Charlie vs the Union of Doom - 4. Chapter 4: The Casino Job

The premium villa at the Emerald Vista Resort and Spa had been unceremoniously transformed from a bastion of tropical luxury into a highly classified, moderately sticky, heavily fortified command center.

Matt sat cross-legged on the cool tile floor of the living room, wearing neon pineapple board shorts and a look of profound, unwavering dedication to his newly appointed role. In his left ear, the small, pulsing, bioluminescent shell he had lovingly named Derek rested securely, broadcasting a faint, static-laced hum of magical frequency. Scattered across the floor around him was an arsenal of babysitting weaponry: three unopened packets of ethically sourced vegan snacks, two juice boxes, a towering stack of wooden alphabet blocks, a plastic monster truck, and a giant, inflatable yellow duck floatie that took up approximately a third of the available floor space.

Matt tapped the shell in his ear. "Command Center to Agent Binder," he whispered, adopting his hushed, dramatic David Attenborough narrator voice. "The targets are contained within the primary perimeter. The perimeter being a pile of extremely expensive couch cushions I dragged onto the floor. Over."

"I can hear you perfectly fine, Matt, you don't need to say 'over'," Simon's voice crackled through the shell, sounding incredibly strained. "Just keep them there. Do not let them out of the villa. The resort's metaphysical infrastructure is currently degrading at an exponential rate, and I am thirty seconds away from breaching hostile territory. Maintain the lockdown."

“Do I need to be included in this group call?” Charlie chimed in. “I’m kind of just interested in a couple of drinks with Pip.”

“I know, right?” Lynix sounded annoyed. “I’m just about to binge watch Love Island. Though watching Charlie and Pip is usually far more interesting, especially when they do it in public places.”

“Perv.” Charlie fired back.

“Literal sex-deomn,” Lynix replied with what sounded like a smirk.

"The Falcon maintains," Matt replied solemnly. He lowered his hand and observed his captives.

Sitting in the center of the cushion fort were Cecil and Angelo.

True to the sacred, unyielding vow established by Brittany the teenage daycare worker, their tiny hands were still locked together in an unbreakable death grip. The 'Super Fun Buddy System' was a law that transcended the ancient enmity of Heaven and Hell.

Cecil was currently radiating a heat that suggested he was roughly two seconds away from spontaneous combustion. He was wearing his black fireproof swim trunks, his arms crossed over his chest (which dragged Angelo’s arm across his chest as well), and he was glaring at the giant yellow duck floatie as if it had personally insulted his ancestors. He absolutely refused to sit in it.

Angelo, wearing pristine white overalls, sat beside him with perfect posture. The cherub was radiating a soft, golden light and an expression of serene, blank accommodation. Angelo was trying to be helpful. He was trying to be a good boy. He had spent the last twenty minutes attempting to hand Cecil a wooden block with the letter 'B' on it, holding it out with the stiff, unblinking dedication of a palace guard.

"Nolo tuum lignum stultum," Cecil hissed, turning his head away and blowing a tiny, irritated spark from his nostril. (I do not want your stupid wood.)

"Ludere debemus," Angelo replied softly, his voice echoing with tiny, choral harmonies. "Infantes ludunt. Regula est." (We must play. Infants play. It is the rule.)

Matt reached out and aggressively smeared another dollop of SPF 70 sunscreen across both of their faces. Neither toddler flinched. They were used to the human’s obsessive UV protection protocols by now.

"Here we observe the apex predators in a rare moment of domestic captivity," Matt whispered to Derek the shell, angling his body to watch them closely. "The creature of the Abyss refuses the offering of the celestial entity. The tension is palpable. The duck watches them both, judging them with its painted, lifeless eyes."

Matt wiped his hands on a towel and tossed the plastic monster truck into the center of the cushion fort. It was a garish, neon-green monstrosity with massive spiked wheels and shark teeth painted on the side.

"Here you go, tiny overlords," Matt said cheerfully. "Vroom vroom. Establish dominance over the terrain."

Angelo looked at the monster truck. He blinked his large, impossibly blue eyes. He reached out with his free hand and carefully, delicately touched the roof of the plastic truck with one finger. He didn't push it. He didn't roll it. He simply registered its existence, categorized it as an object within the physical realm, and withdrew his hand, folding it neatly into his lap.

He looked entirely hollow. It was the practiced, vacant stillness of a creature that had been treated as an accessory, a prop, a divine ornament meant to be seen and never heard. Angelo didn't know what to do with the truck because Angelo, despite being in the body of a toddler, didn't know how to play.

