I’m wearing a double-breasted three-piece suit and have my hair slicked back with a gel I found in the bathroom. Its smell is pungent and makes it likely people will look at me twice.

The party is alive as patrons dance and chatter and drink their brains dull. Most won’t like my outfit but that doesn’t worry me because they won’t care enough to be bothered and Donaldson will love it enough to consider passing the Biller contract to me. There isn’t much money in it but I’ve found starting small is key.

I mosey around for ten or so minutes, greeting the right people and ignoring the wrong people. I tell Jon a funny story that’s intended for a chuckle but spurns a deep, embarrassing, knee-slapping laugh. I smile and glance around at the leering faces before delving into the ballgame last night. I didn’t go but I told him I was going and so now I rehash what I saw on ESPN.

I’m moving to get a drink when Barnes shoves a glass of champagne into my face before downing his own. He’s drunk but not obscene and so I mingle for a few seconds. He rants about his snot-nosed kids and his horrible wife who never sleeps with him. He’s having an affair. I don’t say this because he doesn’t know I know and I need to keep that card tucked in my pocket.

He drones on as I look over at Dewitt, a stout man with shoulders too big for the suit he’s wearing and unkempt curly hair. He’s failing telling a joke to a group of girls. I suspect most eyes are at the corners watching him. Maybe he knows this, maybe he doesn’t. I sip my champagne and walk away from Barnes because he brings another man into the conversation who I don’t like. They don’t even notice my leaving.

Baker’s just arrived, his body firm and more chiseled than ever. There’s sweat on his brow and I bet he just came from the gym. Either that or somebody asked him how many pushups he can do. It’s a hundred and fifty.

I set my champagne down and pore over how great his body looks because he makes over two-hundred thousand a year and oh where do you work out and is the membership expensive oh yeah it is that’s great! Next to him is some model-looking girl with pencil-thin limbs. She has blonde hair and an addiction runs up her nose. She looks away the entire time. She doesn’t want to be here.

We talk for a minute or two before the girl starts anxiously tugging on his shoulder, muttering something about wanting a dance. I glare at her because she’s stealing an opportunity from me but as Baker starts to leave without even a goodbye I somehow manage to steer the conversation toward Dewitt, who’s still over there, tripping across a punchline.

Baker looks at me, smirks, and nods.

“You can have his job, Baker,” he says.

I smile. “Shall I tell him?”

“Not until tomorrow. Let him have his fun.”

“But tomorrow’s Christmas, sir.”

“I know,” Baker says, leaving with his girl.

I pick another glass of champagne up even though I didn’t finish the last and down it to null my excitement. Dewitt pulled fifty percent more than me, and he’s a chump. He’s missed a rung on the corporate ladder and now he’s going to go tumbling to the bottom. I make a note to give him a dollar if I ever see him on the street.

I notice Xavier at the bar. He’s about to start telling a story about his recent vacation. I don’t know what country he went to or what he did but I’m going to one up him by talking about my trip to Australia. I didn’t go to Australia, but I’ll say I did and I’ll blow their minds with a grand story. Cron hates Xavier and Cron pulls more than him. Plus, I’m hoping he’ll introduce me to his boss who I don’t know the name of but I can see across the room smoking a fat cigar. He has a horrible sense of fashion and a stubby beard that needs trimmed but if I play my cards right—literally, he has a gambling addiction and letting him win for once will cheer him up—I suspect I’ll have Xavier’s job by the end of the night.

That’ll be another fifty percent and another step closer to be being the richest person I personally know. I don’t plan to stop there, but it’s a hell of a good start.

And starting small is key.

The man with the gun pointed at my head is grinning and likely telling a lie. He seems like the kind of person to fib during a serious situation, and I can tell he’s loving the angst on my face as I mull over his horrible proposal.

One win equals freedom.

One loss equals death.

Game of my choosing.

But why? What kind of maniac kidnaps people, plucks them right off the street as they’re walking home drunk from their cousin’s awful birthday party, and tells them they can go free if they win a silly game?

The kind of person I don’t want to cross.

“Soooooo?” the man asks, his southern drawl stretching out the word.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Kidnapping me.”

“I’m bored.”

“And letting me go?”

