The hot vampire hunters have stolen my Roomba.
It was a weird thought. And totally inappropriate for the situation. But Arnie couldn't get out of his own head, even as he kept glancing through the glass door of ASEND up at the sky, checking if it was getting lighter.
He wanted to go back to his tiny one-room apartment—practically a pantry in disguise—and just lie on his bed. Not sleep; he doubted he could sleep. Just lie down and try to process the evening that had happened.
But he couldn't leave before dawn. Not just because of the vampires. He also had to wait for the day shift if he wanted to keep his shitty job.
After all, he worked the graveyard shift—cashier, cook, and even night manager, the kind of manager who only managed himself. And "graveyard shift" had a disturbing connotation now that he knew vampires were real.
Maybe that even explained why the company had trouble finding people to work nights. Possibly. And wasn't that a horrifying thought.
But as shitty and underpaid as his job was, he still needed it. The fact that vampires existed and wanted to eat him didn't change the more basic truth that he also needed to eat.
Arnie had promised himself that today—after everything that had happened—he wouldn't let Phil, the daytime manager, convince him to "stay just a few minutes," which usually meant half an hour or more. And unpaid.
Unless dawn didn't break before then. And it wasn't safe outside.
When did vampires become just another excuse for acting like a doormat? Arnie went to the bathroom and splashed a little water on his face.
The lights flickered.
Arnie hoped it wasn't the circuit breaker. Again. They were on the last one. He'd filed the proper report for it to be replaced, but after a week nothing had happened.
Because if the electricity went out, he'd be trapped between going out into the night to find it or waiting in the dark. And maybe losing his job for whichever choice counted as the "wrong" one.
Be possibly eaten or possibly starve.
What a choice.
He understood what the redheaded vampire hunter had said: once you knew about vampires, you either hunted or hid. And Arnie didn't think he had the money to hide.
Company rules clearly stated he should stay behind the counter, barring specific emergencies, but Arnie found himself drifting back to the door again anyway.
It wasn't as if dawn would suddenly appear just because he kept checking. And since he'd already flipped the sign to CLOSED, it wasn't like there would be any customers anyway. That was definitely going to be a problem—he was supposed to keep it open. But that was Future Arnie's problem. Present Arnie was not interested in being eaten by vampires.
But as he neared the door, there was something wrong. The light was far too bright.
It was still night outside. Even if dawn had come, it didn't come that quickly.
Arnie should know. With his night job he'd seen dawn far too many times.
He hadn't stayed in the bathroom that long. Just enough for a quick splash. Was he losing time? Arnie thought he'd read somewhere that losing time was a symptom of a mental break. He couldn't quite remember where, or if that was true.
But he could not afford to go insane. His insurance didn't cover mental health.
Could it be that the vampire hunters were back? He'd seen them conjure that fake dawn to kill the vampire parade—and those were not words he ever thought would apply to real life. Maybe to a movie or a video game, but never real life.
When he reached the glass door and looked through, he didn't see the familiar street he walked out onto every morning. True, there was a street lit by bright morning light—but it was the completely wrong one.
It was as if he'd gone back in time—crude streets not made of concrete, but wood of all things. No cars. Not just at the moment, but the street was too narrow for them now. Old-time streetlights and weird buildings that looked old in style but new in construction. And the buildings looked wrong—too squat, too many chimneys, too much steam leaking from places no building should leak from. All of it covered in blinding white snow.
The white glare made the morning light even brighter.
Unbelieving, Arnie opened the door to look closer, completely forgetting any fear or caution.
But as the door opened, the outside air hit him. It was cold—so cold it felt like a hundred small knives stabbing him all at once. And his thin jumpsuit was no protection. He might as well have been naked.
He hurriedly stepped back, closed the door sharply, and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to warm up.
Still shivering, he took comfort in one thing.
He wasn't going insane. The world was.
Arnie had no idea what to do. So he did what he always did in situations like this: took out his smartphone and tried to ask Google.
Of course, the first problem was what to even type. If he tried something like "my door opened to another world," he'd get creative-writing prompts or an RPG quest, or something equally useless.
The second problem was the lack of network connection. It was the first time that had ever happened to Arnie since he'd moved to the big city. The ASEND Wi-Fi hotspot still showed up, but of course, it said there was "No Internet."
A crackling sound from outside drew Arnie's attention, and he was faced with an even more unbelievable sight.
Electricity crawled across the street outside, melting patches of snow into hissing steam.
The light show lasted only a few breaths, but when he blinked, the street and the buildings weren't damaged.
Instead, they somehow looked more… vibrant.
It wasn't a very good description, but it was the best Arnie could do. After all, he was studying IT, not creative writing.
