Meanwhile, several weeks ago in Eden.

Chief Taidale Johnson sat behind her desk at the Eden Fire Department in a particularly unusual mood: for the first time in a very long time she had no idea what she was going to do with her life.

“Find any fires yet, Shmugworth?” she asked her Second-in-Command, not deigning to look his way. Of course, she knew what the answer was before Shmugworth could even respond.

“No Chief, we haven’t found anything yet.”

Three days. Three entire days without a fire. Unacceptable! How was one supposed to fight fires without any fires? Taidale looked up and out of the three-hundred-sixty degree of her “penthouse” office. It wasn’t really a penthouse in the traditional sense, since the Fire Department had actually been built from four saloons that had been stacked on top of one another (like most of the traditional architecture in Eden). The glass had been a custom order from Aldernath, which the chief had been more than happy to pay for out of the department’s secret coffers. Since Eden was rainless most of the year, it was the perfect investment to watch throughout the city for fires without fear of obstruction.

And it was worthless without any fires to look for.

But, besides this finer detail, the Eden Fire Department was just like any other fire department you might find in the wild. Through the center of the building there was a long, thin, metal pole that descended through all four saloons. Its primary function, as one might imagine, was for strippers. Although it did have other useful secondary purposes such as cooking shawarma, waking up everyone by hitting it with a large stick, and getting out of the building quickly in case of a fire.

The second saloon of the department was dedicated to the living space of thirty four of the thirty six fire fighters currently in Eden. 17 bunks, which had been requisitioned from (now reduced to rubble and ashes) Eden Association for Loblolly Pine Decline Awareness (which had perished in The Great Charity War). The destruction of that charity had been a glorious victory for the fire department, and it was a long-held department superstition that smoke buildup on the bunks helped to build character in new recruits, which it did (in addition to lung disease).

“You look worried, chief.” Shmugworth observed.

“It’s too quiet, Shmugworth. It’s never quiet in Eden.”

“Right? Isn’t it nice to have some quiet after that awful thunder and lightning the other night?”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Chief Johnson turned around to look Shmugworth dead in the eyes, “War’s coming. I can feel it.”

Worry spread across Shmugworth’s face.

“Chief, I’m worried. Let’s go for a walk. You know you have a tendency to go stir crazy, and I think it’ll help. Plus, you’ll clearly see: nothing weird is happening.”

“Okay, fine. We’ll go on a walk.” Chief Johnson relented.

Johnson and Shmugworth glided down the center pole of the fire department, on each passing floor they were greeted by variations of “Oh, hey Chief” and “Hi Chief” and “Oh shit it’s the boss hide the drugs” before landing safely on the bottom floor of the four saloons-tall fire station. The two made their way out of the door, and had walked a good thirty minutes until they noticed something was amiss: a very particular smell wafted through the air.

“Wait, you smell that?” A smile crept across Chief Johnson’s face as she put a hand on Shmugworth’s shoulder..

“Hot asphalt.” He nodded

“Fire! There’s a fire!” Chief Johnson grabbed Shmugworth by the hand and raced down the street like a bat out of hell. Unfortunately, the two were not greeted by a burning building, but instead a rather unusual scene: A crew of workers in high-vis vests on top of heavy black leather, working to spread asphalt in front of the least-popular saloon in town: My Cat Ate my Son (Don’t Ask). The two members of the fire department looked at each other in shock. What was going on?

Shmugworth approached the one that looked in charge.

“Um, excuse, is there no fire?”

The member of the I’mos sect gave Shmugworth a puzzled look.

“Oh no, we’re doing community improvement as part of the Eden Incremental Environmental Improvement Organization.”

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

“The what?” Shmugworth had never heard of that charity before.

“The Eden Incremental Environmental I-.”

Johnson was flabbergasted. She knew something was afoot! As Shmugworth and the I’mo were talking amongst themselves, the chief quickly lit a cigarette, took a drag, and threw it to the ground.

“Hey! Lady! You can’t do that here, you’ll catch this place on fire!” one of the I’mos from the construction site came over, grabbed the cigarette, and then put it into a seemingly freshly-made ash pan.

