The first thing Jake noticed about the Architect agents was how quiet they were.
No sirens. No flashing lights. Just the eerie whisper of black vans gliding down the streets like sharks cruising for a meal.
Mike noticed something else.
Mike (peeking through the van window):
"Dude... they're wearing suits. Like actual black suits. Who even wears suits to a kidnapping?"
Jake didn't answer. He was too busy mentally plotting an escape route.
One of the vans slowed, rolling up beside a cluster of confused townsfolk.
A few agents slipped out, faces hidden behind sleek black visors, moving in tight military precision.
They didn't talk.
They didn't gesture.
They simply reached out and tapped a few confused citizens on the forehead.
Instantly, the people slumped, eyes going glassy.
Mike (horrified):
"They're brain-tagging them! Like... like evil Pokémon!"
Jake snapped into action.
Jake:
"We need a distraction. Now."
Mike rummaged through their emergency kit, tossing out wires, old signal boosters, and—
— a massive bag of glitter.
Mike (brightly):
"When in doubt... glitter bomb?"
Jake blinked.
Paused.
Grinned like a lunatic.
Jake:
"Load it up."
One minute later.
The Lighthouse van shot forward with a roar, racing toward the nearest cluster of agents.
Jake cranked the speakers to full blast.
Mike, standing in the back with a homemade glitter cannon (basically a modified leaf blower taped to a funnel), cackled with evil glee.
Mike (yelling over the engine):
"Taste the rainbow, you memory-wrecking morons!"
The van swung by the black-suited agents, and with a magnificent PFFFFFT, a tsunami of glitter exploded over them.
Gold, silver, and neon pink rained from the sky like a party apocalypse.
The agents froze in confusion, shimmering like cursed disco balls.
One tried to wipe his visor—only to smear glitter even worse across it. Another stumbled backward, disoriented, bumping into his partner.
In seconds, the entire squad looked less like a terrifying secret ops team and more like a failed circus act.
Jake (laughing uncontrollably):
"Operation Sparkle Strike: success!"
They didn't have long.
More vans pulled in from the sides. A net was closing fast.
Jake gunned the engine, swerving around abandoned cars, mailboxes, and the occasional wandering dog.
Behind them, agents scrambled to recover, some slipping on the glitter-slick asphalt, others shouting garbled orders through radios now jammed by Null Frank's customized frequencies.
As they tore through the side streets, Mike shouted directions.
Mike (pointing):
"Left! Left! No—your other left!"
Jake (gritting teeth):
"That is left!"
They barrelled through Mrs. Delaney's front yard, narrowly missing her prize-winning rose bushes (and possibly a gnome statue), then cut through the park.
Jake had one thought in mind: The Signal Tower.
Their last-ditch amplifier was hidden there—one final boost to punch the Lighthouse's memory-saving signal across the county.
Jake (grim):
"If we can hold them off for another ten minutes, the signal goes global."
Mike:
"And if not?"
Jake (grinning):
"Then we die fabulously, covered in glitter and glory."
Mike whooped in agreement.
Five minutes later.
They screeched to a halt beside the Signal Tower—a crooked old maintenance hub covered in vines and graffiti.
Jake leapt out, hauling cables and boosters.
Mike grabbed the portable power cells.
The town behind them flickered between chaos and clarity: some people waking up from the Phase Æther haze, others still trapped in bizarre hallucinations.
From down the street, black-clad agents regrouped—angrier now, more determined, moving like a tide of shadows.
Jake worked furiously, rerouting the signal path, fingers flying over the ancient keyboard.
Mike (watching the agents approach):
"Uh, buddy? We might need Plan B real soon."
Jake (grimacing):
"There is no Plan B."
Mike:
"Oh good. Love a solid panic plan."
One of the agents pulled something from his belt—a sleek device with a glowing blue core.
Jake recognized it instantly: a Memory Scrambler.
One blast, and their minds could be shredded like cheap paper.
Mike (eyeing it):
"Yup, that's a brain blender if I've ever seen one."
Jake yanked the final cable into place.
The old tower creaked, buzzed, then hummed—a deep, resonating sound like a giant heartbeat.
He grabbed the handheld mic again.
Jake (steady, fierce):
"This is Null Frank. You cannot erase truth. You cannot steal memories forever. We stand. We fight. We remember."
He slammed the transmitter button.
The Lighthouse signal blazed outward—stronger, brighter, purer than ever before.
In the next instant, the approaching agents staggered, clutching their heads.
Their visors cracked.
Their formations collapsed.
They fell to their knees as the raw wave of memory slammed into them—not pain, but clarity—their own buried truths waking up inside.
Even the sky seemed to shimmer.
The town stirred.
Lights flickered back on.
Families embraced, bewildered but whole again.
Jake and Mike stood side by side, panting, covered in dust and glitter.
Mike (grinning):
"Well... that was subtle."
Jake (grinning wider):
"Next time, we bring confetti and fireworks."
They bumped fists.
The war wasn't over.
Nilgiris would come back—meaner, smarter, deadlier.
But for tonight...
Null Frank had won.
And the Lighthouse would never go dark.