The underbelly of the Harvest Dome trembled like a politician caught with his hand in the till—shuddering, sweating, and one wrong move from total collapse. Pipes groaned hymns of hydraulic heresy, spewing blue serum-mist that clung to the air like a bad hangover promise, while the Eternal Endorsement Engine hummed its swan song: a mechanical dirge of whirring vials and venting valves, countdown clock flickering red at T-minus-eight minutes to kaboom. Jax Hawthorne skidded to a halt in the chamber's throat, Liberty's Edge drawn and dripping with the condensation of conspiracy, his crew fanned out behind him like a dysfunctional family photo op gone guerrilla.
"Shadow Slate? Who the hell names their evil corp after a rejected crayon color?" Jax barked, eyes scanning the Engine's core—a throbbing heart of chrome and circuitry, etched with donor plaques reading "Courtesy of the 'Anonymous Assholes PAC.'" Cal, slung over Bubba's shoulder like a sack of expired dreams, wriggled futilely, his comb-over flopping like a fish on dry land.
"Ungag me, you brute! That's Senator Slate to you—Senator Evelyn Slate, chair of the Senate Select Committee on 'Whatever The Fuck We Want'! She's the real string-puller—Cal's just the clown car!" Cal's voice was muffled by Bubba's improvised duct-tape muzzle, but indignation carried it like a filibuster on steroids.
Lila Vargas, pom-poms shed and slingshot reloaded with pilfered pipe fittings, circled the Engine like a shark in sequins. "Senator? As in, pantsuit powerhouse or power-hungry puppet-master? Ooh, wait—Debtzilla says she's got that 'eat-your-young' vibe. Spill, Cheeto, or I start slinging silo shrapnel at your spray-tan!"
Theo Beaumont, laptop wedged under one arm and antidote sprayer in the other, knelt by a access panel, fingers dancing over keys like a pianist playing "Chopsticks" on a keyboard of doom. "Guys—self-destruct's analog, thank god. No fancy firewalls, just a big red button wired to a fertilizer bomb. Classic Riviera redneck—blow it up like a bad harvest. But Slate... cross-reffing now. She's the 'silent partner' in Cal's PACs—bankrolled the Whopper Hoax from her 'family foundation' slush fund. Phase Four: 'The Shadow Slate'—a shadow cabinet of AI avatars running unopposed in every district. Untraceable, unhackable, and programmed to 'endorse' eternal incumbency. No more elections—just 'e-selections' where the voters pick from pre-approved holograms."
Big Bubba O'Malley dumped Cal into a maintenance crate with a thud that echoed like a veto stamp, then hefted his bat, eyeing the Engine's valves. "Avatars? Like those deepfake dames in the scandals? Figures. Slate's the type—old money, older grudges. Back in the Bureau, she was 'The Viper': Slithered through confirmations, bit the hand that fed her ethics. This Engine? It's her vein-tap into the heartland—serum straight to the water table. Shut it down, we save the sippy cups. But eight minutes? That's express checkout."
The chamber quaked—ceiling tiles raining like confetti at a funeral—as the rally above devolved into full apocalypse bingo: chants of "Recount the Reckoning!" morphing into "Run for Your Lives!" with the occasional "Cal Sucks!" thrown in for bipartisan flavor. Eddie squawked from a vent overhead, his prophetic plumage ruffled, dropping a "gift" that sizzled on the floor—etching "SLATE = SNAKE" in acidic avian artistry.
Jax lunged for the core console, blade prying the panel like a can of whoop-ass. "Theo—override the clock! Lila, vent the serum—aim for the exhaust fans. Bubba, watch our six—and our eight, since Cal's squirming like he sat on a subpoena."
Lila sprang into action, slingshot twang-ing fittings into valves with the precision of a deranged plumber. Blue mist hissed out in geysers, rerouted through the dome's AC ducts—turning the zombie horde upstairs into a sneezing symphony of sobriety. "Take that, you foggy fuckers! Cough up the cult—literally!"
Theo's hack beeped triumph—green light on the screen, a cartoon snake (Slate's sigil?) exploding into pixels. "Got it! Clock frozen at... seven minutes? Close enough. But the Engine's got a dead-man switch—pull the plug, it pulses one last nationwide dose. We need a surgical strike: Slice the serum line, cauterize with... Jax's katana? It's got that 'freedom forge' alloy—non-conductive, anti-nano."
Bubba cracked his knuckles, bat tapping Cal's crate. "Poetic. Cut the vein, watch the empire bleed blue." He yanked the tape-muzzle free, earning a sputter from the tycoon. "Talk, toupee. Where's the kill-vein? Or do I play pin-the-tail on the tycoon?"
Cal's eyes darted—cornered rat in a spray-tan suit. "You wouldn't! I'm... I'm a patriot! A dealmaker! Slate promised me the nomination—eternal, baby! The line's... it's the auxiliary pump, east wall, behind the 'Donor Eternity Plaque.' But if you cut it, she cuts you—her shadow net's everywhere. Drones, deepfakes, that app that tracks your burps for 'public health data'!"
