While the truck was getting fueled up with diesel, Allison had taken Roberto with her to chat with locals. They left the radio on.

Everything the broadcasters had to say had been covered by Social Media’s earlier analyst. Now that DeSean was listening to the crackling drone of another person’s panicked voice, he much preferred the university student’s quirky, buzzy, ditzy approach. The broadcasters beat to death the livestream attack on the President, forcing DeSean to tune it out.

Thankfully, even with his heightened Focus, he found some measure of control. Perhaps even more control over his perceptions than before. It was both uncanny and welcomed.

The Marine Veteran⁠—no, fuck it⁠—the Marine sat on the corner of the tailgate with a rifle in his lap. He would much prefer to rest up. But nobody else but him had to discipline to keep overwatch. Regardless of the optiling soaring above them, someone with the means to fight needed to keep a lookout for the gear.

The remaining university students were in their own depressed world.

Mariah was asleep.

There was Quinton, at least, but he was injured.

The place wasn’t under attack, at least.

The gas station clerk and small gathering of farmers were armed, but they weren’t violent. Anyone of them, if not all of them, might’ve had family that sold their souls to the Lord of Light and Order, however. They could all be a detriment just like the Rileys.

DeSean sighed tiredly. He surveyed the area again, looking up and down in case his minion missed something from its high angle.

McKellen’s Gas Stop had a motel setup, cafeteria, and a small store tailored for farmers, hunters, and outdoorsy types. The buildings had faded puke-green trims and beige walls. It smelled like a mix of diesel and a pig pen.

“You think we can get fertalizer?” Botany asked out of the blue.

Her eyes shone with the zaniness of someone with a Eureka moment. Or a drug obsession that needed a fixing.

“Depends,” DeSean said. “Can you convince the sellers to trade dollars for it?”

Botany checked her phone. “I still have access to my bank. Maybe I can get fertilizer.”

“Maybe.” DeSean shrugged.

“You’re not going to ask what she needs the fertalizer for?” Art History mumbled. “Do we honestly have time to plant a garden right now?”

“Do you know?” DeSean asked.

“I don’t.”

“I have a couple of ideas. One of them is unlikely, but I wouldn’t be against it.” The Marine smirked, and said to the girl, “Go ahead and haggle your heart out.”

Botany muttered a thanks and jumped out. She stumbled, righted herself, and walked at a brisk pace to the shop.

“She’s always been a little weird. Especially when she’s off her meds,” Art History said. “This… this is not good for any of us.”

“Maybe not. But maybe we can make the most out of it.” He stared into Art History’s eyes. “She’s got a crazy idea, but it’s an idea. What ideas you got?”

“Locating the last remaining great works around the world and curating a post-apocalyptic museum.”

“Huh.”

“Silly, right?”

“Ambitious, actually.” DeSean caught sight of movement in the bushes. A doe with her fawn glanced at him before departing the area.

“What was that?”

“Deer,” DeSean answered. “Having more Focus is crazy. That was hundreds of feet away, but the details were crisp for me.”

“You were a sniper, right?” Art History asked. “I can see all of this is rewarding for you. With every… uh… kill… you can improve yourself.”

“Infantry,” DeSean corrected. “Just the everyday rifleman.”

“You come across more of the special forces type.” Art History frowned. “But there’s plenty of works depicting the everyday grunt, so there are stories surrounding that, too.”

“You’re surprisingly talkative,” DeSean said, “for someone without any ideas on how to keep the group alive.”

Lylothia chuckled deeply, reminding the two that she remained perched on the Marine’s shoulder. It wasn’t that he completely forgot about her, but she’d been unusually silent so far. She’s observing us, learning more about us.

“So… other than kicking me while I’m already at my lowest,” Art History said with forcibly plastered smile. “You think they got cigarettes in the store?”

“Yeah,” DeSean answered. “Might want to empty the bank on it all. Chew, too.”

“Why?”

“You can start yourself a racket when nicotine runs dry.”

Art History’s eyes glimmered as the lightbulb flickered in his head. “I could work on my… haggling. When I raise that museum⁠—or would it be a gallery? When I raise that gallery, I’ll need all the salesmen practice I can get.”

He started out of the bed and paused halfway through to look at Hailey.

“I’ll be here,” DeSean reassured.

Art History nodded, jumped down, and fished around his pocket. He came out with a crushed box of cigarettes and a Bic lighter. With a toss, the items soared into DeSean’s grasp.

“Malboro,” DeSean said. “Marlboro Marine comes to mind. I guess I know some art history myself.”

“Since it’s a photograph, it’s technically not a work of art that I ascribe to. Like proper illusrations, you understand? But it is a historical piece nonetheless,” Art History said. “I might not have many of these so-called useful survival skills. But… what I have to offer is more important now than ever.”

“What’s that?” DeSean asked.

“Keeping track of pre-apocalypse stories. Even if it’s only in the area that is historical illustrations. That’s worth something.”

