It’s a long drive back to the city. The repercussions from the vessel impact is still apparent on most of the buildings. I’m still surprised how so much damage was done from more than two-hundred miles away. But construction crews are actively engaged in repairs and things seem to be back to normal.

Little do they know it will all be in vain.

Signs for a Ford dealership pop up off the side of the highway. The lot is full of trucks. Mostly F-150s in various colors. Nothing in taupe though, that’s good. Some look brand new, others have minimal window and paint damage.

“I need to get rid of this corvette, tapping the wheel.” I say.

“Agreed,” says Xeno. “They’ll be hunting for Jim’s car and a bright blue corvette stands out.”

“Who knew Jim had style?” I say, gripping the wheel.

“Yes, he strikes me as more of a pragmatist—Ooh, that’s a fun word to say.”

I pull off the highway and into the lot, park in front of the building’s front entrance. An eager man in his mid twenties pulls up next to me in a golf cart.

I roll down my window.

“Nice corvette,” he says.

“I need one of those trucks. What would you say to a trade? No paperwork. All under the table.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “I wish it was that simple, bud.”

A bit patronizing how he uses the word, bud, but I let it slide. “I’m kind of in a hurry,” I say.

“Happy to help streamline the process for ya. How about we go take a few trucks for a test drive and then we can get financing started for you after that?”

I squint. “Let me, uh, consult with my … self. One moment.”

I roll up the window and hold my hand to my face so he’s seeing the backside. His expression scrunches up in confusion.

“Xeno,” I say. “This is going to take too long and I don’t have the money to—”

“Just send them all to Paradise, Jack.”

“I … what, you mean like … all of them? Everyone here?”

“The shift could happen any moment now. After that they all could be dead or broken depending on how devastating it is. Their jobs or these trucks won't matter to them then. You think that disaster from my vessel crashing was bad? That was just a precursor.”

I suddenly have a terrifying thought. “Xeno, what if we die in the shift?”

“That’s very much a possibility, Jack. All the more reason to send as many people as we can as soon as possible.”

I just sit there for a moment dwelling on that. He’s right. I feel really weird about it, but …

“Hurry, Jack.”

I nod, roll down the window.

The man is still there, perched on the side of his seat, scratching his head. There’s a smug smirk on his face.

“You, uh, fished with your consultation?”

I reach out to shake his hand. “Let’s shake on it,” I say.

“Shake on what?” he says, while simultaneously shaking my hand, and his clothes drop to the parking lot.

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“You're getting much better at that,” says Xeno.

“Constant forced, inhumane practice makes perfect,” I say, turning off the corvette and getting out. I leave the blood speckled lab coat in the car. “For the continued survival of the human race,” I say out loud to myself.

I walk into the building. It’s very modern and open. Save for one window-filled wall being repaired the place is in good condition. No other customers, I note, looking around. I walk over to the reception desk, a big plastic and glass semi-circle. There’s an attractive young woman sitting behind it. Blonde, bright pink nails.

“Hi,” I say, offering her my hand. “Do you like the beach?”

“Oh hi,” she says, setting her phone down. She hesitates at the question, and gives my hand a quick once over before tentatively shaking it. And then she’s gone, her tight white blouse drifting to the floor.

“I feel like this is wrong,” I say. “Like, this is how people justify robbing a bank or shooting up an office building.”

“Stop making it weird,” says Xeno.

“I mean, I feel like I should be giving them a choice at least.”

“No time, Jack. We’ll find some other venue to give people free choice. After the shift, if we survive. I’ll say it again, we need to send as many as—”

“Still feels weird,” I say, walking back towards a set of cubicles.

“How about I make up a joke about panties dropping to the floor? Will that cheer you up?”

I step into a cubicle and tap an overweight man on the shoulder. He's on the phone, seated in a rolling chair, facing his computer with his back to me. He turns, gestures for a moment, and turns back around. I sigh, placing my hand on his shaved head. The phone slips from his grasp, clattering onto the tile floor. His flamingo-print button-down shirt and khakis slump down on top of it. Leaning forward, I see a leopard-spotted thong lying on the chair.

I just stare at it for a moment.

“Oh, come on, Jack, this is comedy gold,” Xeno says.

I sigh.

“Nothing? Really?”

“I’m just too melancholy for one-liners right now,” I say, motioning to the polaroid picture of the man’s family on the wall. “Most of these people have families.”

“Ooh, I like that word,” says Xeno

“What, families?”

“No, melancholy.”

I sigh again and walk into another cubicle. A woman has her feet up on the desk. She’s got a book open in one hand (some Stephen King novel) and a full, steaming cup of coffee in the other.

“I like your arm tats,” I say, pointing.

She pauses, her lips puckered, ready for a sip.

I nod to her arm, which is indeed covered in the most colorful tattoos I’ve ever seen.

She looks at me and clears her throat.

“Those coy fish, especially,” I say, as I touch her arm. She recoils, spills her coffee, and makes a guffaw sound. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, that was close,” I say, “almost severed you in half there.”

“You’re not supposed to be back he—” her sentence is cut short as I grab her arm. Her coffee klunks onto the desk, surprisingly upright and unbroken. Huh, what are the chances of that? It’s a good omen, I think.

“I need some good omens right now,” I say out loud.

“What now?” says Xeno.

“Nothing,” I say, as I exit the cubicle and head for the hallway where the big offices are.

“You know,” I say, walking into a greenroom where two people are sitting on a couch, both of them ignoring each other, playing games on their respective phones. “This thing we’re doing, Xeno. It needs a name.”

“What are you talking about?” says the lips.

“We have our goals ahead of us,” I say. “Collect your crystals to build the singer rider gate and send as many worthy people to Paradise as we can along the way. Our mission needs a name.”

I touch the side of one man’s face. He vanishes. The man next to him barely has time to notice let alone process anything before I put my left palm on his sweaty forehead.

“Again, with you naming things,” says Xeno.

“It means more if it has a name,” I say. “That’s how humans work. Think, The Red Cross. The Children’s Miracle Network. Doctors Without Borders. The Girl Scouts.”

“Fine,” says Xeno, “But I get to name it.”

“Fine,” I say, walking into another room. A man on a computer looks up at me. There’s a wall full of key fobs next to him. “But it has to be important sounding and noble, and—”

“Project Star Pickle,” says the lips.

“Uh, can I help you?” says the man.

“Sorry, one second,” I say to the man behind the desk. I look pointedly at the palm of my hand.

“What?” says Xeno. “You want a name? There's a name.”

“You’re joking, right? That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard of for a super important mission. Ever.”

“Excuse me,” says the man.

“No, it’s perfect,” says Xeno. “Think about it. We’re in quite the pickle, Jack, the world’s going to end soon. And I need to get back to my star. It makes perfect sense.”

“And you think I suck at naming things,” I say, turning to the man. “Hi, I’d like one of those keys please—biggest baddest one you’ve got.”