The metro doors slid open, and chaos sucker-punched me. Screams ricocheted off the marble walls as the crowd surged like panicked cattle. People didn’t just move—they sprinted, tripping over each other in a desperate bid to escape. It was a full-blown stampede, the kind you’d see in disaster movies where the monster’s about to swallow the city whole.

Men in tailored suits shoved past women clutching designer bags, their heels skidding on the polished floors as they stumbled toward the exits. A family barreled down the stairs from street level, wide-eyed and hauling their kids like the ground was about to give way beneath them. Everywhere I looked, people were falling, tripping, desperate to outrun whatever they thought was coming. It was like watching ants scatter after their anthill got kicked over.

One guy—his once-nice suit now soaked with sweat and fear—plowed straight into me, clutching his briefcase like it was a life raft. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his wild, darting eyes were two steps away from a full meltdown.

So much for the prim and proper.

I took a casual step back, letting him rush by. I wasn’t even fazed—this wasn’t my first rodeo with city-wide hysteria.

I glanced around, taking in the mess of frantic bodies and terrified faces. Whatever had them spooked, it was serious—and in The Heights, where everything was usually controlled to the point of obsession, that wasn’t a good sign. The Heights wasn’t just a place; it was a fortress of pristine luxury, a bubble where the problems of the lower city couldn’t reach. The streets sparkled, the air was artificially purified, and the people? They weren’t used to this. Fear didn’t happen here. Chaos didn’t happen here. And yet, here they were, running like they’d just realized The Heights wasn’t as untouchable as they’d always believed.

Great. Can’t just have one normal train ride, can I?

“What the hell’s going on?” I muttered, even though I already knew I probably wouldn’t like the answer. Pushing through the frantic crowd, I weaved around stumbling bodies and tripping feet. People were in full-blown flight mode, but I wasn’t rushing. Seen enough chaos in this city to know when to worry—and this wasn’t one of those times.

As I broke free of the stampede, the scene on the platform came into focus. That’s when I saw her—a woman decked out in designer everything, collapsed on the floor, her purse’s contents scattered like confetti. But she wasn’t worried about that. No, her attention was locked on her foot, eyes wide with horror, like she’d just uncovered a conspiracy that would ruin her entire life…

“My Christian Louboutin!” she shrieked, voice cracking as she pointed frantically at her heel.

I followed her trembling finger to the culprit: a goober—one of those jelly-like blobs that sometimes wandered up from the sewers. Its translucent green body rippled under the station lights as it squirmed across the platform. About the size of a dinner plate, it looked like someone had crossed a giant booger with a water balloon. Tiny tendrils extended from its sides, clinging to surfaces, and this one had latched onto her precious red-soled heel. It wasn’t doing any damage, though—it was harmlessly polishing it with its wriggling tendrils, like the world’s most enthusiastic shoe buffer. A slick, wet trail gleamed in its wake.

Goobers? Really?

Now that I was paying attention, the goobers were everywhere—slithering up the walls, under benches, across the floor like gelatin with a purpose. Their translucent bodies shimmered under the fluorescent lights as they sucked up dust, dirt, and debris, oblivious to the chaos around them. It was like watching an army of runaway vacuum cleaners on autopilot. One goober circled a trash can repeatedly, as if stuck in a never-ending cleaning loop, while another dangled from a guy’s arm, causing him to spill his latte in a desperate attempt to shake it off.

The whole scene was pure slapstick—no laugh track required. A businessman, tie askew, hopped on one foot, trying to shake a goober off like it was chewing through his shoe. Nearby, a woman in yoga pants screamed as a blob clung to her ankle, making her stumble backward into a group of tourists. The blob wobbled on her leg like a piece of jello trying to find its place in the world. The tourists? Completely mesmerized, snapping pictures like they were at some bizarre street performance.

Then there was the guy flailing his arms as a goober inched its way up his leg, like the slowest horror movie ever made. He bumped into another commuter, and they both tumbled onto the slick floor in a heap of limbs and confusion.

“Relax, it’s just cleaning your pants,” I muttered, shaking my head. If anyone took a second to think, they’d realize the worst these goobers could do was leave them with a damp sock and a slightly soggy shoe. This wasn’t exactly an alien invasion.

Sure, the platform was a mess—goobers wriggling over anything stationary—but hardly what I’d call a disaster. Give it another ten minutes, and the city’s maintenance team would be here to scoop up the blobs and toss them back into the sewers where they belonged. This wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. On the grand scale of city problems, this barely even registered. Definitely not a job for spandex-wearing heroes. More like a job for a janitor with a mop.