Art History nodded toward DeSean, gave a deeper nod toward Princess Lylothia, and departed for the store.

“Hm, not my particular mortal,” Lylothia said. “But I have a amicable colleague who would fancy him. Princess Danatalia, Ruler of the Thirty-Three Disc of Seventy-Two Hells. She adores the arts, and makes magic with it that can cause great turmoil for her enemies. There are other Hell Princesses who might like him if he proves worth the investment in this game.”

“A game that would see all of us evicted from our home world in four weeks,” DeSean said, lighting up. “Or we get killed by some shiny douchebag.”

The Marine dragged in the sweet, sweet nicotine. He held it in his chest, let it swirl around, then exhaled a long draft. It gave him a heady rushy, reviving him some. His growth in Focus accentuated every wonderful sensation of this terrible, terrible habit.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Lylothia flapped one of her wings to depart the smoke around her. She winkled her little nose. “Finding the chaos portal is a difficult endeavor. And it will be guarded by superior-quality gatekeepers, or higher. Will this group be capable of achieving such a feat? Perhaps you, and the younger mortals, but the rest are⁠—”

“Expendable?” DeSean muttered.

“Do not cut me off.”

For just a moment, he felt rankled. He sensed the princess felt the same. I should just let it pass, honestly. He should.

“There’s a spark of something powerful in every human,” he said.

The princess sighed. “Let me guess, goodness?”

“I supposed, but it’s not in my wheelhouse.”

“What?”

“I mean, it’s not something I’m expert of. Goodness. What I do know is within that dark part of humanity is an instinctive savagery that just needs some coaxing to appear. It comes out easier in some, and harder in others, but it’s there.”

“Summoner, you are speaking with a Hell Princess. I know not the complete works that may touch on our enterprise in this world, but I am familiar with your cultural teachings on what you depict as demons. Let us, for this exercise, consider that I am of the same likeness of your demons. Wouldn’t it be overreaching your bounds to think I can’t coax the heresy out of a saint?”

“Maybe if you weren’t a princess,” DeSean argued.

“Ack! You rude thing!” Lylothia fluttered from his shoulder and scratched him with her little talons. She drew blood, but compared to all his other injuries, it barely registered. Besides, this was pedestrian compared to the real damage she could inflict if she was truly bothered.

It was kind of cute seeing her spazz, though.

Lylothia landed on the side of the bed. She huffed and puffed up her smooth, round cheeks, like a little girl holding close to her tantrum.

DeSean smoked in peace, finishing off the first cigarette before starting on a second. “As I was saying, your awesome, apex, alpha, absolute, amazing power keeps you focused on what’s worthy of your attention.”

“Gimme more compliments,” said the princess. “But continue your explanation.”

“Because your beautiful, brazen, bountiful, brainy, behemoth power is so far above us lowly mortals, you aren’t going to waste time on us. But that’s where you lose out on the potential of those that rise from the ground up.”

“The potential of what?”

“The explosives in the mud.” DeSean smiled at the twisted analogy that came from another Marine. Only men in the pockets of danger for months on end could come up with the most mindbending thoughts and ideas. True philosophy and wonder born from the mud and blood of lands far from home.

“Explosives? In the mud?”

“Yeah, exactly that. Because you have your outfitted, well-supported, extremely funded group of warfighters. Then you have the mud people with some old-war gear and a little ingenuity. And y’know who truly won in the end?”

“The… mud people?”

“The explosives, first. They blew up everything. Then the mud people, because they’re willing to take second as long as the warfighters went home third.”

It didn’t last long, but the scant seconds where the princess’s reaction was pure confusion was more enjoyable for DeSean than it ought to be. If he said the same thing to a regular person, he would probably get different reactions, or be looked as crazy. But the princess was truly trying to understand the analogy.

Truly, Marines were quite genius creatures. There’s secret power in eating crayons.

DeSean smirked.

“I find this conversation a departure from the main topic of the matter,” she declared moodily. “You need to get stronger faster. You need stronger allies. I recommend finding safety, then sending away the excess mortals. The angry girl, and her brother, they could stay. Perhaps the one deemed as the most sociable, she could be kept if you heal her to good health. She would make for a decent partner to sait your lust, if you are high of such. At least until I better prepare you to summon succubi that could handle the matter with greater expertise.”

DeSean finished his second cigarette. He hesitated on the third. This conversation requires a third. He lit up again.

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

Lylothia huffed. “I could make this a favor.”

“I would do it if you do.”

“But you do not agree.” She gave him the side-eye. “Would you even burden yourself with the artsy one? Perhaps the botanical mortal might have some use, but the artsy one along with the aged female are burdens. Burdens should be dropped.”

DeSean glanced over at the emerging crowd of farmers leaving the cafeteria. In their midst was Allison. She had the people enraptured by her words of community, belief, and good Missourian trust. Roberto stayed close to her, half puppy, half guard dog, but just as caught in Allison’s serene nature as the rest of the people here.