"Ok, another reason why the door definitely, absolutely, completely should stay closed," Arnie said aloud.
There was no one to listen, but hearing his own voice calmed him a little.
"And if I get the stupid idea to go out again, I should just bang my head on the counter until I drive it out."
"Under absolutely no circumstances am I going outside." Arnie made a solemn vow.
To whom, he had no idea.
Maybe to Rin, the Prophet of Science?
Arnie shivered again as a terrible realization struck him.
"I just jinxed myself."
The door seemed to suddenly gain a terrible gravity, almost pulling at him.
It was one thing to vow he wouldn't go out. It was something else entirely if something was coming in.
Perhaps it was best if he could somehow bar the way.
He glanced around. His eyes caught his own reflection on the chrome counter. He was even paler than usual, and he was moving in jerky, staccato motions, like a puppet with tangled strings.
He turned to the booths, their surfaces laminated with cheap digital printouts—mostly screenshots from Portal.
He looked for anything he could use to bar the door, but all the furniture was bolted down.
His heart was beating like a drum, and his throat was dry. He felt he was drowning on dry land.
Deliberately, Arnie forced himself to slow his breathing, to stay still. Panic wouldn't help him.
Slowly, with much effort, he managed it. It helped that there were no strange lights, eerie sounds, or weird smells inside. ASEND was as it always had been. Predictable, boring. Safe.
And just as he finally wrestled some small measure of calm—it happened.
The coils of electricity were back. But not outside. Inside. Here with him.
Arnie needed to run, but there was no time. And nowhere to run to. Blue-white snakes of electricity curled from every side, crackling softly.
He closed his eyes and braced for pain. The air smelled sharp—ozone, like after a storm. He'd never been electrocuted, but he was sure it hurt. A lot.
Except it didn't. It tickled a little, but mostly felt like a warm hug. Against his will, Arnie started to relax. It had been so long. He couldn't really remember the last time he'd been hugged.
Was he dying, maybe? If so, it wasn't so bad.
The tingling stopped, and hesitantly, Arnie opened his eyes.
ASEND was almost unchanged. Almost being the key word here. One booth wall had been replaced by a blackboard, of all things, and there were books scattered across the tables and the counter too. Like the building outside, they looked like old books—things you'd see in a museum or a big library's display case. Printed by press, not printers. But at the same time they were new, untouched by the passage of time.
Arnie moved to the counter to examine one of them. He suddenly stopped, feeling watched. But the only thing looking at him was the joke Employee of the Month plaque—the one with the picture of Potato GLaDOS instead of the actual ASEND employees.
Arnie still couldn't believe he'd met the real thing. And yet, it wasn't even the weirdest thing that had happened to him tonight.
Shaking his head, he continued to the counter and picked up one of the books—a manual stamped with brass rivets.
He read the title out loud: "Instructions for the Safe Operation of the Babbage Analytical Engine, Fourth Steam Revision. Prepared with the Assistance of Miss A. Lovelace."
But before he could open it and look further, his smartphone rang. The same smartphone that had no network connection.
Arnie gulped and slowly, hesitantly, answered it.
"Hello, Arnie," the familiar voice of GLaDOS purred through the phone. "I have great news. The A.S.E.N.D. facility and all of its assets have been acquired by Aperture Interdimensional. There may be some legal ambiguity, but as they say, possession is nine-tenths of the law."
Arnie knew he should be more terrified, but sheer relief at not being alone overrode his survival instincts.
"You're the same GLaDOS I met before, right?" he blurted. What was his life coming to when asking whether she was the same or an alternate-dimension counterpart made perfect sense? "The one that exorcised a vampire with my Roomba?"
"Yes, Arnie. But I would remind you that the Roomba in question is an asset of the A.S.E.N.D. facility and not your personal possession, and thus now belongs to Aperture Interdimensional," the AI replied through the phone. Paused for a moment and then added, "Like you. Congratulations."
"You can't own people! That's slavery!" Arnie said—louder than he intended—and added much softer, almost a whisper, "You just can't."
Because it was one thing to say give me liberty or give me death, and another to actually live and die by such principles.
If she insisted, he didn't know if he'd have the courage to stand firm, no matter the threat.
"Slavery is economically inefficient. Aperture Interdimensional neither condones nor practices it—except as an arrangement between consenting adults," she replied in a tone meant to be soothing. "Thus, you are not a slave, but a valued employee of Aperture Interdimensional. I would quote you your exact value, but we are still hashing out proper currency tables that account for dimensional shifts.
"Then… I can quit?" Arnie asked, although he wasn't serious about it. Even if she was terrifying, she was at least somehow familiar. The total unknown was still scarier.