Cecil, who had been actively ignoring the cherub, paused.

The cambion’s glowing red eyes flicked from the monster truck to Angelo’s perfectly blank, perfectly empty face. Cecil’s tiny brow furrowed. He recognized that stillness. He had spent the first three years of his life belonging to Sabrina Nightshade—a demoness who had viewed him as a burden, an albatross, a bargaining chip for a thousand-soul dowry. He knew what it felt like to be a piece of furniture in someone else's life.

Cecil uncrossed his arms. He dragged Angelo’s hand along with his own, shuffling closer to the neon-green toy.

"Utere machina, stulte," Cecil muttered, his voice lacking its usual venom. (Use the machine, idiot.)

Angelo stared at him, confused. "Quid faciam?" (What should I do?)

Cecil let out a profound, world-weary sigh that belonged on the face of a tax auditor. He reached out with his free hand and slammed his chubby palm onto the roof of the monster truck. He shoved it violently forward across the cushions, making a low, guttural, rumbling noise in the back of his throat that sounded terrifyingly like a revving V8 engine.

The truck hit a stack of wooden blocks. The blocks exploded outward, clattering against the tile floor.

Cecil looked at Angelo. He pointed at the wreckage. "Sic facis. Destruis." (That is how you do it. You destroy.)

Angelo’s eyes widened. He looked at the scattered blocks. He looked at the monster truck. Slowly, tentatively, a tiny, genuine spark of life flickered behind his impossibly blue eyes. The cherub reached out, grabbed the monster truck, and pushed it forward, mimicking Cecil’s revving growl with a high-pitched, harmonic hum.

He rammed the truck into the giant yellow duck floatie. The duck squeaked.

Angelo gasped. A massive, radiant, utterly authentic smile split his face. It was the first time Matt had seen the cherub look like an actual child.

Cecil smirked, a tiny, demonic expression of satisfaction, and immediately began restacking the blocks so Angelo could knock them down again.

Matt sat back on his heels, watching the scene unfold. He didn't speak Latin. He didn't know what they were saying. But he didn't need to. He understood exactly what he was looking at. The bad boy teaching the good boy how to break the rules. A truce, forged in plastic and destruction.

"Derek," Matt whispered softly into the shell, a genuine lump forming in his throat. "The angels and demons are playing monster trucks. I think... I think world peace is achievable. As long as we have enough blocks."

“Aww that’s cute,” Charlie sighed over the radio-fish.

“It is epic,” Lynix commented, pleased. “My nephew Cecil, corrupting the heavenly host. He takes after me.”

“I’m telling Pip you said that,” Charlie vowed.

---

While the command center achieved inter-dimensional harmony, the ground floor of the Emerald Vista Resort and Spa was currently descending into high-stakes, sharply dressed anarchy.

Casino Night was the crowning jewel of the resort's weekly entertainment schedule. The massive ballroom had been transformed into a glittering, chaotic playground of tuxedoed tourists, flowing champagne, and aggressive hospitality. The chandeliers threw fractured prisms of light across the felt-topped tables. A jazz band was playing in the corner, trying valiantly to cover up the ambient sounds of mechanical distress.

Because the Gremlins, it seemed, loved to gamble. Or rather, they loved to ruin gambling.

The slot machines in the back row were flashing error codes in neon pink, occasionally spitting out warm, useless copper pennies and old, lint-covered buttons instead of resort tokens. The digital roulette wheel in the center of the room had been mysteriously and stubbornly stuck on the number 13 for the past forty-five minutes, causing the croupier to sweat profusely while trying to convince the angry tourists that it was simply a "statistical anomaly." The automated card shufflers were aggressively launching playing cards into the air like confetti cannons at irregular intervals.

The only person who appeared to be winning big, was Mister Hartley, much to the annoyance of everyone in the room. He’d already won back the entire cost of the trip, and was staring at an ever growing pile of chips smugly. If he kept on his winning streak, he’d be able to buy a new Jag.

Moving through this glittering disaster, looking like a devastatingly handsome, perfectly tailored vision of summer elegance, was Charlie.

He was wearing a light, breathable cream linen suit over a crisp white shirt, the top two buttons undone. The outfit, meticulously selected by Mrs. Hartley before she had vanished toward the high-stakes baccarat tables, fit his lean, athletic frame perfectly. He looked effortless. He looked grounded. He looked like a man who didn't possess a heartbeat but could easily stop the heart of anyone looking at him.