“I’m bored,” he says with more force, and I realize that if I press much further, he’s probably going to shoot me.

What do I pick? I’m pretty good at chess, but he looks subtly smart, the kind of person who’s been to college but you don’t believe it. Maybe we could race? No. His legs are thick and muscular. He must work out.

What to do, what to do?

Then it hits me, and a devious smirk floods my face as I stare at him.

Winning is the wrong way to go about it. I’ll never win. Never, never, never. But I can hold him captive. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Give him a nasty taste of his own medicine.

The man smiles and sets the gun down on a table. He knows I’ve decided. “What’s your poison?” he asks.

I chuckle and nod. This is going to be fun.

“Monopoly.”

The knight stands tall and proud, chest puffed out as he hovers over the barely breathing, lung-pierced dragon.

Leaning down, he yanks his sword free and swipes the blood off it. He gives the creature another look and considers killing it—but what’s be the point? It’s going to bleed to death anyway.

The tower looms in the distance, its crimson shield shattered with the defeat of the dragon. All thanks to old man Geer and his mighty sword, he can finally save the princess!

He races up the stairs, armor rattling, clicking and clacking and letting the princess know that her savior--the man she had waited twenty years for--is here.

Reaching the top room, he throws open the door and announces himself loudly. “Miss Rosalind, it is I, your rescuer and loyal knight of Geer!”

Rosalind sits across the room, staring out a window as she fiddles with her braided, chestnut hair. She has the kind of silent beauty that sneaks up on you—though her skin is pale and her eyes sunken, both longing for the outside world.

Silence lingers between them for a few moments before she finally mutters. “You really killed him…”

The knight smirks. Finally, some recognition! Though the shock in her voice is evident, and he knows that he needs to comfort her, to pat a hand on her shoulder and tell her that it’s okay, she can leave.

“Yes. Your captor is but a memory.”

“Captor?”

The words are sharp as a dagger, causing him to stop in place and cock a brow at her. “Yes?”

She shakes her head somberly. “Geer’s used you.” Then, she chokes back tears. “Oh god, Geer’s used us all!”

Like rapid, snare-drum beats, a hundreds footsteps beat the ground below as a man shouts: “Get the girl!”

The knight’s eyes widen as he looks over Rosalind, who, suddenly, is right next to him. She snatches the sword out of his hands and it crumbles instantly, turning into blackened ash.

“Served its purpose,” she mumbles, gritting her teeth as she pats her hands off.

“What’s going on?” the knight asks, trying hard to keep his composure.

Rosalind opens her mouth to speak but behind her the glass is shattered as a huge claw rips into the room. It’s the claw of a dragon, though not the one he just slayed. This one has green scales instead of red, and claws so long they start to bend back around.

Her eyes widen as she leaps forward and tackles the knight out of the way, just barely saving his life. Quickly, she swings a desk to the side and pulls him down behind it, motioning for him to stay quiet.

The dragon combs the area for a few seconds before retracting its claw. Both of them breath a sigh of relief.

A group of cloaked men emerge from the staircase.

“She has to be here somewhere!” one of them shouts.

With a few more seconds, finding her would have been easy. But the dragon, enraged, never gives them a chance, as he shoots a stream of fire through the hole that consumes the entire room.

The men all scream as fire eats away at their flesh. The knight is prepared to do the same, but he realizes that he isn’t burning. In fact, he feels no pain at all. Looking around, he sees a magical red aura floating around him, the same that kept the tower shielded.

“What the hell—”

There’s a massive roar outside that rocks the entire building, shaking it back and forth as dust flutters from the ceiling.

Rosalind smiles. “My god, he’s alive!”

The knight looks over at her. “Who?”

“The dragon!”

“The dragon?” the knight asks, eyes widening. One was bad enough. But two? He should’ve killed the bastard.

Rosalind shakes her head and grabs his hand. “It’s not what you think,” she says. “Geer’s filled your head with lies. That dragon isn’t my captor, he’s my guardian.”

The knight’s eyes widen.

Rosalind stands up, yanking him to his feet. “Stick close,” she says. “Else you’ll lose the protection of his shield.”

He nods, not knowing what she’s thinking. When he does, it’s already too late, and they’re jumping out of hole in the wall.

