At first, Jake thought he was just tired.
He blinked hard at the glowing map on his laptop — little red dots popping up across Halewick like angry pimples — and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept for, what, thirty-six hours? Forty?
Mike was slumped in a beanbag across the room, chewing absently on a half-eaten granola bar, looking like a human question mark.
Jake (grumbling):
"Either I'm hallucinating or the coffee is starting to fight back."
Mike (mouth full):
"Dude, I'm seeing weird stuff too. I just watched my reflection wink at me. And I wasn't even winking."
Jake snorted, half amused, half alarmed.
They had bigger problems. Their mobile Lighthouse station was still humming along nicely, but strange glitches had started appearing — like background static seeping into the town itself.
The first real sign that something was off came when Mrs. Delaney, the sweet old lady from the corner house, started yelling at a mailbox.
And not just any yelling — intense yelling.
Jake and Mike, hidden behind a row of parked cars while checking one of their signal repeaters, watched in confusion as Mrs. Delaney shook her handbag at the rusted mailbox.
Mrs. Delaney (shrieking):
"I KNOW you stole my husband's socks, you treacherous metallic demon!"
Mike blinked.
Mike (whispering):
"Should we help? Or... call animal control for possessed furniture?"
Jake shook his head grimly.
Jake:
"Phase Æther. It's starting."
Mike nodded slowly, taking another bite of granola like a man resigned to battle supernatural nonsense on an empty stomach.
But Mrs. Delaney wasn't the only one losing her marbles.
Across town:
The mayor was found giving an emotional press conference to a framed photo of a cheeseburger.
The school principal tried to expel a ficus plant for "conspiracy against academic integrity."
The local radio station played the same Taylor Swift song backwards for six hours straight, prompting several elderly listeners to call in asking if "the devil was DJing again."
Jake and Mike kept a low profile, but as they watched, they realized the signs were everywhere:
People forgetting what street they lived on halfway through walking home.
Kids staring blankly at playground swings like they were ancient ruins.
Dogs barking at empty patches of sidewalk, then apologizing to them (yes, apologizing — the dogs).
Mike finally tossed his granola bar aside.
Mike:
"Okay, this is beyond tinfoil hats. We're talking tinfoil underwear territory now."
Jake (muttering):
"Phase Æther must be broadcasting subliminal confusion waves. It's breaking down logical memory structures."
Mike scratched his head.
Mike:
"In English, please. You know I skipped nerd school."
Jake sighed.
Jake (simpler):
"Basically, it's making people's brains treat memories like wet spaghetti. Slippery. Tangled. And probably flavored badly."
Mike looked genuinely horrified.
Mike:
"Dude. My grandma could end up trying to marry a toaster if this keeps up."
Jake didn't laugh. He tapped their map screen again. The red dots were multiplying — not just in Halewick now, but spilling into neighboring towns like a slow, creeping virus.
Mike (leaning in):
"We need to boost the Lighthouse's signal. Like now. Or else this town's next election will be between a cactus and a traffic cone."
They raced back to the van, cramming inside with their gear clattering around.
Mike fired up the analog broadcast systems while Jake recalibrated the Lighthouse's core to push stronger memory anchors into the signal — things people couldn't easily forget:
Birthdays. First kisses. The smell of a favorite meal. The touch of a loved one's hand.
Moments that meant something real.
The van rumbled to life, rattling as the old engine protested against heroism at 3AM.
Jake grabbed the handheld transmitter mic.
Jake (grinning nervously):
"Attention, citizens of Halewick. If you're currently arguing with an appliance, please stay calm. Help is on the way."
He paused.
Jake:
"And if you voted for the cactus, please reconsider."
Mike snorted with laughter.
They rolled through the sleeping town, bouncing the signal from tower to tower, sending memory pulses surging outward like invisible life preservers.
Outside the windows, they could already see slight changes.
Mrs. Delaney, halfway through cussing out her mailbox, suddenly froze, frowning. She lowered her handbag slowly, like waking up from a weird dream.
In the park, a little boy stopped offering his sandwich to a lamppost and blinked, confused.
Jake and Mike exchanged a quick look — It's working.
But it wasn't all good news.
In the distance, at the edge of town, heavy black vans were rolling in.
Sleek. Silent.
Painted with the sigil of the Architects.
Mike (grimacing):
"Looks like Nilgiris just sent the party crashers."
Jake (tightening his grip on the wheel):
"Then let's crank up the music before they pull the plug."
He pressed the transmitter again, voice steady and clear across the airwaves:
"Remember who you are. Remember what they took. You are not broken. You are not alone. We are Null Frank. And we are not backing down."
The town might be slipping into madness.
The enemy might be closing in.
The odds might be wildly against them.
But at least, Jake thought as he hit the gas,
they were crazy in the right direction.