The Disappearance of Clara McKenzie pt. 1

(Mechanics and meta commentary will be in the footnotes.)

(Mechanic and Meta setup for this session)

September 4th, 2014

It had been a fairly routine Thursday for Rudy, and the last stragglers from the lunch rush had finally left his quiet little dive, Shepherd’s Inn, leaving behind the kind of silence only an old jukebox and Twilight Zone pinball machine can create. Cigarette smoke—most of it not Rudy’s—hung in the air, while the afternoon light snuck in through gaps in the curtains, casting visible bars of hazy illumination onto the heavily worn hardwood floor.

Rudy cleared the final dishes from the tables and returned to his usual spot behind the bar, where he could keep an eye on both the front and back doors through the dining room and kitchen, respectively. Around this time, on a typical Thursday, he’d pour himself a pint of whatever local lager he had on tap and take a short break, listening to outlaw country while he ate whatever lunch he’d decided to make for himself. It was a simple life, one Rudy hadn’t expected to live long enough to see, and now that he had it, he relished every moment of rote normalcy he could, knowing that these moments were still few and far between.

Speaking of which…

The front door’s old hinges squeaked as it opened—Rudy silently reminded himself to oil them—and a silhouetted figure, all soft edges and lumpy, round middle sections, shuffled into the bar. As Rudy’s eyes adjusted to the brief blast of sunlight, he made out the newcomer: a young man in dusty clothes, wild-haired and road-worn, with a guitar slung over his shoulder. Without hesitation, the newcomer crossed the bar directly toward Rudy, clearing his throat as he approached.

“Hey there, friend,”¹ he said with a broad grin, flashing surprisingly clean white teeth. “Don’t suppose you’d mind a little tune, huh? Just lookin’ for a warm meal and maybe a corner to sleep in for the night. Name’s Bram.”

The stranger—Bram—adjusted the guitar on his shoulder, impatiently waiting for Rudy to respond.

“I could bring in a few folks, you know? People always love a good song.”

Rudy gave Bram a slow once-over before casting an exaggerated look around the dining room: small and tight, with two booths and four standing tables, made even smaller by the jukebox and pinball machine. Anyone with eyes could see this place had never hosted live music—and probably never would.

He looked back up at Bram with a slight frown.

"Sorry, Bram, this isn’t that kinda place. The people who come here don’t really want the kinda crowd that live music brings, y’know? And there’s no stage or anything.”

He jerked his thumb to the right, westward, toward the truck stop across the street. “Have you tried LeGrande Station²? They at least have the room… Hell, you might even be able to trade a song for a meal and one of their showers.”

Bram’s grin faltered slightly as Rudy shut him down, but his eyes darted around the room, sizing up the space as if he didn’t quite believe Rudy’s assessment. He leaned his guitar against the bar, ignoring the dismissal, and adjusted his worn jacket.

“C’mon, man, you don’t have to play coy,” he said, his grin returning to full strength. “I’m not looking for the Grand Ole Opry here. Just a stool and some ears—I got a few songs that’d fit right in with what you’ve got goin’ on with the jukebox. Outlaw tunes, you know?”

Bram paused, letting his words settle, as if his music alone would be the perfect match for Shepherd’s Inn.

“The place across the street is too… polished for my taste,” he continued with a chuckle. “They wouldn’t appreciate the grit of real music if it hit ’em in the face. You look like the kind of guy who knows what I’m talkin’ about.”

He sighed, sensing his own persistence, and gave Rudy a look of honest pleading.

“Look, man, I don’t need much. Just a bite to eat, maybe a drink to get me started. I don’t have to bring the house down or anything.” Bram finished with a hopeful smile, clearly hoping his charm was starting to wear Rudy down.

Unfortunately for Bram, Rudy frowned and shook his head.

"Look, I can make you a sandwich and pour a pint of whatever we’ve got on tap—my treat—but I don’t want live music here,” he said firmly. “I could probably make a few calls to get you a ride into Stanton City, maybe even get you behind a mic, but this ain’t the place."

Bram’s eyebrows shot up, surprised by the offer of food and a drink, though he couldn’t quite hide the disappointment at the “no music” rule. He sighed, shoulders slumping as he accepted the reality that Shepherd’s Inn wouldn’t be his stage tonight.

“Alright, alright… I get it,” he said with a resigned nod. “Sandwich and a pint it is, then.”

He gave Rudy a small, appreciative nod.

“Thanks, Rudy³. Not many places’d give a drifter so much as a glance, let alone a free meal.”

