COVENANT BASE — JARON'S OFFICE
Jaron stood by the window, looking out at nothing. His reflection stared back at him—tired, older than he should look.
Ezra stood behind him, massive and silent, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Etta Agbo is too specific," Jaron said. "Considering that's where Ruth and Rachel were three days ago. Do you think he's actively looking for them, or this is just a coincidence?"
Ezra was quiet for a moment.
"It's better to keep eyes on them. They're in the South-South now."
Jaron turned. "Do you think they're getting their memories back?"
"Hopefully not." Ezra's voice was low, rumbling. "But you never know with memories. Maybe that's why they're being tracked slowly."
"Are you going on this one alone, or are you taking a team?"
"Ivie and David. In the next few days. We'll leave."
Jaron's brow furrowed. "David? What if the mission escalates?"
Ezra didn't answer.
"What city are Ruth and Rachel in?" Jaron asked.
Ezra stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned and left the room without a word.
Jaron watched him go.
DAVID'S HOUSE — 3 DAYS LATER — MORNING
David was deep in the grey place.
Not awake. Not asleep. Somewhere between. He heard his name being called—soft at first, then louder, then urgent.
David.
David, wake up.
David!
He opened his eyes.
CJ stood at the foot of his bed. Jane stood beside him. Both of them were calling his name, their voices overlapping, their faces blurring together.
He scrambled backward, slipped, and fell off the bed.
He hit the floor hard.
When he looked up, CJ was gone. Jane was gone.
Praise and Jonathan were standing in his doorway, laughing.
David blinked. They were in casual clothes—no uniforms, no gauntlets, no crossbow. Just jeans and t-shirts and the kind of ease he rarely saw on them.
"What the—"
"You should have seen your face," Jonathan said.
"I thought I was dreaming."
"You were." Praise smiled. "Now you're awake."
Joy walked in behind them, also in casual clothes. She was wearing a simple hoodie and joggers, her cornrows pulled back. No suit. No driver's posture. She looked almost... normal.
David's mother followed her into the room, her hands clasped, her face glowing.
"David! Your new friends from work are so lovely." She beamed at Praise and Jonathan. "They've been waiting for you for hours. You didn't tell me you were going out today!"
David sat up, still on the floor. "Going out?"
Joy crossed her arms. "We're going to Glitch Paintball and Arcade. On Precious Palm Royal Road."
"Paintball?"
"You've never been?" Jonathan asked.
"No."
"Even better."
David looked at Praise. She shrugged. He looked at Jonathan. He was already heading for the door. He looked at Joy. She was still standing there, waiting.
His mother clapped her hands. "Go! Have fun! Take pictures!"
She left the room, still smiling.
David stood up slowly. His body still ached from Ague's sickness, but the green vomit had stopped two days ago. He felt almost human.
"Is this a new mission?" he asked.
"It's a day off," Joy said.
"A day off?"
"You heard me."
She picked up a glass of water from his nightstand and emptied it over his head.
David sputtered. Water dripped down his face, his neck, his shirt.
"That's for vomiting on me," Joy said. "Twice."
David wiped his eyes. "Fair."
Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder. "Get dressed. Two people are already waiting for us at the place."
"Who?"
No one answered. They just left the room.
11:45 AM
Joy drove. Praise sat in the front. David and Jonathan sat in the back.
The city scrolled past the windows—Benin in the late morning, hot and loud and alive. Street vendors called out to passing cars. Keke riders weaved through traffic. The air smelled of petrol and fried plantains and something that might have been hope.
"I've never played paintball before," David admitted.
"Neither have I," Jonathan said.
"Then why are we doing this?"
"Because we need to remember we're human." Praise didn't turn around. Her voice was quiet. "Before we forget completely."
David didn't have an answer for that.
GLITCH PAINTBALL AND ARCADE — 12:00 PM
The building was loud.
Bass thumped from somewhere inside. Laughter spilled out of the entrance. A group of guys in oversized t-shirts were loitering by the door, arguing about a football match.
Joy parked. They walked in.
The lobby was bright—neon lights, arcade cabinets, the smell of burgers and adrenaline. A counter at the far end. A sign with prices. And waiting by the entrance, two figures, one familiar and one David hadn't seen in months.
"Israel."
Israel nodded. He was wearing dark joggers and a simple shirt, his hair fleshly picked out. He looked calm. He always looked calm.
Beside him, Jane.