Walking exactly one half-step behind him, sweating profusely and experiencing a level of anxiety normally reserved for defusing explosives, was Pip.

Pip was also wearing a matching linen suit, though his was a pale, stormy blue. Under normal circumstances—which is to say, any time in the last twelve millennia—Pip would have worn it with the casual, divine swagger of a celestial being. But his grace was still short-circuited by the island's entropy field. He was painfully, violently mortal. His sunburn, though slathered in Charlie's aloe vera, still radiated heat against the fabric of his shirt. His feet hurt inside his loafers. He felt heavy, clumsy, and entirely out of his depth.

But it wasn't the sunburn or the lack of divine power that was causing Pip's stomach to tie itself into complicated knots. It was the speech.

He had been rehearsing it in his head for three hours.

Charlie, I don't want to just be the bro with benefits anymore. I don't want to be the guy who shows up with vegan fritters and leaves before breakfast. I want to be the guy you rely on. I want to earn my place here. With you. With Cecil.

It was honest. It was vulnerable. And the mere thought of saying it out loud made Pip want to throw himself into the malfunctioning roulette wheel.

"Drink?" Charlie asked, turning back to him with a bright, easy smile. He plucked two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and handed one to Pip. "You look like you're about to march to the guillotine, man. Relax. Enjoy the free booze. We're on vacation."

"I am relaxed," Pip lied, taking a massive gulp of the champagne. The bubbles burned his mortal throat. "I'm the picture of relaxation. I'm practically horizontal."

"Sure you are," Charlie laughed, sipping his own drink. He scanned the room, his eyes catching on a figure moving through the crowd. His smile faltered slightly. "Oh, man. Look at him."

Pip followed Charlie's gaze, his heart sinking instantly.

Marcus the tour guide was working the room. He had traded his polo shirt for a sleek, black bartender's vest, carrying a tray of smoking canapés through the throngs of gamblers.

But Marcus was not the smooth, predatory, apex predator he had been that morning. The man looked absolutely haunted.

He was pale, his eyes darting nervously around the room, scanning the shadows beneath the craps tables and the dark corners behind the slot machines. Every time someone laughed too loudly, Marcus flinched.

As they watched, a wealthy tourist in a seersucker suit pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and ignited a massive, expensive cigar. The sudden burst of flame caught Marcus's peripheral vision.

Marcus let out a strangled, high-pitched yelp, stumbling backward and dropping his tray. The smoking canapés scattered across the carpet. Marcus pressed himself against a pillar, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with the remembered terror of singing, purple hellfire and a demonic toddler's wrath.

"Sir, are you alright?" the tourist asked, startled.

"Just... just a minor slip," Marcus gasped, frantically dropping to his knees to gather the ruined appetizers. "My apologies, sir. Please, enjoy your evening."

Charlie sighed, a soft, empathetic sound that drove a spike of irrational jealousy directly into Pip's chest.

"I feel bad for him," Charlie murmured, taking a step toward the mess. "He was just trying to do his job. Granted, his job apparently involved trying to hit on me while I was face-down on a massage table, but Cecil didn't have to traumatize the poor guy."

"He was trying to steal you," Pip blurted out, the words escaping his mouth before his brain could filter them.

Charlie stopped. He turned to look at Pip, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Steal me? Pip, it was just a guy offering a massage. It's not like I belong to anyone."

The opening was there. It was a massive, neon-lit doorway to the exact conversation Pip had been agonizing over. All he had to do was step through it. All he had to do was say: You could belong to me. I want you to.

Pip opened his mouth. His palms were sweating. The linen suit felt like a straitjacket. He looked at Charlie—the messy dark hair, the kind eyes, the sheer, undeniable reality of him—and his courage evaporated like water on a hot skillet.

"I just... I mean, we're bros," Pip stammered, wanting to violently eject his own vocal cords into the sun. "Bros protect bros from predatory resort staff. That's... that's the code."

Charlie’s expression shifted. The confusion melted back into an easy, comfortable, entirely platonic grin. He clapped Pip firmly on his sunburned shoulder.

Pip bit back a whimper of agony.

"You're a good wingman, Boca," Charlie laughed. "Come on. Let's go see if we can game the broken slot machines. I have a theory that if you hit the spin button exactly when the lights flicker, it forces a payout."