What the hell is that? Chief Johnson thought. She turned around, and realized there were dozens of these things all around the street, at least one in front of every saloon.

“What is that?” she asked the I’mos who had thrown away her cigarette.

“Oh, it’s an ash pan.”

“And what are they doing here?”

“Oh we put those up four days ago. Helps to stop fires before they start, part of the new. It’s actually part of our safety standards.”

Chief Johnson could not believe what she was hearing. She started to hyperventilate as a million thoughts raced through her head: Prevent fires before they have even started? Safety standards? Why hadn’t anyone told her about this.

“C’mon chief, let’s get you inside.You look pale.”

Shmugworth ordered for the two as they sat down in a room full of diners. The two waited quietly for their lunch until the chief realized, once again, something was wrong: there was no smell of smoke coming from the kitchen. Were they even cooking her food? She barged through the double doors to the kitchen, much to the protestation of the staff, and she could not believe what she saw next: a fume hood.

“WHO PUT THIS HERE?!” she demanded. She already knew the answer.

“Put what here lady? Why the fuck are you back here? Get out of here.” The chef demanded as he flipped a burger.

“I’m the Chief of the Fire Department! I’m asking you again, who in the hell-”

Thunder rumbled through the kitchen as Ragnar, Son of the Mad Titan and the Twelve Harpies of Winter, strode in with the fury of a tempest at full stride.

“You do not belong here. Leave now.” The kitchen began to frost over from the sheer presence of the barbarian.

“Says who?!” The Chief’s voice was full of fear.

“Eden Incremental Environmental Improvement Organization.” Ragnar drew his axe. Lightning sprung from its blade and lit a grease fire on the stove.

“Shit. Sorry.” Ragnar said, as he ran towards the grease fire to help contain it.

Chief took the opportunity to leave the kitchen, grab Shmugworth, and run like hell all the way back to the Fire Department.

“I knew it! I knew something was up! They want to shut us down!” Chief said to Shmugworth, as the two made it back to their home base.

“Certainly it’s just a whole big misunderstanding,” Shmugworth suggested, “let’s just talk with those E-”

“No, Harry. We’re beyond that. They’re the aggressors. This is just like The Great Charity War. We must consult the annals.”

“I really don’t think it’s that serious-” The second-in-command said. Taidale was already walking down the stairs into the under-saloon. Below the shabby-looking four-saloon-tall Fire Department lay its archives wherein the Fire Department had stored its history for millenia. The rarity, variety, and importance of the documents and tomes stored within surpassed even the collections owned by the three fates and Big Dave’s Discount Book-o-Torium. Forgotten wars, forbidden magics, your abuela’s homemade enchilada recipe, the Fire Department’s vault of knowledge had nearly every document of importance one could think of. Most of these, the spoils of The Great Charity War

The jewel of the collection, the document that held actual power, were the Fire Department’s annals. Detailing its complete history from its founding by some guy way the hell back, up to several years ago, the annals are only called upon in dire situations, such as The Great Charity War. The book had ensured the department’s enemies were burnt to ash then.

It will work now.

The plain leather bound tome was encased in a square of glass. A sign under it read clearly: “break glass in case of emergency.”

“Sledgehammer, Shmugworth”. Shmugworth sighed, ran up stairs, climbed up the fire pole to the top floor, grabbed the chief’s sledgehammer, took the pole back down, and handed it to her.

“Thank you Shmugworth.” the chief swung with her sledgehammer directly into the glass, shattering it into smithereens. Taidale caressed the ancient tome, and flipped through the pages that told the tale of the Fire Department, the one charity in all of Eden that ruled over fire with an iron fist. It had survived for a millenia, and this intrusion would be but a mere blip in its long and glorious history of violence, bloodshed, and arson.

“Get the men down here. We have a war to wage.”

“I still think this is a bit extreme.” Shmugworth complained.

“The flames of war have been stoked. We cannot waste time. Go, get them you imbecile!” Chief shouted, insulting Shmugworth for the first time in her life. Shmugworth ran off. Taidale turned to the camera, fulfilling the villain trope of a closeup shot of her eyes. A small flame could be seen in their pupils.

“The Eden Incremental Environmental Improvement Organization will burn!”