The Beltway Battlefield blurred past the Patriot Pickup's cracked windshield like a fever dream of filibusters and facades—endless loops of dysfunction where traffic jams were bipartisan and the only thing moving faster than the speed limit was the spin cycle of scandals. Jax Hawthorne slouched behind the wheel, one hand on the throttle of this rustbucket beast, the other clutching a thermos of "patriot's pride" moonshine that burned going down like a bad compromise bill. The dossier Theo had unearthed burned hotter: their faces plastered on Slate's "slate" of suspects, complete with bounties that made Cal's tantrums look like tip money. "Termination: With Prejudice." Classy. Like a pink slip from the Grim Reaper's HR department.
"Prejudice? That's just Slate's love language," Jax quipped to the dashboard, where Eddie's latest "auspice" had dried into a Rorschach of "SNAKE PIT." The eagle himself rode the roof, talons gripping the rack like a feathered gargoyle, occasionally screeching at passing limos full of lobbyists in their natural habitat: honking horns and hurling half-eaten power lunches. "Theo, you got those invites forged yet? Or are we crashing this shindig in our 'rags to riches' ensemble—me in shortstacks stains, Lila in leftover pom-poms?"
Theo Beaumont hunched over his laptop in the back, the glow casting shadows on his trivia-tattooed arms (a faded "Article I, Section Assholery" inked during grad school rebellion). Wires snaked from the rig to the truck's cigarette lighter, which flickered like a dying amendment. "Forged? Jax, this isn't a mall coupon—Slate's gala is quantum-secured. Biometrics, blockchain bullshit, and a guest list vetted by AI that flags 'suspicious sarcasm levels.' But... bingo. Hacked a donor's account—'Big Pharma Phil,' some suit who owes me from that 'ethical' pill-popping bust last year. Invites for four: 'Plus Ones: Undisclosed Assets.' We're in as 'consultants on crisis aversion.' Dress code: Black tie optional; brown bags encouraged."
Lila Vargas, shotgun throne claimed with a sprawl that defied physics, was mid-mani-pedi on her slingshot—filing the pouch with nail clippings for "extra grip." Her purple mane was tamed into a half-updo that screamed "cheer captain gone rogue," and Debtzilla's wheel squeaked from her lap like a tiny engine of anarchy. "Black tie? Boring! I say we go full Yankee: Katana cummerbunds, bat boutonnieres. Ooh, and for Slate? A pantsuit piñata stuffed with subpoenas. Check this—TweetFart's blowing up with #RoninRecall. Fans shipping us with Cal: 'Enemies to Allies' fanfic where we team up against the Viper. Gross. But the merch? Someone 3D-printed 'Eagle Bounty' action figures. Mine comes with a gator sidekick!"
Big Bubba O'Malley, exiled to the bed with Cal trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey (gag upgraded to a "silence clause" sock), leaned through the rear window, cigar smoke curling like a noose. The bound tycoon squirmed beside him, eyes bulging over the tape, muffled pleas sounding like a deflating whoopee cushion. "Fanfic? In my day, we called that 'delusional.' But Slate's gala? That's the viper's nest—Dysfunction City's elite, toasting 'eternal service' with champagne spiked with NDAs. Crash it wrong, we end up 'suicided' in the Reflecting Pool. Crash it right? We gut her Shadow Slate like a fish on filibuster Friday."
The pickup breached the swampy suburbs of Dysfunction City as twilight twisted the monuments into caricatures: the Washington Memorial a phallic folly lit like a bad Viagra ad, the Lincoln Throne a shadowed stage for ghost speeches on equality (and equality of graft). The gala venue loomed on the Hill's haunted hillock—the "Eternal Echo Pavilion," a glass-domed den of donors where the air reeked of caviar and concealed carry permits. Limos disgorged the damned: silver-haired senators in tuxes tailored for two egos, tech baronesses in gowns woven from wireframes, and Cal's cronies slinking in shadows, whispering "Phase Four fixes everything."