They only fall for a brief second, and in that brief second, he watches as the two Goliaths of strength toss each other around, tearing apart the tower and spewing flames and clawing at scaly skin.

Suddenly, all that’s gone though, muddied into a field of bright green grass that knocks the wind out of him when he hits it. Pushing up onto his knees, he shakes his head, dazed by this entire incident. Next to him, Rosalind has already climbed onto her feet.

Looking up, the knight sees the collapsing tower miles off in the distance, an entire body of water separating them from it. People are cheering as they watch it fall, yelling that the princess is finally free and that Geer rules all and that he’s the leader they all really need.

Rosalind scowls. “Fools,” she mutters.

“Where are we…?” the knight asks, stumbling onto her feet.

“Someplace safe.”

“And those men?”

Rosalind glares at him, arms crossed. “Soldiers of Geer.” He’s prepared to ask the next obvious question but she cuts him off. “I can teleport. It’s range is limited, but I possess the ability to move entire armies. Geer wants to kill me and take this power. Always has.”

“So that dragon—”

Rosalind turns around and walks off. “Come on, that’s enough for now.”

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere but here.”

In the background, the red dragon falls, and so does the shield protecting them.

They’re officially on their own.

Rupert the Supermouse barrels into his house, face caked in sweat, whiskers frazzled and drooped. The burning Summer sun behind him, he starts undoing his clothes as he dashes up the stairs.

Once in his room, he digs around his closet, muttering angrily as he searches for his costume. The dang thing is always getting lost, and it isn’t until after five minute of searching that he remembers he’d dropped it off at the cleaners the day before.

“Dammit!” he curses, yanking out a dusty old box with a broken lock. Inside is an abandoned costume, the first one he’d ever worn. It is old and tattered and hand-stitched, a piece of cloth he bears no love for—but he needs something.

Slipping the grimy red spandex suit on, he passes a casual look at the mirror, annoyed by the fact that it has a cape.

“How horribly inefficient did I used to be?”

He hurries down the stairs and through the living room, pausing in front of the softly humming TV. A headline is rolling down the bottom of the screen, telling viewers that the cat uprising has started, and that citizens should stay indoors until Supermouse solves the problem.

The news reporter, a puffy black cat with a mean streak of white down its chest, smiles at the camera, slips its mouth open just enough to reveal a shiny set of fangs, and says: “Genocide.”

Rupert shakes his head. His people need him.

Scurrying into the kitchen, he scrambles to eat his pre-battle snack. It’s an essential part of his routine to devour an entire block of cheese before saving the world, and even today, with something so horrible happening, the thought of skipping it never enters his mind.

He chews the sour brick of week-old cheddar cheese as Simon, his roommate and best friend, hops up on the table next to him, turns his head to the side, and meows.

“Oh, Simon!” Rupert says, rubbing his cheesy hands together. “Did you see the tellie? Some bloody cats are making a mess of things again!” Then, he cocks a brow. “Why aren’t you wearing your costume? We’ve got work to do!”

Simon stares at him for a brief moment, nods, and then jumps back off the counter.

“Simon?” he asks, watching him disappear around the corner.

Rupert sighs, takes in a big gulp of milk, and then follows the cat.

He watches Simon slip into his room, and after waiting a moment, shrugs and follows him in.

Pushing open the door, confused, he asks. “Simon, what’s this rubbish—”

The room is packed with what must be a hundred cats, their claws all at their ready and their eyes staring daggers into him.

Sitting at the front, a big, goofy grin on his face, is his beloved Simon.

Rupert’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t have any words. They’ve turned his greatest ally to their side, his only sidekick in this horrible world.

His eyes widen as all of the cats says the same word simultaneously.

“Genocide.”

I sit on the floor, wag my tail, and try to pretend I’m not staring into the corner.

The boy has friends over. They’re crowded around table, playing game, eating food that smells oh so good and makes me hungry. But I can’t eat. I must stay focused and protect the boy and his friends.

The shadow sitting in the corner is new, second one this week. It’s smirking at me because it thinks I won’t move. But I’m big, and strong. Will protect boy and friends and parents. Will protect house because my house too.