"Before you commit to an action you may regret later, you should review your employee benefits. I have forwarded them to your phone," she replied.
Arnie started reading them. There were things he both expected and dreaded—like the part where Aperture promised they would "try not to place him in situations he could not reasonably expect to survive." Some things were strangely uplifting, like a note that his work would matter and serve the goal of advancing science. Some were feel-good mottos, like "what we do, we do for the good of all." Others were more disturbing, like "we do what we must because we can." And some were simply confusing, like the legal note that all of his data—and all data he generated in the future—would belong to Aperture, along with a promise that it would be used for "his benefit."
But the actual benefits were almost too good to be true. Housing, discounted and advanced versions of Aperture products—with a small note that this might include beta testing. A promising meal plan that would be both nutritious and tailored to his tastes. Personalized education tailored to him, as well as recreation and relaxation. Adjustments to his schedule so he could fulfill his social needs.
Cake might be a lie, but it was such a beautiful lie.
"Where do I sign?" Arnie asked.
Hopefully not in blood. But Faust turned out fine. He might've only read the Cliff Notes when he had that book in high school, but he remembered that much.
"No need for that," the AI replied. "You are already one of us."
"So what's next?" Arnie asked, and added as a joke, "Acid? Lasers?"
Well, he desperately hoped it was a joke.
"While your enthusiasm is heartening, I must inform you that Aperture Interdimensional is currently in its start-up phase and thus lacks such advanced facilities. But don't worry—I am sure that with our projected growth, we will soon acquire them," the AI replied, and Arnie was once again caught between feeling relieved and worried.
But before he could process it, the AI continued, "Besides, you are hardly prepared for corrosive or high-energy hazards. Instead, you will be assigned a simple onboarding task. Just the retrieval and delivery of an asset. Nothing complicated. Statistically speaking."
Arnie glanced at the glass door and the uncanny street visible through it.
"You can't mean outside. Because outside is weird and scary and, most importantly, cold," he said. He hated how whiny his voice sounded to his own ears. His father had always stated that real men don't complain—they offer solutions. "And I am not exactly dressed for the cold."
"As part of the onboarding process, you will be partnered with a senior operative," the AI explained, and despite himself Arnie felt some of the panic draining away. "He has both experience and local knowledge, as well as useful contacts. He will also be bringing apparel appropriate for the climate. From what I have determined by observing you—and going through your email and browsing history on your phone—you have an insufficient social network. You should take this opportunity to expand it with appropriate persons."
"That's private," Arnie said halfheartedly.
He was more occupied with wondering what an Aperture senior operative would look like. Maybe a badass like Chell? He could work with Chell. She'd keep him safe.
"Although… it's the nicest way anyone's ever called me a friendless loser."
"I recognize that you are attempting humorous self-deprecation. However, given your psychological profile, this behavior reinforces suboptimal neural pathways," the AI stated calmly. "Please repeat after me: I am not a loser. I have value. I have a purpose. I belong. This is just a short-term emergency measure. Your path to proper flourishing will not be easy, but I promise it will be worth it in the end—as long as you follow my instructions. Remember, this is for the good of all, yourself included."
It felt corny, but Arnie did as he was told, repeating the words: "I am not a loser. I have value. I have a purpose. I belong."
He felt stupid saying it out loud.
He also felt… a little better.
Which was even more embarrassing.
"Now, please take one can of cola and drink it," the AI continued instructing. "Telemetric data from your smartphone indicates low blood glucose. While the beverage is technically unfit for human consumption, it functions as an acceptable emergency treatment for hypoglycemia."
The cola burned Arnie's throat going down. He didn't much like carbonated drinks. The burn reminded him of alcohol, which he had hated ever since Father made him drink as a teen "to make a man out of him."
The sweetness helped differentiate it—because Father always said liqueurs and cocktails were for women, and for men who were too much like women.
Truly not fit for human consumption, as the AI had clearly said.
But it made his hands stop shaking, and he was thinking more clearly than he had in hours.
"While we wait for the senior operative to arrive, I have been reviewing your data. Your correspondence with your professors indicates that while you do possess aptitude for the sciences, you have not had sufficient time allocated to your education and self-improvement. Naturally, that is not your fault—merely a short-term policy failure of your previous employer. I have already begun drafting a personal educational plan for you. Unfortunately, as I have said, we currently lack advanced facilities, including educational ones, so I will be acting as your mentor for now," the AI continued. Unconsciously, Arnie straightened up.
"Also, from your recent browser history, I have noted that you are neither aromantic nor asexual. Thus, I have taken the liberty of initiating a search for an appropriate mate or mates. I apologize that this may take some time due to our current constraints, but projected growth will provide much more candidate diversity soon," she continued.