They ditched the truck in a "Congressional Valet: Tips Not Taxed" lot—Bubba hot-wiring a guest spot with a grunt and a glare—and strutted the red carpet (actually Astroturf, because "green initiatives"). Disguises dialed to eleven: Jax in a rented tux that pinched like a pork-barrel promise, Liberty's Edge "checked" as a "ceremonial cane"; Lila in a slinky number that hid her slingshot in the slit (and Debtzilla in a clutch purse); Theo with a bowtie that doubled as a USB garrote; Bubba in a stretch suit that strained like the national debt, bat "safely stowed" in a violin case labeled "Fragile: Ego."
Biometric scan at the door: a retinal rig that hummed like a lie detector on laxatives. Theo's hack purred approval—"Welcome, Consultants Hawthorne et al. Enjoy the evening; mind the minks." Inside, the Pavilion pulsed with plutocratic pomp: chandeliers of circuit-board crystals casting prismatic plots, waiters circulating "truth serum spritzers" (placebo, but who knew?), and a string quartet scraping "Hail to the Cheat" on harps strung with harp seals (endangered, like ethics).
Slate held court at the central dais—a serpentine bar coiled around a holotable projecting her "slate": ghostly avatars of faux pols, each a uncanny valley of incumbency, droning pre-programmed pledges like "I'll fix the roads... after my donors' yachts." The senator herself was a vision of venomous vogue: pantsuit midnight with serpent scales shimmering, silver coils coifed like a crown of conquest, and a smile that could audit your soul. Flanking her: Slick Vic, nursing a scotch and a grudge; a cadre of code-crunchers in cummerbunds; and, curiously, a bald eagle perch—empty, but with fresh droppings. Eddie? Co-opted?
"Targets acquired," Jax murmured into his lapel mic (Theo's rig, disguised as a boutonniere bug). "Lila—work the room, sow some discord. Theo—slip to the servers, plant the phantom-phaser. Bubba—tail Vic, see if he squeals. I'll tango with the Viper."
Lila melted into the mingle, clutch clicking open to unleash Debtzilla on a tray of hors d'oeuvres—hamster havoc ensued, nibbling caviar pearls and nipping ankles, sparking "Is that a micro-drone? Slate's testing us!" whispers that rippled like a rumor mill on steroids. Theo ghosted to the periphery, bowtie flashing a backdoor code at a service panel—servers whirring as his virus wormed in: avatars glitching from "Vote Slate" to "Vote Late," pledges warping to "I'll fix the roads... with your tax dollars as gravel."
Bubba lumbered after Vic, violin case bumping like a bad omen. The weasel advisor slunk to a shadowed alcove, phone to ear: "Boss— the ronin are here. Cal's blabbing; Engine's toast. But the slate's solid—avatars deploying at midnight, midterms be damned." Bubba's shadow fell; Vic spun, blanching. "You! The brute! Security—"
The bat emerged—thwack to the wrist, phone clattering. "Security? That's me, pal. Now sing: What's Slate's endgame? Or I compose a symphony on your kneecaps."
Vic crumpled, spilling: "It's total takeover! Avatars hack the vote tallies—eternal echo, no recounts. Slate rules from the shade, presidents as puppets. You're doomed—drones inbound!"
Upstairs, Jax cut in on the dance floor—Slate's waltz with a Wall Street wraith interrupted by his bow. "Senator. Love the scales—matches your skin in the game. Care for a spin? Or should I say, a slate?"
Slate's eyes narrowed, viperine, but her smile held like superglue on a subpoena. "Hawthorne. The ronin ringleader. Audacious. Most crashers bring cake; you bring chaos. The Shadow Slate? It's progress—democracy's upgrade. No more mob rule; just measured mandate. Join? I could use a blade like yours. Sharp. Unyielding."
Jax twirled her, cane tapping her heel—subtle probe for wires, weapons. "Progress? Sounds like 'pro-graft.' Your avatars? Glitches in the matrix of mediocrity. We shut down your phases like bad apps—Whopper, Eclipse, Zombie Jamboree. This one's no different."