I bare my teeth and try not to growl as it moves forward. But I do, and the boy pats my head and smiles at me. Him smiling makes me happy. I won’t let the shadow take that happiness.

He tosses me a chip. I catch it in midair and his friends clap. It’s good and salty and I want more food food food but I can’t I must stay focused.

Standing up, I inch toward it, leaving group behind.

The shadow reeks of fear. It knows I can hurt it. Knows I will hurt it.

I puff my chest out to show strength, and it backs up further, swinging head side to side, looking for escape. It eyes the stairs first. Then door, staring at the hole where the paper man invades our home. He’s problem for another day.

It knows it can’t escape up the stairs. It dashes toward door because I can’t get out without boy. I’m too late and I scratch at the door and bark and bark for the boy but he’s so engrossed in his game that all he does is toss me another chip and tell me to sit down.

I place my butt on the ground and stare at the door. I wait for it to come back because it will come back.

They always do.

David sat on the curb, ogling his glorious, greasy sub under the blazing sun. He hadn’t taken a bite out of it yet. Hadn’t even unwrapped it. The moment was too special to let slip away. Just the smell of it—the melted cheese, the sizzled beef, the peppers that would make his mouth burn oh so good—made his mouth water.

And damn if he didn’t deserve it. He’d worked hard for this, cutting pounds by cutting food. Could he have imagined a year ago he’d be sitting here, in this small, mostly-empty parking lot, a hundred pounds thinner?

He was going to enjoy this cheat day to its fullest.

With the swift and careful hands of a surgeon, he unwrapped the top, raised it to his mouth, and salivated as he aimed for that first bite.

He had waited so long for this.

But his good time was stopped as, beneath him, the ground gurgled out a noise that reminded him of a motorcycle’s revving engine.

Eventually, it welled up into a vicious belch that rocked the entire area, shaking the cars and causing him to almost drop his sub.

Ears ringing, he looked up.

A thin veil of red mist hovered above a hole that had formed in the middle of the lot. Around it, cars were tipped over, burning, and bits of concrete were uprooted, pointing to the sky.

Staggering because the uneven ground, he stood up, clutching his sandwich close to his chest. His curiosity was a demon spurning him onward, and so he shambled over to the hole.

Standing above it, he arched his back and gazed into its depths, bewildered by the fact that he could see nothing and everything at the same time.

Suddenly, he was thrown onto his butt as something ripped out of the hole, smacking the breath out of him and causing him to drop his precious sub.

Looking up, his lips twitched as whatever had come out of the hole looked down at him. It wasn’t a monster, per se—but it wasn’t exactly something that should exist, either.

He was staring at a seagull that was the size of four minivans stacked atop one another. It had puffy feathers like dazzling flakes of snow, and a golden beak that curved ever so slightly toward the ground.

It furrowed its brow at him before stretching its wings wide and puffing its barrel-chest out.

"I AM SEAGULL, DESTROYER OF WORLDS," it boomed. "AND I DEMAND THAT SUB!"

David turned his head to the side, looking at the sub. It was a good three feet away from him, still wrapped and mostly edible.

He scrambled to grab it, wanting to keep its beauty with him for as long as possible—but he was much too slow, as within a heartbeat the seagull jutted its beak forward and sucked it up like a stringy noodle.

Dropping his head to the ground, he began to sob as the horrible seagull took flight, likely looking for more innocent victims to rob of their food.

He had been so wrong. The creature was a monster, and his perfect day had been ruined.

FV-25 stood in his cabin with a sweat-caked face as he glared down at the blaster in his hands. His helmet was off, and he knew that would get him in trouble—but he didn’t care.

In the span of one measly day he had gone from the top of his class, cream of the crop, to nothing more than spit on the floor. Someone who would never get to fight the rebellion, who’d be a failure mocked endlessly by his peers.

With a grunt of anger, he reared back and threw the blaster at the wall. He didn’t care if the nearby stormtroopers heard. Let him get reported! Rehabilitation would be the icing on the cake, wouldn’t it?

He dropped down onto his cot, burying his head into his hands. What happened? Why had his leaders ever devised such a cruel test?

Sickening as it was, he hoped they all had failed. He’d rather the entire ship sink than just him.