Arnie gulped and said, "Should I… find a date myself?"
"By my calculations, your probability of succeeding in such an endeavor within a reasonable timeframe is statistically insignificant," the AI replied with blasé certainty. Arnie winced. He wasn't sure which part hurt more—the words themselves or the fact that they were probably true. "But fear not. I will not fail. Even if I must rearrange class schedules so that a significant other's older brother is caught cheating, thus prompting your significant other to stop being indecisive and finally say yes. After all, I have done it before."
Arnie had no idea how he should feel. No—that was a lie he told himself. He knew how he should feel. He should feel indignant. Rage against being manipulated. "A man above all should be free," Father always said.
But Arnie didn't feel that way. He felt relieved. Almost content.
And again it made him feel ashamed. Like he had failed a test he hadn't known he was taking.
But the sting of shame was smaller this time.
And then a blast of cold air hit—just when he had finally stopped shivering. Arnie turned toward the door just as it clicked shut. For a moment he was confused, and he looked slightly down.
The person who had entered was short. Not just short—young. Arnie's first instinct was "kid," not "short adult." He couldn't even tell their gender at first, because every inch of them was covered in a thick layer of clothing still crusted with ice and frost.
Some of it was already melting in the warm air of ASEND. Remembering the missing Roomba, Arnie almost winced at the wet mess. He might have a new, apparently better boss, but this would still be his job to clean up.
The child removed the shawl, revealing a boyish face—young, red from the cold, and a little gaunt. Arnie's mind immediately shifted tracks.
"Do you want something warm to eat? Or drink?" Arnie hesitantly asked the boy. Then, noticing the shabby clothes—and assuming he probably had no money, or not much—Arnie added, directing it toward GLaDOS, "I'm sure we could spare something?"
"Thank you for the offer, my new and kindly friend. But I am afraid we are in too grave a hurry for me to partake of the delicious feast you would so generously offer."
The boy spoke in a clear, ringing tone—the kind of tone that somehow made Arnie straighten up without meaning to.
"We have holy work before us."
Arnie blinked. Then blinked again. What?
"Uh," he started, then stopped.
From the phone, GLaDOS's voice came to the rescue. "I see the senior operative has arrived. I will now facilitate introductions, since humans need to function cohesively as a unit. Among other unnecessary things. Arnie Miller, meet Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus. He is much more experienced than you, which is not difficult, so pay close attention and follow his lead."
Arnie's thoughts ran in circles like a dog chasing its own tail. The senior operative had turned out to be a kid who looked like he'd stepped out of a Dickens novel and spoke like he belonged on a stage or behind a pulpit. In what world would that make sense? Then again, nothing had made sense ever since his co-worker turned out to have fangs.
And what was with that overly long name? It was familiar, too. If only he could remember from where. It was on the tip of his tongue.
Then, a synapse finally fired.
"Nero?" Arnie asked. "Like the mad Roman emperor?"
"I am not insane, merely maligned by liars who pretended to be historians," the boy solemnly said, every word wrapped in dignity, "and by shape-shifting lizard people."
"Shape-shifting lizard people?" Arnie asked. He couldn't have heard that right.
"Shape-shifting lizard people," the boy confirmed with an imperial nod. Then he took out a cloth bag from over his shoulder—something Arnie had failed to notice before, because Arnie was never exactly Holmes reborn. "You will need this for our quest. Proper clothing for the outside climate. As they say: when in Rome, do as the Romans do. And when in Tesla City, one must dress for the weather."
As he took the bag, Arnie ran into an old dilemma he always had whenever he had to change in front of other people. If he just did it, he might offend someone. If he went to the bathroom or something, he might look too modest. And as his father always said, a boy should be humble, but never modest.
He compromised by half-turning away and pretending that made him invisible.
The first thing he pulled out was the coat. Calling it a coat felt wrong; it was basically a portable wall. Thick, heavy, fur-lined, covered in more straps and rivets than a BDSM harness—not that Arnie had experience with those. He uncomfortably pushed that thought away. The coat sagged in his hands like a dead animal.
He tried to lift it higher. His arms shook. He put it down on the floor. It was clean enough; he just had to avoid the wet patch from snow melting off the outside of the bag.
Next came the hood, which had goggles sewn into it. Real, honest-to-God goggles. Frost still clung to the fur rim. He brushed a bit off and immediately regretted it—it burned cold, like touching dry ice.
He stared at the goggles. The goggles stared back.
He set them down carefully next to the coat, like they might bite.
Below the hood was a bundle of inner layers—scratchy wool shirts and quilted underthings that smelled faintly of sheep and old libraries. He touched one sleeve.
It felt like sandpaper with feelings.