Pip forced a smile, his heart crumbling into dust. He had missed his chance. He had hidden behind the 'bro' facade again because he was too much of a coward to face the possibility of Charlie saying no. He took another long, miserable drink of champagne and followed Charlie toward the back of the room. If he just had his grace back, he could swagger, bob his eyebrows and act all smooth. But being mortal sucked worse than Lynix after a bottle of Tequila.

They had barely made it past the baccarat tables when a sharp, clear, incredibly condescending voice cut through the ambient noise of the casino.

"Oh, look, Nigel. The resort has finally restocked the decent vintage. It only took them three requests."

Charlie and Pip both stopped.

Standing near the high-roller lounge were two figures who radiated an aura of profound, insufferable perfection. The man, Nigel, was wearing a bespoke tuxedo that somehow managed to look both utterly flawless and aggressively boring. His hair was slicked back, graying at the temples. The woman, Celeste, wore a glittering, floor-length silver gown that caught the chandelier light with every movement. Her posture was so rigid it looked painful.

They were not demons. They were not mortals. Pip could feel the faint, humming resonance of celestial energy emanating from them, even through his dampened grace. They were angels. High-ranking, country-club, holier-than-thou angels.

They were Angelo's parents.

"Thank heavens we secured the private suite," Celeste continued, taking a delicate sip from her crystal flute. "The sheer volume of noise in this place is intolerable. I told the concierge, if I have to endure one more screaming mortal child at the buffet, I am demanding a full refund."

Nigel chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Quite right, darling. The staff here is barely competent. Speaking of, did you check the time? The daycare center closes at nine. We'll have to send someone to fetch the boy."

"Send the concierge," Celeste sighed, waving a manicured hand dismissively. "I am absolutely not walking down to that pastel nightmare of a room. It smells of cheap plastic and bodily fluids. Besides, he's much better when he's with the staff. He doesn't emit those terribly gauche auras when he's around us. I spent three hours meditating today; I will not have my chakras disrupted by a toddler's emotional leakage."

Nigel nodded in agreement. "He’s an accessory, Celeste, not a conversation piece. As long as he looks presentable for the gala next month, he can stay in the daycare until his wings come in."

Ten feet away, Charlie Hartley froze.

The easy, relaxed vacation demeanor evaporated from his body in a microsecond. The warm, dark eyes hardened into obsidian chips. The playful, spite-powered undead teenager vanished, replaced entirely by a father who had fought demons, gods, and hellhounds to protect his son.

Charlie’s hands curled into tight fists at his sides. He took a slow, deliberate step toward the angelic couple.

Pip saw the shift. He knew that look. It was the look Charlie got right before he did something incredibly dangerous and completely justified.

"Charlie," Pip warned softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

Charlie didn't look at him. His eyes were locked on Celeste. "They treat him like a prop," Charlie whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, dangerous hum. "He's an actual, living kid. He's sitting on a floor holding my son's hand because he thinks it's a rule, and they can't even be bothered to fetch him themselves."

"They're celestial aristocrats," Pip said quietly, feeling a surge of disgust pooling in his own stomach. "They don't have children; they have investments in the heavenly hierarchy. They care about status, not love."

"I don't care what they are," Charlie said, his jaw locked. He took another step forward, the fabric of his linen suit pulling tight across his broad shoulders. "I'm going to go over there, and I am going to teach them exactly what it means to be a parent. And if they glow at me, I will snap their halos."

Pip looked at Charlie. Really looked at him. He saw the fierce, unyielding, beautiful rage of a man who loved unconditionally. He saw the father who had looked at a fire-breathing, terrifying cambion and said, Mine.

Pip’s own insecurities, his fear of rejection, his pathetic attempts to rehearse a confession—all of it vanished, burned away by the sheer radiance of Charlie's protective fury.

Pip didn't need to give a speech. He didn't need to find the perfect words. He just needed to stand beside the man he loved.

Pip stepped up, matching Charlie’s stride, falling in shoulder-to-shoulder. He didn't have his grace. He didn't have his flaming sword. He just had a sunburn, a terrible linen suit, and a mortal heart that was beating entirely for Charlie.

"Let's go snap some halos, then," Pip said smoothly, his eyes locking onto Nigel and Celeste. "I'll take the husband. You take the wife. We'll make it a tag team."

Charlie paused, glancing sideways at Pip. The dark fury in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flash of surprise, and then, a deep, profound appreciation. Charlie nodded once.

"Together," Charlie said.

Before they could close the distance, however, a sharp, frantic static burst erupted in Charlie's right ear. He flinched, instinctively slapping a hand over the glowing radio shell he had completely forgotten was still wedged in his ear canal.