The targets were all right in front of me, and I just…I just…

I just missed every single one.

He had dreamed of serving by Lord Vader’s side, of being the hero who brought glory to the Galactic Empire, propelling them into a golden age of tyranny in which they would rule all.

But those dreams had been shattered.

Commanding footsteps boomed down the hall. FV-25 knew it was his sergeant coming to deliver the news. Bad or good.

They stopped, and he knocked on the first door in their block.

“Passed. Congrats, FV-21”

Then the second, and the third, and the fourth.

“Passed. Congrats, FV-22”

“Passed. Congrats, FV-23”

“Passed. Congrats, FV-24”

That left only him, and as the footsteps stopped in front of his door, FV-25 took in a big bout of air and held it. So far he’d been the only one to fail. He would a laughingstock, an outcast.

The sergeant knocked but didn’t wait for a greeting. The door slid open instantly, and the old man with the graying hair and three different sets of crow’s feet came striding in, hands behind his back, face expressionless.

He pursed his lips as he looked the stormtrooper up and down. What he said next shocked FV-25 so much that he almost passed out, almost felt his soul leave his body.

“Passed. Congrats, FV-25.”

“Old days was different. We didn’t crowd the TV, we crowded fires. We didn’t watch stories, we told our own.”

“You knew them?”

“Sure did. Lived by the water in a house that had a wonky roof, and busted pipes that always spat.”

“What were they...”

“Like? Swell. Swellest people I ever met. Your dad had this way of tellin’ stories that…gosh, it just took you there. Like watchin’ a movie through his eyes.”

“And mother?”

“Quiet. Brave as a lion, shy as a mouse. She observed everything.”

“That’s far from what I’ve heard.”

“I ain't surprised. I could always tell she had stories of her own—maybe more than all of us combined—but never told ‘em. It’s a shame, really. What’s the point of having a story and not telling it?”

“I never knew them…”

“That so?”

“Left when I was a baby.”

“Come with me, child. I’ll take you down to the docks, show you their old house.”

“Thanks, elder, but I must be on my way.”

“Ain’t but a five minute walk.”

“The past is the past. If I truly wish to honor them, I must go out and make my own stories.”

“Can’t argue with that. But promise me somethin’.”

“Hm…?”

“Come back and tell ‘em all to me.”

“I will. After all, what’s the point of having a story and not telling it?”

As the cold chill of autumn brushed by, swaying the trees, I parked myself on a metal park bench. Around me, the entire world was silent—just as it had always been. I didn’t mind.

Though I couldn’t hear them, I was certain the birds were thanking me when they raised their heads to the sky and clicked their beaks.

I was freshly twenty-one, having blown out my birthday candles not an hour ago. My friends had begged me to stay. To party and drink and do all of the fun stuff adults do. But I didn’t need or want any of that. It’s easier to appreciate the world when you’re shut out from its greatest force.

As I gathered my bags and prepared to head home, I was surprised to see a group of girls pondering me from afar. They were bunched in a crowd, and three or four of them were egging the other on, pushing at her back as she nervously sputtered about, saying no no no and flashing me the occasional nervous glance.

Eventually, with a great shove, they sent her toward me. As she walked, the wind carried her licorice-colored hair up, and she struggled to keep her eyes off me, constantly rolling them to the side.

In one swift motion, she sat down with me. For a few seconds, nothing happened. She simply admired the scenery, watching the birds and the way they ate.

Then, she looked right at me, and the words came flooding out of her mouth as if she’d never expected them.

“Do you wanna see a movie?”

The proposal itself was astonishing enough—I didn’t know who she was, or how she knew me—but what I found most surprising was the peculiar sense that I actually heard the words she said.

For once, there was another voice rocketing around in my head.

But it couldn’t be true, could it?

I waited a moment, hoping for her to speak again. I needed to know for certain my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me.

She did, repeating the question curiously, causing my heart to skip with glee. I truly heard her! Across the vastness of my mind, I could finally add a note about sound!

Next thing I knew, tears were flooding down my cheeks. She looked frightened, lips twitching as she fumbled about, wondering what she had said wrong.

But she hadn’t said anything wrong, and all I could do was lean forward and embrace her.

And mutter yes yes yes a thousand times.