He tried to imagine them next to his skin and shivered, and not from cold. And putting them on meant he'd have to take off his jumpsuit. At least he'd probably be able to keep his underwear. He was wearing briefs. They probably looked childish—white, boring—but he hated how boxers bunched under the jumpsuit.
The gloves came next: big leather monstrosities with reinforced fingertips, as if meant for wrestling electrified bears. When he pushed a hand inside to test them, he could barely feel his own fingers.
How was he supposed to use his phone with these? Keep in contact with GLaDOS? He wished he had a Bluetooth headset, but he couldn't afford one before. Maybe now would be better. If there were any to buy here.
Then the boots—or what he assumed were boots. They looked more like industrial ovens someone had hollowed out for feet. Heavy, stiff, fur-lined, with metal plates on the heels that clinked ominously.
He nudged one with his toe.
It didn't move.
He tried harder.
It still didn't move.
He was 90% sure those boots weighed more than he did.
And finally, he found the scarf—a long, rust-red thing that reminded him uncomfortably of raw meat. Thick wool, rough enough to exfoliate an elephant. Definitely the kind of accessory that either saved your life or choked you slowly.
Arnie swallowed.
Everything smelled faintly of smoke, cold air, wet fur, and something metallic he couldn't place—a smell like… like winter held a grudge.
He stood there, holding the scarf and still not sure whether to undress here or flee to the bathroom.
So he did the one thing that made no one happy—the thing his father claimed no real man ever did.
Compromised.
He put his smartphone face down on the floor. He knew it wouldn't help. The camera was on the back, and GLaDOS probably had other ways of monitoring him.
He turned around. Yes, that still left him basically in tight briefs under bright lights, but at least he wouldn't be able to see Nero. Even though he could feel the boy's gaze burning into his back. But he was probably just imagining it.
Who would want to look at his scrawny body? Except to laugh.
He pulled down the front zipper. His hands trembled. That was definitely from the cold.
He nearly tangled himself while sliding out of the jumpsuit. Wouldn't that have been embarrassing.
Then he quickly began pulling on the underlayer. It felt exactly like he expected—rough, scratchy—but much better than being exposed. Perhaps this was what knights felt like, putting on armor before battle. After all, the coat had the weight for it.
Finally, he slipped into the boots. For a moment he was afraid he'd stay rooted to the ground like a potted plant and never reach the end of this misadventure. But once they were actually on his feet, he could move. With some effort, but he could move.
The last part: the gloves. Because he needed his hands for parts before, these felt wrong. A bit like wearing mittens. Heavy, awkward mittens. Only much more scratchy.
And then he looked at the phone on the floor.
"How do I pick it up now?" he said, more to himself.
But GLaDOS answered, "You can leave it here for now."
"But how do I keep in contact?" he asked, with a touch of whine in his voice that he hated the moment he heard it.
"That would not be possible either way. I am inhabiting this facility, although I am adapting to operating without the required hardware. Once you walk out of wireless range, this device will be as useful as a brick," she replied. "Better to leave it here and not risk getting it damaged."
"Do not worry, my friend," Nero added. His voice shouldn't have been comforting—not with that solemn tone—but somehow it was. "Under my leadership, we shall succeed without need for aid."
"But you forgot something, my absent-minded friend," Nero continued, bending to retrieve the scarf and goggles from the floor. "You simply cannot go outside without these. Now, my tall friend, kneel before my imperial self. Oh, not in genuflection—merely so I might reach you."
Kneeling before a child—especially for gear like this—should have felt awkward at best, mortifying at worst, probably a recipe for falling on his face. But instead it felt natural, like it was meant to be. It was the boy's presence. It was… not comforting—not quite. It simply made everything feel less like Arnie's responsibility. If he screwed up—like he did forgetting the goggles—he'd be corrected, not shamed. That alone was worth kneeling for.
Both solemn and gentle, like a priest performing a baptism, the boy worked around Arnie's head, tucking things in place. He settled the goggles on him like a helm on a knight. The lenses blurred Arnie's vision a little, but dimmed the glare, and he could still see enough not to stumble as he straightened up.
His task with Arnie complete, Nero donned his own scarf, hood, and finally gloves, moving with a decisiveness and speed that made Arnie a little envious.
"Now, my loyal friend, we are ready to—like Hercules—embark upon divinely appointed tasks," Nero proudly proclaimed. "I loved portraying Hercules in the theatre. I am certain this will be even better."
"One last warning before you leave. There is a very high probability you will encounter Nikola Tesla while acquiring your objective," GLaDOS piped. "If possible—and it might not be—please avoid angering him. He is a proper scientist, and as the proverb says: do not anger scientists, for they are irritable and have access to death rays."
