Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Winter
The PEB-assigned apartment was surprisingly nice. If your definition of "nice" included magical surveillance orbs floating in every corner and windows that refused to open more than three inches. A prison with tasteful mid-century modern furniture was still a prison. There was no privacy.
"This will be your temporary residence until the prophecy situation is resolved," Agent Nightstar explained, handing me a key card. "The building is warded against unauthorized magical entities and reality fluctuations."
I eyed the glowing palm-print scanner by the door. "So I'm under house arrest?"
"Think of it as protective custody," she smoothed a wrinkle on her pants. "Your Fate Protectors will rotate eight-hour shifts to monitor your condition."
"Lucky me," I muttered, dropping my hastily packed overnight bag onto the couch. The PEB had allowed me a brief stop at my apartment to gather essentials, including my fish, supervised by Fenric, who'd documented every item I packed as if I might smuggle in contraband saltine crackers.
Agent Nightstar checked her watch. "I have another Class 3 situation involving a prophetic parrot in Queens. Your first protector will arrive momentarily."
As if summoned by her words, Fenric materialized through the doorway, tablet in hand, not a silver-blond hair out of place. Agent Nightstar nodded to him and disappeared down the hallway.
Great. My first babysitter was Mr. Bureaucracy himself.
"Ms. Winter," Fenric greeted me with a curt nod. "I trust you find your accommodations satisfactory?"
"Peachy," I flopped onto the couch. "Nothing says 'home sweet home' like being monitored by floating eyeballs."
"Arcane Surveillance Orbs," he corrected, tapping something into his tablet. "Standard procedure for all Class 1 prophecy hosts."
I waved my glowing hand at one of the orbs, which blinked nervously and retreated to a higher corner. "Do they have to stare so much? It's creepy."
"They're not staring. They're monitoring." Fenric straightened his already perfectly straight tie. "Now, regarding your daily structure."
"My what?"
He produced a laminated chart from his briefcase. "Your Bureau-approved daily schedule. Designed to minimize emotional volatility and prophetic energy fluctuations."
I stared at the color-coded monstrosity he handed me. Every minute of my day was accounted for, broken down into precise increments.
"Seven-fifteen to seven-twenty-two: morning hygiene routine?" I read incredulously. "Eight-forty-five to nine-oh-three: breakfast consumption and digestion period?" I flipped the chart over. "What the hell is 'designated emotional volatility time'?"
Fenric consulted his tablet. "Fourteen-point-five minutes allotted daily for emotional outbursts. Research indicates humans require a periodic release of emotional tension."
I blinked at him, certain I'd misheard. "You've scheduled when I'm allowed to have feelings?"
"Not feelings in general. Just the volatile ones." He adjusted his glasses. "Anger, frustration, excessive joy, anything that might trigger your reality manipulation abilities."
A pressure built behind my eyes, definitely not scheduled emotional volatility. I glanced around the room, spotted a book on the coffee table, and grabbed it.
"Emotional volatility this, asshat!" I hurled the book directly at his perfect head.
Fenric ducked with surprising grace, the book sailed over him and thudded against the wall. "That outburst will be noted in your file," his voice remained calm, making another entry in his tablet. "And you've now used 3.7 minutes of your allotted emotional volatility time for today."
I growled in frustration, my glowing palm pulsing brighter. "I need a snack before I turn you into something with more personality. Like a houseplant. Or a dust bunny."
Stomping into the kitchenette, I spotted a vending machine tucked into the corner. Not a normal vending machine, but one with a strange, iridescent sheen and symbols etched around its edges.
"What's with the magical snack dispenser?" I approached it cautiously.
"Standard issue," Fenric replied, following me at a safe distance. "It materializes nutritionally appropriate food items based on your biological needs."
My stomach rumbled. I hadn't eaten since that piece of toast this morning, and stress always made me hungry. I reached for my wallet, then paused. "Does it take money?"
"Simply place your palm on the scanner," Fenric instructed. "Non-glowing palm, please," he added hastily.
I pressed my right hand against the scanner, and the machine hummed to life, its display flashing: ANALYZING NUTRITIONAL REQUIREMENTS.
"I just want some crackers," I muttered. "Saltines, preferably."
The machine beeped, and the display changed: SELECTION REJECTED. NUTRITIONAL PROFILE INDICATES DEFICIENCY IN PROTEIN, VITAMINS B12, D, AND IRON. RECOMMENDED ALTERNATIVE: KALE-QUINOA POWER BAR.
