this hour? Dangerous. Especially if you've been running from bears."
Gwen glanced at Ben, who piped up, "Then… is there somewhere we can sleep, at least?"
The man straightened, dusting off his coat. "Of course. I was going to suggest that myself. As a token of apology for this unfortunate mix-up."
He led them across the carnival grounds, past wagons painted in fading colors, until they reached two caravans with their lanterns still lit. A young woman with long, pale hair—her outfit a riot of color and ribbons—leaned lazily against one door. At her side stood a man in a theatrical mask, its painted smile exaggerated beneath the shadows.
"Quinn. Lokas," the ringleader called. "These children have been lost. They'll need a place to rest for the night. One of you will give up your caravan and share with the other."
Lokas groaned. "Figures."
Quinn smirked, but when the man's sharp gaze lingered on her, she sighed, throwing her hands up. "Fine. They can have mine."
Ben and Gwen were ushered inside. Quinn began to explain the space, but before she could finish, the two collapsed onto the first soft surface they found—sinking deep into cushions, asleep almost instantly. Quinn gave a small laugh under her breath and slipped back outside.
"They're out cold," Quinn reported once she stepped out of the caravan.
The ringleader exhaled in relief, adjusting his hat. "Good. That's good. Poor things… I could feel the fear radiating off them. It's no place for children to carry that kind of weight, least of all here."
His gaze swept over the camp, stern but careful. "They need to rest—truly rest. Not tossing, not trembling. Rest without fear. Make sure of that, both of you."
Quinn tilted her head, exchanging a glance with Lokas, but said nothing.
The man turned then to the hulking figure of Grog. "Back on patrol. And listen to me—no more cages. No more confusion. We don't want children frightened of us, you understand? Fear has no place around this carnival. None."
Grog nodded silently and lumbered off into the dark.
The ringleader lingered a moment longer, almost whispering to himself. "Yes… they'll sleep soundly tonight. That's how it should be. No fear."
Then, sharper, to the others: "Keep it that way."