"FALCON TO COMMAND!" Matt's voice screamed through the metaphysical frequency, utterly obliterating the moment. "CODE RED! CODE RED! AGENT BINDER IS TRAPPED IN THE UNION NERVE CENTER! I REPEAT, SIMON IS IN THE LAIR! REQUESTING IMMEDIATE BACKUP!"

Charlie stopped dead in his tracks. The protective rage aimed at Angelo's parents slammed into a brick wall, instantly overwritten by absolute, unfiltered panic for his best friend.

"Simon?" Charlie hissed into the air, ignoring the strange looks from passing gamblers. "Matt, where is he? Where are you?"

"Room 402!" Matt yelled, the sound of tiny, slapping feet and a squeaking duck floatie echoing behind him in the transmission. "I am en route with the cargo! Do not engage the enemy! I am bringing the heavy artillery! Falcon out!"

Charlie looked at Pip, his eyes wide. The romantic tension, the impending halo-snapping, the entire casino—all of it vanished.

"Room 402," Charlie said, breaking into a dead sprint toward the lobby doors. "Move!"

Pip groaned, his sunburned shoulders screaming in protest as he forced his mortal body into a run, chasing after Charlie into the labyrinth of the hotel.

---

Exactly five minutes earlier, on the fourth floor of the Emerald Vista Resort, Simon was executing what he believed to be a flawless infiltration.

He was creeping down the plush, patterned carpet of the hallway, pressing his back against the floral wallpaper. He was holding his thick, color-coded binder tightly to his chest. His massive straw hat was pulled low over his eyes, functioning less as sun protection and more as a tactical disguise.

"Simon, you look ridiculous," Lynix sighed from the velvet sofa in Simon's temporal lobe. "You are practically hugging the wall. You look like a pantomime villain sneaking up on a cartoon dog. Stand up straight. Walk with purpose. If anyone stops you, tell them you're room service."

"I am employing stealth," Simon whispered fiercely through his teeth, edging closer to a heavy oak door marked with brass numbers: 402. "The Ministry manual explicitly states that operative visibility must be kept to an absolute minimum during reconnaissance operations."

"The Ministry manual was written by people who wear tweed in the summer," Lynix retorted. "Kick the door in! Do a barrel roll! Throw a flashbang! Seduce the guard! Do something cinematic, I am dying of boredom in here!"

"I am not doing a barrel roll," Simon hissed. He reached the door.

He paused, holding his breath. He pressed his ear against the heavy oak wood. He expected to hear the low, sinister murmurs of a sophisticated criminal syndicate. He expected to hear maps rustling, dark bargains being struck, the terrifying machinations of Arthur P. Mothman and Victor the Gargoyle planning their ultimate strike against the supernatural economy.

He heard nothing.

Simon reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and grasped the brass doorknob. He turned it slowly. It wasn't locked. The door clicked open with a soft, ominous sound.

Simon pushed the door open an inch. He peered through the crack.

The room was pitch black, illuminated only by the faint, flickering glow of the television set in the corner, which was currently displaying static. The air smelled overwhelmingly of stale french fries, ozone, and motor oil.

"Go in, go in, go in," Lynix cheered, practically bouncing on his mental sofa. "Breach and clear, Agent Color-Code!"

Simon took a deep breath, tightened his grip on his binder, and slipped through the crack in the door, stepping into the darkness of Room 402.

He took one step. Then another. He reached out blindly, his hand brushing against the wall, searching for a light switch. His fingers found the plastic toggle. He flicked it upward.

The overhead lights flared to life.

Simon froze.

He did not walk into a sophisticated nerve center. He did not walk into a terrifying monster lair.

He walked into the single most horrific, unmitigated, disorganized disaster he had ever laid his green eyes upon.

Room 402 was absolute, shrieking chaos.

There were at least thirty Gremlins in the room. They were everywhere. They were swinging from the blades of the ceiling fan like demented acrobats. They were tearing the stuffing out of the king-sized mattress and throwing it at each other in a blizzard of synthetic down. Three of them were actively trying to dismantle the minibar refrigerator using a plastic hotel shoehorn and a violently glowing spark plug. One Gremlin was wearing a lampshade as a helmet, marching back and forth across the dresser and saluting an empty bottle of gin.

But it wasn't the physical destruction that made Simon's blood run cold. It was the complete and total lack of administrative structure.

