“You shouldn’t be here. I don’t know what Odin was thinking, approving your coming with me.” Tyrving complains, swapping to a faster aerolane with less air traffic. “AESIR has less than ten Daemon on staff, and you’re easily the best of them.”

“Why thank you,” Tuna says, smugly grinning from their makeshift seat.

“That wasn’t a compliment; this is a terrible idea. Have you ever even been in a combat situation?”

“Digitally, yes. Which is equally dangerous.”

Tyrving throws his hands in the air dramatically, his frustration evident. “Even if it’s equally dangerous, it’s not the same thing. Your incredible talent with computers does not translate to general combat.”

The ball Tuna threw against the wall bounces back to their hand so they throw it again. “Compliment after compliment today, Tyrving. I’m getting bashful.”

He twists his neck around freakishly, looking back at Tuna. “You aren’t taking this seriously.”

“No! Turn your head back around! That is awful! Eugh! I’m taking it seriously; I’ll be on the ship the whole time anyway! Just turn around!”

Tyrving raises his chin and widens his eyes. “Promise you won't leave the Trembler or I’ll do this permanently.”

Covering their eyes, they completely miss the ball coming back, letting it bounce off their head. “I promise! That was already the deal! Stop being gross!”

Acquiescing, he turns his head back around, but tucks away in a mental pocket how effective a weapon it was. “Thank you. I’m just worried enough already about how to deal with Marcus myself, so having a new factor has me acting unlike myself.”

“That’s fair. Are you done fussing over me or are we going to fly another three miles past our landing point?”

Tyrving curses, looking back at his controls and turning the Trembler around.

It only takes a few minutes to backtrack to their landing point, but communicating with the tower there takes longer than intended.

“This place is even more old looking than I expected.” Tuna comments, looking out the window.

They’d landed one or two towns away from where they think Marcus is, having bought a civilian couple’s tickets to the place for double their original cost. There were concrete sidewalks and lampposts around, but those poles were one of the only lights around. No massive advertisement screens or holographic pop-ups to disturb you.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“I quite like it. It’s rather refreshing.” Tyrving comments, hashing out the parking details with the dock enforcement through his interface.

“Not surprising.”

Not dignifying them with a response, he sends the funds for parking to the officers before grabbing his gear, most of it disguised to look like hiking materials. Satisfied with his preparations, he turns to Tuna. “Be safe, if I stop responding for two check-ins with no signal, head back to HQ.”

“You’re the one who needs to be safe.

***

Tyrvings footsteps turn to crunches as he starts down the gravel path, walking under the sign claiming it to be “Ray’s Ranch, home of the last Longhorns.”

It didn’t say that the last time he was here, nor was the pathway so well maintained, but change isn’t inherently a bad thing.

“Your ping shows you heading off the main roads, have you found the place?” Tuna asks, their voice crisp and clear in his head.

“I’m still against you being on the mission, but I won’t act like it doesn’t make the coms clearer. But yes, this is definitely the place.”

A massive oak stands proudly on one side of the path, half of an old pickup truck stuck in place now that the tree’s grown over it. It was Jonah who had left it there, one of the original five with him and Marcus, but also one Tyrving was quite confident had passed.

Fences wrapped around the property from that point on, keeping the scant few bulls he could see contained. They looked healthy, at least—a drastic difference from when Marcus inherited this place from his gramps. Maybe there’s still some benefit to mass commercialism, even if only for the bulls.

A few tourists pass by him on the path heading in the opposite direction, fake bull horns on the goofy-looking hats. One tries to spark up a conversation, but Tyrving escapes him with the classic “someone’s waiting on me” excuse.

Not that it’s a lie this time around.

“Made it to the ranch; I’ll talk to you later, Dave,” Tyrving says, pressing his finger to his ear as if he’d been talking to someone other than Tuna this whole time.

“Heard, I’ll keep my probing light unless you find a target. Good luck.” They respond, going silent to let him focus.

Walking amidst the exhibits of old farming tools and machines, he slips small, penny-sized scanning disks beneath the gravel and dirt. With just one or two, they aren’t very effective, but once you’ve set up dozens, they can paint an almost perfect picture of what’s going on underground.

“I’ve got a decent picture of the outside, but it’s looking pretty bare except for a little something by the main barn. It could be an old, broken piece of equipment, but unless you put some inside, I can’t see.” Tuna says, sounding nervous.

Tyrving doesn’t respond, continuing his tourist act for a few more minutes before wandering towards the barn itself. Its bright red color indicates a recent paintjob, though there are parts of it they must have worn down on purpose for effect.

Right away it’s clear what the main attraction is: a massive combine harvester taking up the majority of the floor space. The agent walks up to it, rubbing his hand against some of the peeling paint and revealing a pair of initials that read “J + M,” but the M is scratched out.

He’s confident it’s in reference to Jonah and Merideth, but whatever caused the crossing out must have happened after he’d joined AESIR.

“Last cowboy, huh? What a lame exhibit.” A tourist laughs, pushing their way out of a small tent.

Anxiety tickles the back of his neck, but that would be the perfect place to put one of the disks. Unwilling to hesitate and look suspicious, Tyrving walks into the small tent, looking around inside.

It’s mostly dark, a couple of tiny holes letting beams of light in toward the back. Walking back there, he notices a shape coming into focus: a piece of furniture set in the middle of the floor, and right next to it, a just barely visible lamp with a chain.

He pulls the chain, flooding the room with light and revealing the piece of furniture that was obscured before. It’s a mirror, but a set of goofy-looking cowboy clothes are attached to it to make the viewer look like they’re the one wearing the clothes.

But all Tyrving sees is an unfamiliar face looking back at him.

“Found ya.”