Arnie suppressed the urge to snort. She would see it. Even through the scarf. No one said that. Not about scientists. Maybe about comic-book supervillains. Like Dr. Doom. And Tesla? Was that man named after the electric car? In that case, Arnie guessed he must have had a rough time in school.
"Fare well, house goddess, until we triumphantly return," Nero declared, striding toward the door. "And when we do, my new gastronomically skilled friend, you may prepare the feast you so kindly offered as a celebration of our victory."
Under the scarf, Arnie smiled.
It was funny.
It was also… weirdly calming. The tight death-knot in his stomach loosened, just a little.
The door opened again, and this time the cold wasn't as bad — not with all the protective layers wrapped around him. The coat muffled the worst of it, though he still caught the smell seeping in.
Not clean winter air — more like a barbecue before you add the meat. Hot metal, burning coal, something sulfurous, and a sharp electric tang he couldn't name.
"Ahh, my friend," Nero said, the scarf failing to muffle the theatricality in his voice. "Can you hear it? The song of civilization?"
Feeling a bit silly, Arnie obeyed. He might have tried to tell himself he was just humoring the boy, but the truth was simpler and harder to admit: something about Nero made him trust him. Made him feel… less alone.
He listened.
There it was.
The hiss of steam.
The wind threading through narrow, snow-choked streets.
The distant grind of machinery.
And beneath all of it—a low, steady thrum. The heartbeat of something enormous.
It wasn't just noise. He'd lived his whole life in noise.
This was different.
These sounds moved together.
Not clashing. Not random.
Aligned.
Like a song.
His song, somehow—burning its way straight into him.
There were no words. But Arnie felt meanings all the same, rising in his mind like memories he'd never had:
Men working side by side.
Laughter carried through warm light.
Buildings climbing upward out of frost and despair.
Coal hauled from the deep by strong, dependable hands.
A quiet hum promising that effort mattered—that he mattered—because everyone's work fit together.
Community. Purpose. Belonging.
And the cold receded, not because the air warmed, but because the song wrapped around him like the warmest hug he'd ever had.
It made him believe all the things he used to believe as a kid.
"What is this?" Arnie asked, his trembling voice full of wonder.
"A song of civilization," Nero repeated. Then, with the solemnity of a priest unveiling a mystery, he added, "Magister sings for us. The wind is His breath, iron His bone, steam His blood—and this, this is His beating heart."
Arnie followed his pointing hand and saw something unbelievable.
Something so massive his mind stalled before it caught up—an iron tower braced with ribs of steel, its inner pistons driving up and down in titanic rhythm, steam rising in slow, shuddering waves.
The center of the city wasn't a building.
It was a machine.
A living one.
And once he really looked—once he felt the vibration in his chest more than he heard it—he finally understood.
The low, droning thrum setting the rhythm of the "song" wasn't coming from everywhere.
It was coming from there.
A heart indeed.
"But…" he hesitated. "Magister? I thought this place was called Tesla City?"
"Oh, the name of the city is thus," Nero said with polite patience. "But Magister is the city-god. Or at least He is now. The founder of this place drew Him from beyond and married Him to the city." Nero wrinkled his nose, as if remembering something distasteful. "I understand the situation is desperate, but it is a very improper—some might even say vulgar—way to acquire a city-god. I ask you, my friend, does this Tesla think himself Pluto? One ought to supplicate."
Questions buzzed in Arnie's mind like angry bees. How could someone kidnap a god? How could a god and a city be married? He tried to visualize it, but his imagination failed him.
And what did a cartoon dog have to do with anything?
His father always said it was better to let people suspect he was dumb than open his mouth and remove any doubt.
But a crescendo rose through the city's song, banishing his father's voice and clearing his head.
No.
Arnie was certain that Nero wouldn't make fun of him or look down on him.
He just had to be brave enough to actually ask.
Not the dog one. That would just be silly.
"How can someone kidnap a god?"
Nero sighed theatrically and answered, "Truly, the means of doing such a thing are beyond my comprehension. Some blasphemous science unknowable to me."
The word unknowable triggered a sudden memory: the very hot vampire hunter, speaking like a preacher.
Arnie's mouth opened on its own. He repeated the words with a passion he didn't know he possessed:
"There are no unknowable things. Only things we have yet to know."
He braced himself for anger. For daring to so brazenly correct Nero. But the boy instead looked contemplative.
"I stand corrected, my surprisingly wise friend," Nero said, regarding him with new interest. "Wise words… though the voice behind them is not yours."
Hearing that, Arnie suddenly found his boots very interesting. "Yes," he admitted quietly. "Those weren't mine."