“You’re a Hell Princess of war, right?”

“Indeed, I am.”

“So, diplomacy isn’t your thing.”

“My might warns those to follow through with diplomacy when engaging me.”

“I don’t have your complete might,” DeSean said. “So, I want to keep my options open. And those options include people who are abnormal for situations like this.” An infantry unit is as good as the Marines who support us. Not all Marines are dedicated strictly to street-to-street fighting.

Lylothia frowned. “Fine, then. Let us speak of this later when the time comes that I am proven correct.”

“You are as petty as you are pretty, princess.” DeSean chuckled.

The fiendish ruler gave him a suspicious look. “I’ll let you have some humor at my expense, my dear. But when my time comes to find humor at your expense, I shall laugh deeply. Let it be know that I am quite fair.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Now… do tell me how far along have you gotten on your Status Tablet. We might not have time to discuss things now, but when you settle in later, we will have lessons tonight. I won’t care if you’re tired, either.”

Oh, joy.

DeSean was excited for it, but also a little putoff. Sleep would be wonderful tonight. But dark magic lessons under the tutelage of a demon princess sounded a little more alluring. It’d been a while since he brought up his Status Tablet, too.

DeSean Dante Solomon (Basic Human)

Records: [Chaos Marked], [Great Defense Leader]

Main Path: [Locked]

Skills: [Talented Summoning (Great Passive)]

Od Level: 89 (+15)

Strength: 6

Agility: 7 (+5)

Endurance: 7 (+5)

Focus: 23 (+5)

Attunement: 46

Free Od: 12

It would be nice if he could share it. The next best thing he could do was reiterate what he saw. He had a subdued smile on his face as Lylothia broke into cheer! She realized he had enough to acquire his main path.

“This is most excellent! You’re are doing so well, my dear.” The princess twirled. “To have an annotation to your Records this early into the game is great. The System recognizes your efforts and abilities as being abnormal of your status quality. And you didn’t tell me you’ve secured a Skill last night! With more practice, we might be able to get you two more Skills before you become a Pathtaker. Then you'll truly become a force that can level up and acquire greater powers.”

Lylothia paced back and forth along the side, her thumb claw rubbing at her chin.

“The timing will be most excellent. We’ll have a decent edge before the second wave of Enchanted Chosens are released. We could get you acclimated to your main path by then and perhaps get the other useful mortals of your party into their main paths as well. If not, having you there already should help you survive at the very least.”

DeSean plucked the end of his third cig from his mouth. He gave Lylothia a suspicious look. “They’re going to get stronger. Is that what you’re alluding to?”

“The Enlightened Chosen will continue to gain Od regardless if they fight for it. The ones released within the first wave will be the weakest you’ll find. With every release, they will grow stronger, gain more Skills, and possibly have magic that’s incredibly dynamic, even if it’s only light and order spellcraft.”

The Hell Princess sighed.

“What you were fighting today was between 50 to 80 Od Levels,” she explained. “They were weak enough to die to your mundane weapons. The next wave will certainly have Main Path Takers among them. Perhaps pushing as high as 150 Od Levels. Mundane weapons will be considerably less effective.”

DeSean soaked that in. “If they were better equipped. If they weren’t just a bunch of hicks turned crazy. If they were….” Special Ops. MARSOC. Delta-Force trained killers. Marine Rangers fresh off deployment. Navy Seals.

The Marine shuddered. The conclusion was simple. Any Enlightened Chosen with easy power gains and the high-funded military training of a professional killer would put to rest any assertions DeSean had in keeping his ragtag group alive long enough to make them hardened survivalists. To keep to such a group was a special type of foolhardiness even DeSean would find questionable.

Yet, a part of me still wants to find a way to make it work.

“Are you seeing my point now, my dear?” Lylothia asked. “If it would make things easier, I’ll use my favor to have you split from those that’ll drag you down. It is for the best. You only need the hateful girl and her brother. She has what it takes to strike like a blade from the shadows. And the boy is strong. He’ll be a shield and a breaker of weak enemies. Then you can wrest lives with the magics I’ll teach you. It wouldn’t take long to build the three of you up before the next wave. The others are… disposable.”

Maybe she has a point. DeSean scowled. If she had a point, he wouldn’t let her waste her favor on that. For a demonic alien, she’d been quite fair. DeSean felt the need to return that. In the end, this was supposed to be a long relationship, and it required having some decorum.

The truck’s back passenger door opened. With a wheeze, Quinton dropped down and hobbled close to the bed. He was a mess, but he still had that All-American luster to him. His blue eyes burned with something fierce. Something righteous.

He’d been listening through the open back panel window, undoubtedly, and the midwesterner goodness in him couldn’t stay put and keep his yak shut.

“With all due respect, Ma’am, you’re wrong,” the Airman said. “And D, you should know better.”