The neon sign outside flickered unevenly, casting a sickly green glow over the cracked pavement. The Vacancy sign buzzed like a trapped mosquito, struggling to stay alive in the thick August heat.
Zane eased the battered sedan into a spot, the engine coughing its last complaints before going silent. Artemis sighed deeply, rubbing her temples as General Crunch, the hyperactive raccoon, skittered around the car like a caffeinated squirrel, while Papa Roach, the embodiment of raccoon lethargy, lay sprawled on the backseat like a furry pancake.
"Welcome to the Home Sweet Motel," Zane said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Where the sheets are questionable and the ghosts are friendly enough — most nights."
Artemis glared at the building. "I've stayed in better places during stakeouts."
"Yeah," Zane agreed. "Places with zero chance of bedbugs, asbestos, or… you know… spontaneous fires."
Crunch chittered enthusiastically, then bolted toward the motel's entrance, skidding on the concrete. Zane groaned and hurried after him, dragging a half-awake Papa Roach behind.
Inside the lobby, the air smelled of stale cigarettes, burnt coffee, and something suspiciously like old socks. Behind the counter sat a man who looked like he hadn't left that chair in ten years. His eyes, bloodshot and suspicious, locked onto their motley crew with immediate distrust.
"Well, well," the clerk said, voice gravelly. "Two travelers. And… what are those?" He pointed at the raccoons who were now scrambling up Zane's leg.
"Security," Zane said quickly, attempting a smile. "Special agents in training."
Artemis snorted, unimpressed. "They're raccoons."
"They're highly trained," Zane insisted. "General Crunch here once took down a rat infestation that had the local pizza joint quarantined for days."
The clerk blinked slowly, not buying it. "You sure you ain't smuggling critters?"
Zane shrugged. "Trust me, I'd be driving a GTI If I was smuggling."
The clerk grunted, stamped a receipt with a shaky hand, and handed them their key. "Room seven. No pets allowed on the bed."
---
Upstairs, Zane unlocked the door with a key so old the metal was almost worn away. The room was a shrine to the 1970s: floral wallpaper curling at the edges, a TV the size of a microwave, and a bedspread that looked like it had seen one too many summers.
Papa Roach immediately flopped onto the bed, sighing as if he'd just found heaven. General Crunch, meanwhile, launched an all-out assault on a half-empty bag of chips, scattering crumbs everywhere.
Artemis inspected the bathroom. "Hot water works?"
Zane shook his head. "Hot water is a myth here. It's all cold showers, I hear its healthier."
Artemis grimaced. "Well, at least it's quiet."
A sudden screech from the hallway made them both jump. General Crunch was perched on the windowsill, fur puffed up like a porcupine, staring down the motel's eccentric next-door neighbor — a gaunt man with wild hair, clutching binoculars and muttering to himself about alien conspiracies.
"He's harmless," Zane assured. "I think. He's propably just a lonley bachelor, looking for some fun."
Artemis laughed, shaking her head. "You find the weirdest places."
---
Later, as the sun bled into the horizon and painted the Washington skyline in streaks of molten gold and bruised purple, the duo settled into their makeshift stakeout. They had chosen the shadowed mouth of an abandoned parking garage across the street from the Cadmus facility—a place just quiet enough to make you paranoid.
The low hum of distant traffic blended with the occasional chirp of a night bird. Overhead, their hastily deployed drone traced lazy circles, its faint whir almost lost in the breeze.
Zane adjusted the fit of his high-tech visor, the display overlaying the squat, reinforced Cadmus building with glowing outlines and data streams. Beside him, Artemis hunched over a tablet, fingers flicking through the live camera feeds. She wore the same look she always did before trouble—half focus, half challenge—like she was waiting for the world to give her a reason to act.
"So," Artemis finally said, breaking the quiet, "This Serling person, she connected with your past."
Zane's visor reflected the building like a cold, digital mirror. "Not really, she helped me get rid of my attachments to the past."
She gave him a sideways glance, reading the slight shift in his tone. "You sure you don't want to talk about what happened back in Blüdhaven?"
She always wanted to ask. She has before but he always brushed her off with some lame jokes, clearly not wanting to talk about what he went through...about all those scars shes saw on his body...
He didn't answer immediately. His hand adjusted the visor again—too forcefully this time—and his jaw clenched for a fraction longer than a normal breath. When he did speak, his voice was lighter, but there was something strained at the edges. "Not yet. Maybe later."
Artemis kept her gaze on him a beat longer than was comfortable. She'd seen that look before—not the visor, not the tech, but the way someone's eyes got when they were replaying something behind them, over and over, like a film they couldn't stop watching. She wanted to press, but she could already tell it would only push him further into whatever dark corner he'd been keeping to himself.
"You know," she said finally, leaning back in her seat, " 'maybe later' usually means 'never.'"
Zane's mouth twitched into something that might have been a smirk. "Guess we'll find out."
The drone gave a soft ping—motion detected near the side entrance. Zane's visor zoomed in automatically, sharpening the image of two Cadmus security guards stepping out for a smoke. His posture changed instantly, tension flowing away as the mission pulled him into its gravity.
Artemis noted it. The way he could set his ghosts aside the second there was work to be done. It wasn't normal. It wasn't healthy. But it was… efficient.
And just like that, the uneasy quiet was gone, replaced by the electric hum of anticipation.
---
The night was still, broken only by the soft chirps of insects and the distant hum of traffic.
Hopefully, it would stay that way.