I had to admit, I was truly and selfishly irritated. A novel sensation, I know, for a paragon of virtuous self-control like myself.

  Look, I have selfish impulses just like anyone else, and like most civilized humans, I do my best to rein them in. It’s the whole “not being a feral raccoon” social contract. We all want to shove the last donut in our mouths and hiss at anyone who comes near, but we don’t. Usually.

  My current urge, however, was a purely intellectual kind of greed, and I hated having to put it aside. Not because acting on it would hurt anyone—though the metaphysical fallout could theoretically unmake reality, but hey, details—but because the three stooges holding me captive in this stupid van were a distracting audience to what should have been a private, mind-blowing revelation.

  I was this close to a breakthrough, and my captors were about as conducive to deep thought as a polka band at a funeral.

  I hadn't fully deciphered the Serenoid pamphlet—turns out “Learn Alien Cultivation in 30 Days!” wasn’t a bestseller—but its meaning was starting to bleed through. It wasn't designed for linguistic transfer. It was more of a… spiritual picture book for the cosmically illiterate.

  Once you stopped trying to read the symbols and started feeling them, the thing began to make a terrifying amount of sense. It was a basic guide that elegantly advanced to utterly insane later forms.

  Why a genocidal alien invasion force would bother with a self-help manual for personal energy development was a mystery for the ages. I remembered the stories, though. Their first gate opened, and they seemed almost peaceful. Docile, even.

  Then they saw their first Alpha. It was like flipping a switch from ‘ambassador’ to ‘apoplectic eldritch horror.’ They went insane, screaming and throwing around world-bending spells with a cheerful disregard for the previously peaceful humans getting vaporized in the crossfire.

  The whole war was confusing. They fought like rabid animals, draining their own life force to power their abilities. No prisoners, no surrender. Maybe they innately hated Alphas.

  Maybe their culture was built on a foundation of crippling insecurity and they couldn’t tolerate anyone with a better power-set. Maybe they just really hated the color blue. The theories were a dime a dozen, but the reality was a black hole of classified nothingness.

  But simply contemplating the first few energy-flow diagrams in my head—a welcome distraction from Magazine’s thrilling monologue about vehicular compaction—was enough to unveil the colossal scope of my own screw-up. I’d gone and built a skyscraper on a foundation of wet noodles.

  Technically, I was supposed to be at a stage called ‘body tempering.’ That’s the part where you unlock your energy points and start running a gentle current of power through your body to clean out the gunk, like a spiritual enema.

  It prepares your meat-suit to handle the heavier, more existential stuff—soul and spirit energies. The pamphlet even had a helpful diagram of a six-armed dude sweating black droplets as essence moved through his limbs. Very artistic. Very informative.

  I, in my infinite, impatient wisdom, had done it all backward. My DIY body modifications were useful, a real testament to my widgeteering prowess and rampant paranoia, but I’d literally contaminated my own system by installing the turbocharger before I’d even finished building the engine.

  I couldn’t break through my energy blockages because, by modifying my own nervous system and muscle structure, I’d paved over the natural pathways the energy was supposed to travel! Trying to increase my energy density to bulldoze through was, to put it bluntly, the metaphysical equivalent of trying to use a firehose to perform brain surgery. On myself. While blindfolded.

  The answer, according to the cheerful six-armed alien, was a hard reset. I was going to have to revert my body to an earlier, less-enhanced blueprint before I allowed the energy to flow through me correctly. I’d lose density, mass, strength, and reaction speed—a real blow to the ego and the survivability rating. But my energy pool was now vastly deeper, so once I purged the corruption and started the energy rotating properly, I should be able to rebuild better, stronger, faster. Hopefully without the existential clogging.

  But I couldn’t very well initiate a full-body metaphysical reboot here, in front of this captive audience of one professional killer, one walking arsonist, and one…

  “You, behind the wheel. Do you have a name, or should I just call you Goon Three? I’m trying to fill out my customer satisfaction survey.”

  “My name is Magazine. Class five Kinetic,” he said, his voice as dry as old toast. “I’ve put down a few class sixes in my day, and even a class seven. I am willing to entertain your disrespect because you are not resisting currently and Adrian wants you alive, but please be aware that any attempt to vacate the vehicle before we arrive at our destination will result in this vehicle getting squashed to the approximate size of a meatball and heated to the temperature of molten titanium in less than a second.”

  “You’d kill your teammates?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “That seems like a poor benefits package.”

  “These girls are not my teammates. They are employees, just like I am. Baelfire would survive, since she can render her body into plasma and would be the source of the heat, but Deacon, obviously, would not. If you resist, you will be directly responsible for her death.”

  I laughed, a low, ugly sound that fit the situation perfectly. “No, you would be. You’ve already decided to murder her if something unexpected happens. Every step in that process is a choice you make. If she dies, it’s on you. Don’t try to play those hostage word games with me; I’ve written the book on them.”

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I wasn’t kidding. When planning rent-a-villain gigs, I’d listened to the real thing until my ears bled. That old ‘you made me do this’ crap is the favorite mantra of abusive spouses and mustache-twirling villains throughout history. It’s psychological sewage, and I wasn’t buying any.

  He nodded, looking back at the road with a slight smile. “Very well. You understand the score. Deacon is a class three alchemist, one of the many realm travelers that the Maxwell consortium has secured. She apparently understands what is going on with your cultivation and is willing and able to help.”

  Deacon, who was now scrunched in the farthest corner away from Baelfire and me, gave a quick, nervous nod from behind her mask.