And that was perfectly fine by me. The last thing this situation needed was some overzealous caped crusader swooping in, turning what amounted to a minor inconvenience into an overblown spectacle. It’s like using a sledgehammer to hang a picture frame—completely excessive, and likely to leave more damage than when you started. I’d seen it all before: a hero rolls in, flexes their powers for the cameras, and what should’ve been a straightforward cleanup turns into a high-octane disaster. Cue the slow-motion action shots, debris flying in every direction, and suddenly you’ve got a full-blown media circus on your hands.

Next thing you know, the incident’s plastered all over the evening news as some heroic showdown, when really, it could’ve been handled with a broom and a little patience. And who gets left holding the bag? The city. The people. The ones who have to pay for the repairs, for the extra chaos, for the damage that didn’t need to happen in the first place. Meanwhile, the folks who should be dealing with this—the public sanitation workers, the real unsung heroes—get sidelined. Their work? Forgotten. Their jobs? At risk because some hero couldn’t resist the urge to overdo it.

No thanks. This wasn’t a job for heroes in capes—it was squarely in janitor territory. Maybe toss in a few containment pods for good measure, and call it a day.

One goober slithered past my foot, casually absorbing a discarded pamphlet like it was out for a leisurely snack. Despite the surrounding chaos, they were annoyingly efficient at their impromptu cleaning duties. I watched as another blob latched onto a metal bench, expanding and contracting as it polished the surface until it gleamed. Across the platform, a woman screamed as a goober latched onto her calf, sending her crashing into a hot dog vendor. Condiments and buns exploded in every direction, turning the ground into a mustard-splattered battlefield.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Move Aside, Stay Alive! I thought, recalling the city’s latest public safety campaign plastered everywhere in Zenith. Billboards, flyers, even those annoying pamphlets they stuffed into mailboxes—like they thought a piece of glossy paper would help anyone in a real disaster. The whole campaign was an attempt to educate the public on how to handle themselves during emergencies. They even had these cheesy illustrations of people calmly avoiding danger zones, sidestepping falling debris, and helping each other out, all while looking far too relaxed for what was supposed to be a life-or-death situation.

And here we were—falling apart because a few stray goobers wandered up from the sewers. It was laughable. You’d think people would’ve figured it out by now. The pamphlets were clear enough: don’t panic, stay alert, and most importantly, keep your head on straight. But no, all it takes is a handful of slimy blobs, and suddenly it’s like the apocalypse has arrived. You’ve got people running for the exits like the whole city’s about to collapse under their feet.

Not that goobers were completely harmless. Sure, these little ones were basically the sewer’s version of janitors with a bit too much enthusiasm, but the big ones? That’s where things could get ugly. Every now and then, you’d hear a story about a sanitation worker who got too close to a giant goober while fixing the sewer lines and…well, let’s just say they got cleaned up in a way they didn’t intend. Accidental death by goober is rare, but when it happens, it’s gruesome enough to make headlines. The idea of being digested while trying to fix a pipe? Not the kind of news you want to make.

Still, as long as they weren’t the big ones—and thank God they weren’t—there wasn’t much to worry about. The little guys were more annoying than anything. If you gave them enough time, they’d probably scrub the entire street clean before they were rounded up. In a different world, these things could be marketed as the next big eco-friendly cleaning solution. I could practically hear the tagline now: Tired of sweeping? Let our gooey friends do the work for you!

But here? In Zenith City, they were just another weird quirk of life, occasionally stirring up chaos in places like The Heights, where people weren’t used to seeing anything dirtier than their dry-cleaning receipts. It was amazing, really. A few out-of-place blobs, and the whole veneer of perfection cracked wide open.

I glanced around, taking in the spotless tiles and pristine walls. Everything about The Heights screamed controlled perfection—a place untouched by the grime of the city below. And yet, here they were—goobers, completely out of place, slithering through the pristine space like they had a right to be there. How had they even made it this far? The security, the maintenance, the constant cleanliness—none of it should’ve allowed for this.

It didn’t make sense. These things belonged deep in the sewers, where filth was plentiful, not here, fighting over dust like they were starving. Something must’ve driven them up, something that didn’t belong either.

I shrugged off the feeling as I headed for the stairs. Whatever the cause, the city would handle it. They had people for this kind of thing. I had other plans for the day, and this wasn’t about to derail them.