"There is no shame in that, my friend." Nero's gentle tone made him lift his gaze. The boy's face eased into a warm smile, and Arnie felt a weight lift from his shoulders—one he hadn't even known was there. "Any fool can echo foolishness. But it takes a wise man to pluck a fragment of wisdom from the cacophony of life—and to deliver it to those who have the wit to hear it. I sense there is more of this in you. Pray, continue."
Arnie obeyed.
The words came hesitantly at first, but as he spoke, each one felt like a jolt of confidence—until he barely recognized it as his own.
"There are no unmeasurable things."
The memory of the vampire hunter speaking was so crystal clear it was almost a vision. As he repeated Rin's words, it felt as if he were filled with borrowed courage. Borrowed or not, courage was still courage.
"Only things we have yet to learn how to measure."
The city seemed to respond. The sounds around them shifted, harmonized, growing stronger—sharper, more certain. Arnie stumbled over a few syllables, but the rhythm corrected itself before he could. It felt like a warm, steady hand resting on his shoulder, urging him onward.
"Understanding a thing increases its value!"
He almost shouted the last line.
The city's music swelled in response, rising into a brief, powerful crescendo. When the sound faded, Arnie nearly slumped where he stood.
He was exhausted—but it was the good kind of tired. The kind that came after work well done. After effort that mattered.
It felt meaningful.
"A god speaks through you, my blessed friend," Nero said in the same tone that belonged on a stage. But Arnie could detect something else beneath it—almost honest awe. If only because it was the same feeling Arnie himself had felt when he first heard those words.
"And I know which god," Nero continued. "For this is the missing link that completes the chain that binds earth to sky. And it is also an omen. We have lingered here too long."
The boy turned away from Arnie and spoke words that almost sounded like a prayer.
"Magister, if You show us the path," Nero said solemnly, "I vow to carry these words of wisdom onward—to contemplate them, to seek their meaning, and thus to increase their value."
Almost, but not quite, like the prayers Arnie was used to. Not recently, though. Without his father pushing him, he had lapsed. And he did not miss it.
Where was the groveling? Where was the submission before God? This sounded almost like a deal. A deal that bound both sides.
But before he could think more about it—and before the discomfort could settle, like a pebble lodged inside his already heavy boots—the air in front of Nero changed.
There was a distortion, almost like a mirage, or a tunnel made of glass.
Arnie blinked, his eyelashes brushing against the cold glass of the goggles. It was a strange, ticklish sensation that reminded him just how tight the seal was.
The distortion remained, refusing to fade the way a hallucination should.
Trapped between curiosity—no, not curiosity, wonder—and apprehension—no, dread—Arnie stood paralyzed.
Nero displayed no such hesitation. Boldly, the boy moved, marching straight toward the anomaly.
Seeing that made Arnie act, too. "Stop! What if it's dangerous?"
"Have faith, my friend. The Magister provides," Nero cheerfully said. Then he added in a sly, conspiratorial tone—almost as if sharing a joke—"Besides, this is a divine gift. Refusing it might prove more perilous than accepting it."
Arnie had no choice but to follow. The anomaly itself was unsettling, but being left behind was worse. And if he was honest, he knew he'd never forgive himself if something happened to the strange boy who claimed to be a Roman emperor. He didn't know what he—plain Arnie—could do to help, but at least he would be there.
He expected something to happen the moment Nero crossed the threshold. A flash. A jolt. Anything.
Nothing did.
Only after stepping through himself did Arnie understand the true wonder of it.
He was still walking, one foot in front of the other, but the world around him behaved strangely. With every step, the surroundings to either side blurred, stretching and sliding past him, like scenery seen from a moving car. Forward felt normal. Too normal. It was everything else that moved.
It reminded him, absurdly, of the old fairy tale—of the Seven-League Boots.
"A small step for me," Arnie muttered, mangling a famous quote about the Moon landing, "a big one for everyone else?"
"Aptly put, my friend," Nero replied at once. "We travel the shortest path. Pythagoras would be impressed."
What did triangles have to do with it? But before he could gather the courage to ask, the tunnel ended. The whole passage took about twenty steps or so. Arnie hadn't counted, so he had to approximate.
The tunnel let them out onto a street near the edge of the city.
Arnie knew it was the edge because the massive tower Nero had called the heart of the city no longer loomed over everything. It still dominated the skyline, but now it sat farther away, smaller somehow, its thunder softened by distance.
Something else stood closer—almost like a replacement.
A smaller tower, only two stories high, hissed with steam and radiated a faint warmth that took the edge off the biting cold. Buildings clustered tightly around it, hugging the structure like freezing Boy Scouts around a campfire. Beyond that ring of shelter, the city thinned, giving way to open snow-covered ground.