She was wearing old jeans and a hoodie. Her white-tipped hair was pulled back. She wasn't looking at David.
"Jane."
She glanced at him. Nodded once.
"David."
That was it.
Praise stepped between them. "We were tired of hearing you say her name in your sleep. So we asked Israel to bring her."
David stared at her. "You what?"
"You needed to see her. Not to get back together. Just to see her. Talk. Remember that she's a person, not a dream."
Jane shifted her weight. "I came because Israel asked me to. That's all."
David nodded. "Omo."
The silence stretched.
Joy clapped her hands. "Alright. Let's play."
The staff handed out gear—thick vests, masks, markers. The briefing was short: don't shoot the face, don't blind fire, call your hits.
The field was an arena of inflatable bunkers—blue and yellow, scattered across a dirt floor. The air smelled of paint and compressed air and competition.
The teams were split.
Team A. Team B
Jane. David.
Jonathan. Joy.
Praise. Israel.
David looked at his team. Joy was already checking her marker with the focus of someone who had held a gun before. Israel was turning his over in his hands, confused.
"David." Joy didn't look up. "Stay behind me. Israel, stay behind him. I'll handle the shooting."
"I can shoot," David said.
"You've never played paintball."
"Neither have you."
Joy looked at him. Her eyes were calm. "I've held guns before. Not paintball. Guns."
David didn't argue.
Across the field, Jane was already behind a bunker, her marker raised, her eyes scanning. Jonathan was stretching. Praise was nowhere to be seen.
The whistle blew.
Joy moved first.
She sprinted to the center bunker, fired twice, and ducked. Orange paint splattered behind her. David followed, staying low, staying behind.
"Where's Israel?"
"He said he was flanking."
"He's never played before."
"He's a philosopher. He thinks flanking means thinking about flanks."
Joy fired again. A yellow streak hit the bunker beside Jonathan's head.
"Come out, Jonathan!"
"No!"
"I'll find you!"
Jonathan peeked. Joy shot. Orange exploded across his chest. He stared at it, then at her, then at the sky.
"I'm out."
"I know."
Jonathan walked off the field. Joy was smiling.
On the other side, Praise was hunting.
She moved silently, from bunker to bunker, never staying in one place. Israel had tried to flank—he was now hiding behind a barrel, covered in blue paint, not sure what had hit him.
"I'm out," he called.
"You've been out," Praise's voice came from somewhere. "For thirty seconds."
"I didn't feel it."
"That's the point."
Jane and David were the last two.
They circled each other through the bunkers, neither shooting, neither speaking. The rest of the teams watched from the sidelines.
"Just shoot him, Jane!" Jonathan called.
"She won't," Joy said.
"She will," Praise said.
Jane rounded a corner. David was there, marker down, mask off.
"What are you doing?"
"I can't shoot you."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to."
Jane stared at him. Then she raised her marker and shot him in the chest.
Blue paint exploded across his shirt.
"I can," she said.
She turned and walked off the field.
Team A won.
2:30 PM
The paintball match ended. Everyone was exhausted, covered in paint, and hungry.
They moved inside.
The arcade was loud—beeping cabinets, thumping bass, the chatter of strangers. Joy challenged Jonathan to a racing game. He lost. She demanded a rematch. He lost again. She didn't smile, but her eyes were bright.
Praise found a shooter game and was quietly setting a high score. Israel stood behind her, watching, not speaking.
Jane and David sat at a table in the corner. Neither spoke.
"You're still sick," she said finally.
"Getting better."
"You look tired."
"I'm always tired."
She nodded. "I know."
They sat in silence.
4:30 PM
The food arrived—burgers, chicken, chips, cold drinks. Everyone gathered around a long table, too tired to be anything but honest.
"Joy, you're terrifying," Jonathan said.
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"I know."
"She shot me three times," Israel said. "I didn't even see her."
"That's Praise," David said.
"That's Praise," Praise agreed.
Jane laughed. Not loud. Just enough.
6:30 PM
They drove to Kada Plaza in two cars. Joy drove one. Jonathan drove the other. Praise called shotgun. David sat in the back with Jane.
Neither spoke.
The movie was loud and stupid and exactly what they needed.
When it ended, they walked out into the cooling evening.
"Same time next week?" Jonathan asked.
"No," Joy said.
"Same time never," Praise added.
"Same time maybe," David said.
Jane looked at him.
"Maybe," she said.
They went home.