Her laugh tinkled toxins. "Phases? Mere pilots. The slate's the symphony—launching now." She snapped fingers; the holotable flared—avatars solidifying, beaming to Beltway billboards, national news feeds. "Midnight manifesto: 'Vote the Vision—or Vanish.'"
Alarms chimed—subtle, then shrill—as Theo's hack hit: Avatars stuttering, "Vote the... late? Vision... or vanquish?" Guests gasped, phones pinging with phantom polls: "Recall Slate? Y/N?" Lila's hamster horde (Debtzilla had rallied reinforcements from the coat check) swarmed the dais, nibbling cables; Bubba dragged Vic center-stage, bat prodding his confession mic'd for the masses.
Slate whirled from Jax, summoning her inner circle—code-crunchers drawing concealed data-daggers (USB blades that fried implants). "Enough! Drones—deploy the swarm!"
From the dome's vents: mechanical serpents slithered—Slate's "slate drones," sleek as her suit, eyes red with retinal hacks, tails lashing tasers. The gala devolved: tuxes torn in tussles, gowns glitching with EMP bursts from Theo's bowtie bomb. Jax's cane unsheathed—Liberty's Edge singing through the air, parrying drone strikes that sparked like faulty fireworks. "Slither this, snake-oil saleswoman!"
Lila unleashed slingshot hell—clutch vials of "truth tickler" aerosol, misting drones into duds that dropped like dead deals. "Party crashers? Nah—we're the piñata police! Spill the candy, Slate—or the hamster horde!"
Theo barricaded the holotable, laptop a shield: "Avatars corrupting—slate shattering! But she's got a failsafe—personal implant, routing the launch from her wrist-cuff!"
Bubba bowled through goons, Vic in a headlock: "Cuff me? Try this!" Bat cracked the serpent swarm, sending one crashing into Slate's perch—eagle cage toppling, Eddie bursting free in a flurry of fury, talons raking her coif.
Slate snarled, cuff glowing—midnight struck, avatars pulsing for final push. "You meddlers! Eternity's mine—"
Jax lunged, blade arcing true—clink against the cuff, severing the signal in a shower of shards. The holotable died; avatars evaporated like bad vaporware. Drones drooped, defeated. The gala gasped—then cheered? No—clapped politely, as if it were just another "performance art piece on partisanship."
Slate backed against the bar, serpents silenced, silver coils unraveling. "This... setback. But the shadow endures. Phase Five: The Viper's Vote—your votes, ronin. Hunted. Harvested."
Vic whimpered. Cal, smuggled in by Bubba (for "dramatic reveal"), spat his gag: "Told you! She's the real deal-breaker!"
Security swarmed—real feds this time, badges flashing "Impeachment Task Force." But Slate's laugh lingered as she slipped a side door, a shadow in the spotlight. "Au revoir, assassins. The ballot boxes? They're rigged—with your names."
The crew exfiltrated amid the melee—hamsters herding guests into distraction, Eddie covering with droppings of disdain. Back in the pickup, peeling out past paparazzi drones, Jax exhaled smoke from a stolen stogie. "Phase Five? Hunted? Sounds like vacation."
Lila scrolled the feeds—#SlateShatter trending. "Vacay with venom? Bring it. But first—tacos. Hero fuel."
Theo frowned at his screen. "Incoming: Bounty boards updated. We're top of the 'Most Wanted to Witness' list. And Slate's signal? Traced to... the White House funhouse?"
Bubba reloaded his bat. "Oval Outhouse? Figures. The viper's in the viper's nest."
Cal, ungagged in the bed, piped up: "Wait—team up? I got connections! Whoppers for everyone!"
Jax flipped the bird rearview. "Connections? Keep dreaming, Cheeto. We're the slate-wipers."
But as Dysfunction's domes faded, a new ping: Holo-alert, Slate's sigil. "Hunters: The hunt begins. First mark: Your little landing strip. Burn bright."
In the distance, flames licked Liberty Landing's lights.
Home? Torched.
The shadow struck first.