Halfway up the stairs, the air shifted—foul, sour, with a metallic edge that hit like a gut punch. It wasn’t just bad—it was debilitating. My eyes burned, my throat tightened, and every breath felt like I was inhaling burnt metal wrapped in rotting garbage. It clung to everything, coating my lungs with each ragged inhale. The acrid, sour smell was so thick I could almost feel it crawling up my skin, worming its way into my clothes, my hair. Even my thoughts felt tainted by it, as if the smell had its own malicious intent, smothering every rational thought under a layer of filth.

I paused for a moment on the stairs, the noise from the station below fading into the distant hum of the street above. Something felt off. This wasn’t just a case of a few sewer blobs getting lost—there was a weight to the air, a heaviness that sank into my gut. The smell alone told me things were about to get worse, much worse. Whatever was waiting for me at the top wasn’t going to be handled by a sanitation crew and a couple of mops.

No, this wasn’t just a wayward goober situation. It was something bigger, and I had a feeling I was about to find out just how bad.

I let out a long sigh, the kind that comes when you know your day is about to go sideways. The unease in my gut tightened as I continued climbing. Whatever was waiting at street level, it was bound to be a mess.

And then I hit the top of the stairs, and the stench hit me back—hard. It wasn’t your average city smell of exhaust fumes and fried food, either. This was different. Rotten, foul, with a metallic edge that scratched at the back of my throat. The kind of stench that made your stomach turn and your instincts scream to back away.

Perfect. Just what I needed—a fresh wave of hell, served with a side of chili-dog farts.

I stepped onto the street, wrinkling my nose as the full extent of the scene unfolded before me—and what a scene it was.

Chaos. Absolute, unfiltered chaos.

The entire street looked like the sewers had ruptured beneath it, spewing a tide of filth across everything in sight. Goobers—dozens, maybe more—were slithering and squirming everywhere, their translucent bodies leaving slick, glistening trails in their wake. They clung to walls, slid beneath parked cars, and oozed over the sidewalks with their wriggling tendrils, eagerly devouring every scrap of debris in their path. It was as if the ground itself had come alive, overrun by these slimy, mindless blobs.

And the people? They were losing it. Running wild. Civilians scattered in every direction, their movements frenzied, like a swarm of insects fleeing from an unseen predator. Some pounded desperately on the doors of nearby businesses, only to find them locked tight—shop owners clearly not interested in being part of this mess. Others shoved and elbowed their way through the crowd, fighting for whatever safe space they could find.

A woman screamed as a goober latched onto her ankle, her shriek piercing the air. Nearby, a group of wide-eyed tourists huddled together against a building, watching in horror as more of the creatures slithered toward them, their tendrils searching for anything they could latch onto.

Through it all, that god-awful smell hung thick in the air—dense, sour, and suffocating. It clung to everything, burning the inside of my nose with every breath, a stench so strong it felt like it had its own weight, pressing down on me. It wasn’t just a bad smell—it was a toxic cloud that made the air feel heavy, almost unbearable.

And yet, that still wasn’t the worst part.

In the middle of the chaos, towering above the pandemonium, was it—a creature so grotesque it seemed like it had been pulled from the deepest pit of a nightmare. Its body was a writhing mass of sludge and grime, dripping thick, viscous filth with every movement. Limbs too long and joints bent at angles that defied anatomy, it lurched forward, flailing at anything within reach. Beneath the layers of muck, though, there was something disturbingly human about it—like a person buried beneath all that sludge, twisted into something barely recognizable.

Thick tendrils of black ooze dripped from its fingers, splattering onto the ground as it swung its grotesque limbs at the figures surrounding it. But it wasn’t just thrashing mindlessly—it was fighting. Desperately. And not just against anyone.

A group of supers circled it, but calling it a fight was generous. This wasn’t a battle—it was a systematic dismantling. The supers were tearing through the creature with the kind of precision that made it clear they were overqualified for the task. They were coordinated, relentless, and brutally efficient, turning what should’ve been a chaotic clash into something that resembled a well-trained unit taking down a massive threat.

The creature let out a low, guttural moan, reverberating through the air like the death rattle of something far bigger. It staggered under the barrage of blows, black sludge splattering with each hit. But something was off—it wasn’t attacking. Not really. Its movements seemed… hesitant, almost like it was holding back. For something that grotesque, it should’ve been tearing through the streets, leveling buildings. But it wasn’t.

The hulking mass flailed its too-long limbs, but there was a strange restraint in every move. It wasn’t fighting like something that size should. It was just… surviving.

Why?

That nagging question gnawed at me, slicing through the chaos.

What was this thing waiting for?