Morthisal quickly located a green backpack in the Navy Army Surplus store that would suffice for his purposes. He paid for the item with the cash Travious had handed him. Back on the street, he walked until he located the device his minion had mentioned in the form of a row of two-wheeled contraptions lined up along the sidewalk. Each bore a glowing screen and handlebars.

Recalling Travious's instructions, he walked to the scooters and found a small set of instructions. After finding the matching phone app, he skipped the user agreement. Perhaps he would read it later. After a few more taps, he entered his payment information, and one of the scooters chirped and lit up.

"How hard can this be?" He wondered out loud.

He gripped the handles and placed a foot on the narrow platform. With a tentative push, the scooter hummed to life beneath him, but he quickly lost his balance and nearly fell off as he turned the handlebar-mounted accelerator. On his second tentative try, it moved smoothly and kept its balance as he gained speed.

He glided across the sidewalk, slowing as he approached throngs of pedestrians. He observed the endless stream of faces. Some glanced his way, eyes reflecting curiosity or indifference. Most were absorbed in their own devices or conversations. Children tugged at their parent's hands, street vendors called out offers, and the smell of city life filled the air. Morthisal grinned as he envisioned a near future time when all would bow before him.

For now, there was work to be done. He checked the delivery app and accepted a new task.

Morthisal navigated to the pickup location, a garishly lit establishment called "Burger Bliss." The aroma of grilled meat made his mouth water as he walked in the door. Approaching the counter, he addressed the young woman busy tapping at a screen. "I am here to collect an order."

She glanced up. "Name?"

He consulted his phone. "Order for Kevin."

She retrieved a bag from the shelf and placed a large cup beside it. "Here you go."

He secured the bag inside his backpack. The drink was more of a challenge. Holding it carefully, he nodded at the girl and made his way back to the scooter.

Riding one-handed required more focus. As he weaved through the foot traffic, a sudden bump jolted him. The lid of the cup popped off and cold liquid splashed over his hand. He halted, irritation rising. Sticky soda dripped from his fingers. Setting the cup down, he retrieved the lid from the ground and pressed it firmly back in place.

Back on the scooter, he followed the map to his destination. It led him to a quaint storefront. The sign overhead read "Spinning Discs." He stepped inside, and a small bell dinged as he closed the door, announcing his arrival.

The shop was dimly lit, with rows of colorfully painted squares stretching along the walls. These must be albums, Morthisal guessed. Faded posters of people holding musical instruments adorned the space.

"Delivery for Kevin," he called out.

A rustling came from behind a curtain at the back. A man emerged, sporting a thick black beard that contrasted with his nearly bald head. His eyes narrowed as he approached.

"I'm Kevin. That for me?" he asked.

"It is," Morthisal replied, handing over the bag and extending the cup.

Greg took the drink and eyed it suspiciously. "This isn't full," he said with a frown creasing his face. "Did you drink some of it?"

"I did not. There was a mishap en route."

"Right," Greg scoffed. "Spilled my soda, huh? Figures."

"The contents are mostly intact."

Greg shook his head. "You delivery guys are all the same. You can forget about a tip."

Morthisal met his gaze. "That is unacceptable."

"Deal with it, dude. Try harder next time." Kevin held his phone out, and the screen pointed at Morthisal like a weapon.

"I just told you it was a mishap. I cannot work for free."

"You get a little money for each delivery. I know because I did it for a while. Now, mosey on out of here before I lower your score to 1 star. Brand new delivery guy ain't gonna get much work at this rate."

The man grumbled and retreated behind the curtain.

Morthisal double-checked that he was alone in the store and advanced to the little room. He pushed aside the curtain and found Kevin perched over his desk, burger unwrapped and heading straight for his gaping mouth.

Faded posters and pictures had been plastered all over the wall. Morthisal was familiar with this world's obsession with music, though he had not spent much time listening to any. He found it a little too slow and not bombastic enough for his taste.

"Dude! Get the hell out of here!" Kevin roared.

Morthisal seized a thread and lashed it around Kevin.

The man froze, and his mouth dropped open as Morthisal trickled power into the man. A line of drool quickly formed while Morthisal considered his customer.

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Morthisal's voice was low and menacing. "You claim your drink was unacceptable?"

"Um."

"Why don't you pick it up, pull the front of your pants open, and pour the soda in there?"

Kevin's hands shook as he lifted the soda, removed the lid, pulled his waistband open, and poured the icy drink inside. He shuddered and cried out as the liquid splashed down his legs and poured out of his pant legs.

"You will give me a very nice tip. Then, you will forget about this interaction with one exception. From here on out, you shall be very kind to your delivery people, and you should tip them excessively. Are we clear?"

Kevin's teeth chattered as he nodded.

"Excellent," Morthisal said, turned on his heel, and went to find his next job.

Morthisal returned to his scooter, determined to improve his food delivery skills. With one successful job under his belt, he felt more confident navigating the city streets and handling the challenges that came with it.

Over the next few hours, Morthisal's deliveries were far from perfect. He struggled to keep the food intact during his trips, and his timing left much to be desired. However, he made up for his shortcomings by using his powers to encourage his customers to tip generously and to leave him five stars. Those who were rude or unappreciative found themselves performing minor degrading acts.