"I don't want a kale-anything," I jabbed at the buttons. "Give me the saltines."
The machine made an ominous grinding noise. The display flickered, then displayed: ERROR 404: CUSTOMER SATISFACTION NOT FOUND.
"What the flying fuck." I smacked the side of the machine with my glowing palm.
That was a mistake.
Totally my bad.
Blue energy surged from my hand into the vending machine, which shuddered violently. Its display cycled through a rainbow of colors before settling on an ominous crimson glow. Then it started to laugh, a mechanical, hiccuping sound that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"PROTOCOL OVERRIDE," it announced in a voice that sounded like a blender full of marbles. "DISPENSING ALL ITEMS."
"Ms. Winter, step back immediately!" Fenric shouted, but it was too late.
The vending machine began spitting out snacks at alarming speeds. First came normal-looking packages, chips, candy bars, and granola bars, but they were followed by increasingly bizarre items.
A bag of chips that whispered when I walked past it. "The end times are coming. Would you like some dip?"
A soda can that floated instead of falling, bobbing against the ceiling. Granola bars wrapped in what appeared to be cursed paper, glowing with hieroglyphics that rearranged themselves when I looked directly at them.
"Containment breach!" Fenric shouted into his communicator. "Requesting immediate backup at Prophecy Host Containment Apartment 7B!"
A moon pie shot out of the machine, glowing with the same blue light as my palm. It hovered momentarily in the air, spinning slowly, before exploding in a burst of marshmallow and cosmic energy.
Some of the marshmallow hit my cheek and I wiped it off and licked it.
Yummy.
Reality hiccuped.
The walls of the apartment rippled like water.
The ceiling sprouted vines that grew downward at alarming speeds, flowering with blossoms that emitted high-pitched giggles.
The kitchen sink detached from the counter, sprouted tiny metal legs, and began singing opera in Italian while dancing across the floor.
"Oh shit," I backed away, bumping into Fenric. "I didn't mean to do this!"
"Don't move," he ordered, his voice strained. "Don't touch anything else."
The vending machine gave another mechanical laugh and began spinning in place, dispensing items in all directions now.
A package of cookies unfurled like a butterfly, its wrapper flapping as it flew around the room.
The floor beneath us turned gelatinous, then hardened into something that looked like glass but felt like rubber.
The door to the apartment burst open, and my (unwanted) chaos squad arrived in a rush.
Milo entered first, his skeleton crew marching in formation behind him. "Whoa! Reality cascade! So cool!" His eyes widened behind his glasses. "Don't worry, I can help!"
He pulled a tiny bone harmonica from his pocket and played a quick melody.
The dancing sink paused mid-song, but then every dish in the cupboards burst forth, animated by Milo's necromantic energy.
Plates spun like tops across the counter while forks and spoons performed a synchronized swimming routine in the air.
"Oops! Sorry!" Milo grimaced. "That wasn't supposed to happen!"
Zane vaulted over the transformed couch, which had grown fur and was now purring contentedly.
"I knew this was a trap!" He flipped the coffee table onto its side for cover.
He lunged toward me, grabbing my arm and pulling me down behind the makeshift barricade.
"Stay down, Shortstack. This is going to get messy. "
"It's already messy!" I protested as he shielded me with his body. He smelled like something electric, like the air before a lightning strike.
I kinda liked it.
Rook charged straight for the vending machine, which had grown metallic fangs and was snapping at anyone who came near. "Someone shut that thing up!" he tackled it with impressive force. The machine fought back, sinking its newly formed teeth into Rook's forearm.
"Son of a bitch!" Rook snarled, his eyes flashing yellow as he wrestled with the possessed snack dispenser. "This is why I hate technology!"
Meanwhile, Fenric had somehow managed to levitate himself above the chaos, hovering cross-legged in midair while filing what appeared to be an incident report on his tablet. The floor beneath him had transformed into a bubbling slime that oozed in various neon colors.
I hoped it was not poisonous.
"This marks the fourteenth regulatory violation in the past three minutes," he announced to no one in particular, somehow maintaining his composure despite the pandemonium. "I'm submitting Form 27-B/6 for immediate reality stabilization protocols."
"Are you seriously filing paperwork right now?" I shouted at him from behind the coffee table.
"Proper documentation is essential during crisis events," he looked primly down at me before dodging a flying spoon.