Jax was already moving, blade a silver whisper through the mist. The plaque—gold-gilded hypocrisy naming "Generous Ghosts: The Slate Legacy"—pry-barred free with a grunt, revealing the pump: a throbbing tube of translucent terror, blue serum swirling like a snow globe of sedition. Liberty's Edge hummed in anticipation, the katana's edge glowing faint red from absorbed heat (or plot convenience; Jax wasn't picky). "For the record, Cal—this is for every 'art of the deal' that dealt us the short end."
The slice was surgical poetry: steel parting polymer with a zip, serum spraying in a harmless arc that Theo misted into oblivion. The Engine wheezed its last—lights dimming, valves sighing relief—as the dead-man switch clicked harmless... nothing. No pulse. No kaboom. Just a final whirr fading to silence, like the death rattle of a dynasty.
Lila whooped, vaulting the console to high-five the air. "Nailed it! No more zombie juice—Riviera's saved! Now, who's up for victory tacos? Extra guac, hold the hallucinations."
But Theo's laptop chimed doom—a incoming feed, hijacked holo projecting from the Engine's dying core. There she was: Senator Evelyn Slate, live from some shadowed sanctum (D.C. bunker? Savanna spa? Who knew—power had its perches). Tall, angular, with silver hair coiled like a spring-loaded sneer and eyes like tax audits come to life. Her pantsuit was midnight blue, embroidered with circuit serpents, and her smile? The kind that promised "reform" while pickpocketing your pension.
"Bravo, bounty butchers. You've pruned my pet project—commendable, if clumsily heroic. Cal was the flashy fuse; I'm the powder keg. Phase Four: The Shadow Slate. Not avatars—usurpers. My slate of synthetics: Holo-senators, AI governors, programmed to 'serve' indefinitely. No messy midterms, no meddlesome masses. Just efficiency. Elegance. Eternity." Her laugh tinkled like breaking glass ceilings—sharp, unyielding. "You've delayed the dawn, ronin. But the eclipse? That's my shadow now. Join me— or become footnotes in the fine print."
The holo winked out, leaving static and Slate's sigil: a serpent devouring its tail, etched in ones and zeros. Cal whimpered from his crate. "Told you. Viper. Bites harder than she budgets."
Jax sheathed his blade, the chamber's quake settling to aftershocks. "Footnotes? Lady, we're the whole goddamn redacted chapter. Theo—trace that feed. Lila, rig an exit—dome's probably a powder keg without the powder. Bubba, stuff Cal in the go-bag. We're taking our clown car and our clown."
Escape was a blur of backdrafts and bad luck: Tunnels twisting like a gerrymandered district, serum pockets popping like ideological pimples, and a final sprint up a service ladder that spat them into the dome's rafters just as the rally remnants rioted below—zombie stragglers shambling into sobriety, torching Cal effigies with "liberty links" while fiddlers fled with their fiddles (and a few free shots of the non-serum kind).
They burst onto the roof, night air crisp with cordite and catharsis, the Patriot Pickup idling below like a loyal mutt (Auntie had remote-start privileges; don't ask). Eddie swooped low, perching on Jax's shoulder with a congratulatory nibble—gentle, for him. As they rappelled down, Theo's trace pinged: "Slate's signal bounced through the Beltway Battlefield—Senate servers. She's holed up in Dysfunction City, prepping her 'slate unveiling' for the midterms. But get this: Invites only, black-tie blackmail. We crash? We need invites. Real ones."
Lila landed with a flourish, pom-poms reclaimed from a fleeing cheer drone. "Invites? Pfft—forge 'em! Or better: Hack the dress code. Samurai tuxes, baby!"
Bubba tossed Cal into the truck bed—bound, gagged, and grumbling—then slid in after, bat across his lap. "Blackmail ball? Sounds like my kinda gala. Bring the whiskey; leave the waltzes."
Jax fired up the engine, the pickup roaring defiance as they peeled out, leaving the dome in a halo of hubbub. In the rearview, flames licked the rafters—spontaneous, or Slate's spite? Hard to say. But the road ahead stretched to D.C., Beltway lights beckoning like a siren's scam.
"Phase Four it is," Jax said, popping a fresh shortstack—victory flavor, extra syrup. "Shadow Slate? More like shadow late. We're the dawn patrol, team. And dawn? It breaks for no serpent."
But as the Riviera faded to fields, Cal's muffled voice bubbled from the bed: "You idiots... Slate's got you on her slate. Backup plan: The ronin recall."
Theo's screen flickered—a new file, unbidden: Their faces, dossiers, "Termination: With Prejudice."
Lila blinked. "Wait—we're the kindling?"
Bubba chuckled dark. "Told ya. In Shitholia, heroes don't get capes. They get cap lists."
The pickup thundered on, stars above wheeling like witnesses to the witching. Dysfunction City waited—marble halls, murky deals, and a senator's smile sharp as a subpoena.
The shadow lengthened. And the slate? It was writing in blood.