  Magazine continued, his voice a monotone threat. “Baelfire and I both have orders to restrain you if you resist, or kill you if we cannot restrain you. We have determined that your abilities are too dangerous to attempt to restrain you without crippling you, and as a healer, crippling you might not be effective. The most effective way to contain you, then, involves killing both you and Deacon. We are both aware of this and have plans to do so. If you wish to rescue her, then cooperation is key.”

  “Shit, do I sound like that?” I muttered, more to myself than anyone.

  Baelfire’s helmeted head tilted. “Do you sound like what?”

  “When I monologue. Do I sound like that?” I lifted one arm and started gesticulating dramatically in the air, pitching my voice into a pompous baritone. “Crippling might not be effective, and so we must therefore neutralize your superciliousness by effetely vaporizing the entire Eastern manifestation of the former territories held by the English until the American Revolution in 1776!” I finished with a flourish.

  Baelfire let out the most human noise I’d heard from her yet—a very definite, muffled snort—before covering it with a short, unconvincing cough.

  “That sounds a lot like Magazine,” Deacon sighed, the sound weary. “The more upset he gets, the more he starts using the biggest words he can think of. And he knows that if he kills me, he’d better not survive it himself. An accident of fate is one thing, but carelessly murdering a Wings of Jade sect member would be… disrespectful, no matter what outer layer I’m from.” She glared at the back of his head. “Remember, even an inner disciple can stick your soul back into your rotting corpse until they think you’ve learned your lesson about respect and humility.”

  I looked at her nervously. “Seriously? Sects? Respect and humility? Dear lord, please don’t shout ‘You dare!’ or that someone’s ‘courting death.’ Or, heaven forbid, complain about a frog in a well failing to notice Mount Tai. I get enough of that from the bad anime Graviton makes me watch.”

  Deacon looked at me in genuine confusion. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

  I shook my head. “Probably not. You are not from this world, are you?”

  She shook her head. “Of course not. You called it an invasion. We called it a retreat. I am from Earth 3152. This is Earth 3362.”

  I blinked. That was… a lot to unpack. “Wait, the Soulburners? I thought all of you were dusted after the Necrolord was executed. And how many Earths are there? Over three thousand?”

  “No. The survivors cut a deal with the Families,” Deacon explained. “We have to restrain our powers, despite living on a death-world. There are a lot more than three thousand Earths, but most are… unsuitable. No one knows how many there are. Experimenting with portals is generally a one-way or suicide trip, so few know of more than a half-dozen stable realities.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, my curiosity momentarily overriding my desire to escape.

  Magazine coughed. “It is meaningless to you, Mister Doyle. Her sort of human has nothing valuable to offer you.”

  I glared at the back of his head. “If that’s true, why do you think holding her as a hostage for my good behavior will have even the slightest effect? My heart’s a blackened lump of coal, not a charity.”

  Baelfire snorted again. “Mag’s been dealing with heroic types for far too long. He doesn’t realize you’re surrounded by beautiful women throwing themselves at you every day, so a pretty alien face in distress who is likely also a monster isn’t going to immediately short-circuit your brain.”

  I shrugged. “Oh, she attracts my attention. You said she was an alchemist who could help with my… condition. That’s intriguing. But it’s not worth risking my life over, especially not for an undead-adjacent vampire who poisoned me and possibly my roommates. Right now, I just want to know what this Adrian wants, what he’s willing to offer for my time, and when I can grab breakfast. Your poison sucked, by the way, Deacon. One-star review.”

  Deacon shrugged, a delicate motion. “That version of Cathartic Tranquilizer was designed for sedating large canines. I had to keep the dosage low, or it would have permanently damaged your liver, lungs, and kidneys, and possibly stopped your heart if you were a normal class three non-combat Alpha. I assume you have already checked yourself for side effects?”

  I nodded. “Thoroughly. I am currently fit as a fiddle, and I’m not going to tell you which organs I had to lovingly reassemble molecule by molecule because I don’t want to give you notes for the next attempt. Suffice it to say, if I hadn’t been asleep when you caught me, you wouldn’t have caught me.”

  Baelfire shifted her weight. “We would have killed you instead.”

  I offered her a thin, cold smile. “No. You would have found an empty room, or you might have found yourself locked down by any number of Alphas you only avoided by being exceptionally quick and quiet. I’m not going to brag about my powers. I’m not going to tell you a damn thing about them. But it might be best for everyone if you pull over, let me out, apologize for the inconvenience, and we never see each other again. Adrian can reach me on my unmonitored line or via Vilnet if he wants to schedule a meeting. Though, given this lousy first impression, he’ll be waiting behind my dentist and that guy who keeps trying to sell me extended car warranties.”

  Magazine sighed. “You are surprisingly polite despite having no leverage in this negotiation.”

  I shrugged. “You are surprisingly polite despite assuming you have leverage that you don’t actually possess. Deacon, a practical question. Are you capable of reading my chemical state? I’m not familiar with your toxin’s metabolic half-life, and I’d like to be sure none of it is still lurking in my spleen, planning a rebellion.”

  Deacon nodded and leaned forward slightly. “May I touch your skin?”

  I chuckled. “Even more polite. I wonder why you’re tied up with cold-blooded killers like these two.”

  She offered a faint, grim smile. “I am a cold-blooded killer as well. If I were not, I’d have been eliminated instantly. I make no excuses. I am not a drainer like most of my sect, but my alchemical talents are just as deadly and vile by most people’s estimations as any demonic cultivator’s power drain.” I held out my wrist, and she wrapped her surprisingly warm fingers around it. Her touch was clinical, precise.

  “You are… clean. Remarkably so. Healers, curse-breakers, even alchemists creating antitoxins should have left behind traces of the toxin, its neutralizers, or its residual essence energy. How did you do that? It’s like you were never even—”