In the center of the room, standing on a coffee table, was Arthur the Mothman. He was wearing his oversized trench coat and red aviator sunglasses, and he was currently sweating a thick, powdery layer of anxiety-dust that coated everything within a five-foot radius. He was waving a clipboard frantically in the air.

"Please! Please, everyone, settle down!" Arthur shrieked, his high-pitched voice barely audible over the screeching of the Gremlins. "We have an agenda! We need to discuss the demands for the HVAC sabotage! Item three on the docket is proper hazard pay for wire-chewing!"

A Gremlin swung past on a curtain rod, snatched the clipboard out of Arthur's hand, took a massive bite out of the metal clasp, and threw it across the room.

Arthur put his head in his hands and wailed. "Mother is going to be so disappointed in me! I'm a terrible organizer! I'm an enabler of chaos!"

Standing next to the table, looking incredibly grumpy and entirely unhelpful, was Victor the Gargoyle. His massive stone body was currently serving as a jungle gym for four smaller Gremlins who were trying to chip pieces of gravel off his wings.

"I told you this was a bad idea, Arthur," Victor grumbled, swatting a Gremlin away like a pesky fly. "They don't care about collective bargaining. They just want to break things. And I'm getting dust in my crevices again. I want to go home."

Simon stared at the scene. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes darted to the wall behind the television.

There, pinned to the expensive wallpaper with a stolen steak knife, was the union's 'tactical map.'

It was a grease-stained, crumpled napkin. Someone had used a tube of stolen, bright red lipstick to draw a crude, lopsided circle. Inside the circle was a stick figure of a man with an X over his face, and what looked like a toddler's drawing of a potato on fire.

There were no pie charts. There were no shift rotations. There were no color-coded contingency plans. It was just noise. It was pure, unregulated, deeply inefficient entropy.

A horrifying, overwhelming sensation washed over Simon. It wasn't fear. It wasn't the terror of being trapped in a room with thirty monsters and an illegal labor dispute.

It was a profound, bone-deep, uncontrollable urge to organize.

His right eye twitched violently.

His fingers gripped the edge of his binder so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Simon, buddy," Lynix whispered slowly in his head, his demonic amusement suddenly replaced by genuine concern. "You look... unstable. Simon, don't do it. Just back away slowly. Walk out the door."

Simon didn't move. He couldn't. His bureaucratic instincts were overriding his survival instincts. The complete lack of parliamentary procedure in this room was a personal affront to his very existence.

He took a step forward.

Click.

Simon whipped his head around. The heavy oak door behind him had swung shut, the auto-locking mechanism engaging with a loud, final snap.

The sound cut through the chaos of the room.

The Gremlins stopped swinging from the ceiling fans. The Gremlins stopped chewing the mattress. The Gremlin wearing the lampshade stopped saluting the gin bottle.

Thirty pairs of glowing, manic yellow eyes slowly turned toward the entryway. They locked onto the pale, ginger ball of anxiety standing there in a linen suit, wearing a massive straw hat and clutching a binder.

Arthur the Mothman gasped, adjusting his red aviator sunglasses. "A Ministry official! We've been compromised! The strike is broken!"

Victor the Gargoyle narrowed his stone eyes, cracking his heavy knuckles. "I told you, Arthur. Management always sends a suit. I'll handle this."

The Gremlins began to advance, a slow, creeping tide of grease, tools, and sharp teeth, brandishing wrenches and broken lamp cords like weapons. They hissed, a collective sound that sounded like grinding gears and short-circuiting wires.

Simon stood with his back to the locked door. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The monsters were closing in. The situation was dire. He was completely trapped.

And yet, as he looked at the approaching horde, his right eye gave another aggressive twitch.

He didn't raise his fists. He didn't scream for help.

Simon reached down, unclasped the metal rings of his binder, and pulled out a fresh, pristine stack of blank, color-coded index cards. He clicked his pen.

"Alright, listen to me, you absolute administrative disasters," Simon snapped, his voice ringing out with terrifying, authoritative, bureaucratic fury. "If you are going to form a union, you are going to do it properly. I want this room alphabetized by height, I want a designated speaker recognized by the chair, and someone needs to fix that atrocious map immediately, because quite frankly, it looks like a flaming potato!"

The Gremlins stopped dead in their tracks.

They stared at Simon.

Simon glared back, pen poised, ready to bring the terrifying wrath of middle-management down upon the supernatural underworld.

“Oh we’re switching sides,” Lynix was thrilled. “This is going to get good.”