One particularly difficult delivery involved a pizza that had ended up sideways in the box because Morthisal had trouble balancing it while also steering. The customer, a surly middle-aged man, berated Morthisal for his incompetence. With a flick of his wrist, Morthisal compelled the man to take the ruined pizza and wear it as a hat while dancing in the hallway. Morthisal made a mental note not to accept any more pizza jobs.

Another customer, who had complained about the temperature of her soup, found herself licking the spilled liquid off the counter while reciting her favorite song, something by a woman named Taylor Swift. Morthisal left her there and moved on.

As the day wore on, Morthisal felt his power dwindling. He knew he only had the energy for one or two more deliveries. He accepted a final job, relieved to see that it involved only sandwiches from a nearby Subway restaurant. The food was to be delivered to a Martin.

Morthisal approached a weathered building and entered, the bustling street's noise diminishing as the door shut behind him. He verified the order, proceeded to an elevator, and ascended. Ahead lay a brief corridor. Morthisal's footsteps echoed in the silent area. At the corridor's end, he located the door labeled 5E.

Morthisal would have knocked, but a piece of plain white paper with writing stated:

QUIET!

Klien Productions.

Auditions in progress.

QUIET!

He checked the order slip. It said to knock, so he did.

"You the delivery guy?" a man shouted through the door.

"Yes. I have your sandwiches."

"Yeah. Hold up. Gimme us a minute," the voice shouted back, then lowered and said, "You need to feel the role, okay? Lean into the evilness a little more."

"I don't understand my motivation. Why am I this dark lord guy in the first place? Mommy didn't love me?"

"Ain't no one gonna love you in this biz, Tommy. Now try again."

A raspy voice came from the room. "Bow before me, puny mortals, for I am Malakar, the ancient evil, and I am among you again. Now, bow!"

"This is ridiculous." Morthisal frowned.

He quietly cracked the door and pushed it open a few inches.

Inside, a man and a woman sat at a long, battered table, their expressions a blend of frustration and fatigue. They perched on flimsy metal folding chairs with papers strewn between them. A small video camera had been placed between them and pointed toward the back of the small room.

At the far end, a tall man, presumably Tommy, stood in a blue honeycomb bathrobe before a black curtain. He gripped a long branch as if it were a mighty staff. Clearing his throat, he raised the script and projected his voice dramatically.

"Bow before me, mortals! I am the Lord of all that is Darkness, returned to claim what's rightfully mine!"

Morthisal arched an eyebrow.

"Come on, Tommy," the man at the table exclaimed. "I thought you wanted this role."

Tommy sighed, annoyance flickering across his face. "I'm giving it my best, Marty. Maybe the lines could use some work."

"The lines? Really, Tommy? Your agent said you were a professional."

"I am a pro. I was in a Scream movie, Marty. In case you forgot." Tommy swayed slightly, and Morthisal realized the man was probably drunk.

The director threw up his hands. "Yeah, you were in a Scream movie. Twenty-five years ago. This is going nowhere. Go cool your heels, Tommy. In the meantime, we'll eat."

"You didn't get me a sandwich?" Tommy scoffed.

"This isn't a set, so there's no catering." Marty removed a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses and tossed them on the tabletop.

The woman glanced over and spotted Morthisal. "Are you the delivery guy?"

He nodded and stepped inside, placing the bag on the table between them.

Tommy tossed his script onto the floor. "You know what? Maybe I'll be back later, Marty. Maybe. I don't need this job. I'm doing this as a favor."

"Sure you are," Marty muttered.

Tommy brushed past Morthisal without a glance, his bathrobe sweeping behind him.

"He is right, you know. No self-respecting dark lord would utter such words."

Marty slowly turned in his seat to take in Morthisal. Skeptical eyes swept over him, and a smirk played across his lips. "Is that right? I suppose you went to Julliard? Wait. Don't tell me. Seattle Arts Academy. You took acting lessons, and now you deliver my sandwiches."

"I know of no such school, nor do I know of acting classes. You simply do not understand the role."

Morthisal walked to the papers Tommy had tossed on the floor. He picked them up and flipped the pages.

"You can leave now," the woman said sharply.

"Should we really kick him out, Betty? This is entertaining, if nothing else. I can one-star him later."

Morthisal didn't look up but said in a menacing voice, "Do so at your own peril."

The words on the page were easy to sort out. Each had a character name centered, with dialog and action underneath. "Lord Malakar the Unyielding? At least you have something right. Excellent name."

Betty laughed and then slapped her hand over her mouth.

"Okay, hot shot. Tell me how Malakar should talk, then get the fuck out of here."

Morthisal raised one eyebrow. He seized a pair of threads and prepared to loop them around these two. Perhaps they could eat their sandwiches wrapped in the script, but he had second thoughts. If these fools wanted to see how a true dark lord acted, then so be it.

He removed his jacket and tossed it to the floor, then leaned over and picked up the branch. He held it in one hand and, for a moment, missed his own staff dearly. He supposed it had been burned to the ground along with his fortress. What a waste.

Morthisal held the staff to one side and prepared to give these two fools a show.