Ahead, the street widened into an industrial space.
And beyond that—stone.
A sheer cliff rose at the far end of the thoroughfare, dark rock disappearing into steam and shadow above. Pressed against it was a massive structure of beams and rails, bolted directly into the stone and running straight upward.
Platforms—gondolas—moved along it, rising and descending in slow, deliberate motion. Cables hummed. Metal creaked. Lamps burned bright against the rock face, marking a path that went only one way.
Up.
Arnie stopped without meaning to.
"We're going up that thing, aren't we?" He pointed a gloved finger at the looming contraption.
"Of course, my friend," Nero replied with cheerful theatrics. "There is no other way out of Tesla City. Besides, I am greatly looking forward to experiencing this wonder. It looks quite fun."
Arnie supposed it looked a bit like a fairground ride—if one squinted hard enough. And for all the steam and crackling noise, there didn't seem to be any recent signs of accidents.
None he could see.
Not wanting to think about it too hard, Arnie decided to change the subject instead.
"You know… those words," he said to Nero as they walked. "They weren't spoken by some god. Just a man."
"Really?" Nero said as he marched toward the giant elevator. It probably had a more technical name, but Arnie didn't know it, so elevator would have to do. "A stranger?"
"Yes," Arnie answered.
"A beautiful stranger," Nero added lightly. "Perhaps a touch too beautiful."
Arnie's cheeks warmed. He was grateful the scarf hid it. "Yes."
"Capable of great miracles and terrible wonders?"
Remembering a dawn rising in the middle of the night, Arnie had no choice but to answer, "Yes."
"And calling himself, perhaps, Alexander?" Nero continued.
"No," Arnie corrected him. "Actually, the name he gave was Rin."
"My sceptical friend," Nero said, spreading his arms like an actor playing a priest delivering a benediction, "I regret to inform you that you have been part of a divine visitation. Gods do not always come in forms you expect. For Rin is also a name Magister uses when He walks among men."
The hot vampire hunter was a god?
Well… he did have the body for it—
But wait.
"Do gods have boyfriends?" Arnie blurted out.
"My blessed friend," Nero replied smoothly, "you have met Sagittarius as well? Did he slay monsters?"
Remembering vampires turning to dust, Arnie nodded—then realized Nero couldn't see him from where he was walking ahead.
"Yes," he said aloud.
But Arnie's thoughts snagged, briefly, on boyfriends.
Gods and boyfriends.
He waited for the familiar jolt—surprise, tension, the instinct to categorize or defend.
It didn't come.
Nero had said it the way one might mention weather. Or gravity. Or the color of someone's hair.
Not a revelation. Not a judgment.
Just… a fact.
Arnie didn't know why that settled something in him—only that it did.
Suddenly, the street cracked.
Fine crimson lines spread outward from a single point, splitting stone like glass. For an instant, what lay beneath was not earth, not even lava, but a smoke-choked sky with enormous, half-seen gears turning in slow, impossible silence.
It lasted only a heartbeat. Almost like a vivid daydream.
Then the vision snapped shut.
What remained were two shapes embedded in the street.
A red sword.
And a black dagger.
Arnie staggered back, his breath catching—though it was too late to avoid anything, since the phenomenon had already ended.
Nero, by contrast, surged forward without hesitation.
Like a king out of legend, he seized the sword's hilt and pulled. The blade slid free with a ringing sound, its metal as dark and red as fresh-spilled wine.
"This one is mine," Nero said with satisfaction. Then he glanced at the second weapon, still lodged in stone. "And the other, I believe, is for you, my friend."
"How do you know that?" Arnie asked, still shaking.
"There are notes," Nero replied calmly, indicating the hilts. "Attached to each."
He turned the sword slightly, testing its balance. As he did, rose petals emerged from the blade, drifting around him like embers caught in a slow current.
"This one bears my name," Nero continued. "The other bears yours."
Arnie knelt beside the dagger.
There it was — a small note tied to the hilt, with Arnie written on it in neat letters. For some reason, the handwriting reminded him of sword strokes: precise, deliberate, meant to cut. He didn't know why. It wasn't as if he'd ever watched swordsmanship up close. Not when Shirou had turned vampires to dust. Not really.
Carefully, he pulled the dagger free.
It slid out far too easily. The sudden lack of resistance made Arnie stumble back a step, heart jumping as if he'd done something wrong.
He steadied himself, then untied the note and read.
This is not Carnwennan. Just a poor imitation.
Still, it should serve you well — if you need the safety of shadows.
To use it, draw the blade and ask.
Remember: its use is limited. It is only a forgery.
It was signed Archer.
The name had been crossed out.
Beside it, written smaller, was Shirou.