He took a seat on one of the empty stools, drumming his fingers lightly on the counter as he looked around, his gaze finally settling back on Rudy.

“And, uh… maybe don’t go callin’ anyone just yet. Stanton City and I… well, let’s just say we didn’t part on the best of terms last time I was there.”

He grinned as if it were a joke, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Anyway, what does a place like Shepherd’s Inn do for entertainment, if not live music? Just… pinball and the jukebox?”

Rudy raised an eyebrow as he grabbed a clean glass to fill with a basic lager.

"I don’t recall giving you my name," he said, tone calm but scrutinizing. "Not a big deal that you know it, but usually that means you’re here with a different kind of work. Looking to hire, not looking to be hired."

Bram’s grin tightened slightly, his fingers pausing mid-drumbeat on the bar top. He let out a soft chuckle, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something sharper, like he was weighing how much to reveal.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Sharp as ever, Rudy,” he said, shrugging as if to brush it off. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised word gets around. Spend enough time rambling along back roads, you pick up names here and there. Especially folks like you.”

He leaned back a bit, eyeing Rudy with a newfound respect.

“But I’m not here to cause any trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve got my reasons for lying low, sure, but none of ’em have to do with you. Honest truth? Just hoping to pass through, maybe take a break from all the noise.”

He accepted the pint from Rudy, lifting it in a small toast before taking a slow sip, his gaze steady over the rim of the glass.

“But since we’re being all forthright... What is it you think I’d be looking to hire for?”

Rudy shook his head, more dismissively this time.

"Odd jobs here ’n there. Between Stockton down the '70 and Brindle up north, people let me know of work they need done, and I send ’em anyone who comes looking. If you’re handy with a hammer, I know of a set of deck stairs that could use fixing.”

He stepped into the small kitchen, still fully in view of Bram, to make a sandwich for the vagabond.

"Ham? Turkey?"

Bram watched Rudy move into the kitchen, his gaze shifting around the bar as if memorizing every detail of the place. He didn’t respond immediately, seeming lost in thought, but quickly snapped back to the present.

“Turkey’ll do fine, thanks,” he said, leaning back on his stool and rubbing the back of his neck with a quiet chuckle.

“Handy with a hammer... Well, let’s just say my skills lie more in the ‘artistic’ field than construction.” He tapped his fingers on the bar in a rhythm, as if playing an invisible guitar. “But good to know you’ve got an eye out for work.”

He fell quiet for a moment, as if contemplating Rudy’s words, his expression turning thoughtful.

“Sounds like you’re a pretty reliable man to know, then. A real... facilitator of things around here. Good to see folks like you still around.”

There was a strange sincerity in his tone, almost as if he’d been searching for someone like Rudy for longer than he was letting on.

Rudy worked on the sandwich while they chatted.

“Yeah, it’s somethin’, I guess,” he said with a shrug. “LeGrande caters more to the truckers and travelers, so someone’s gotta look out for the locals. When they come here, they’re not lookin’ to be entertained... just tryin’ to get in a drink between home and work, or work and home, and then get back to whatever lives they got outside these doors.”

He returned to the bar with the sandwich, setting it down in front of Bram. It was a pretty solid sandwich, all things considered, with a small dill pickle on a toothpick stabbed into the top like a tiny flag.

“I only started makin’ connections for odd jobs when one customer complained about needing more money within about ten minutes of another customer complaining they didn’t have the time to fix something around their house. Might’ve been a swamp cooler, but it’s been so long I can’t remember for sure.”

Grabbing another glass, Rudy finally poured himself a beer, glancing at Bram as he continued.

“Plus, I listen, y’know? Not a lot of people really listen. Someone says their dog or cat went missing, it’s one thing... but if three or four people say it, especially from different parts of town, well, then there’s probably somethin’ out there takin’ pets. Mountain lion, maybe. We get a few regular hunters passing through, and the local law looks the other way when they make their loads a bit lighter.”

He took a sip, his gaze shifting thoughtfully around the room, as if mentally cataloging each of his regulars and their stories.

Bram listened intently, nodding along as Rudy spoke, his eyes sharp with interest. He took a bite of the sandwich and let out a small, appreciative hum before carefully setting it down, savoring the moment.

“You know, Rudy… not a lot of folks would’ve thought to make those connections, especially for strangers who just wander in off the road.” He gestured around the bar, indicating the simplicity of the place. “You’ve made yourself the backbone of a whole… what’s the word? Network? People rely on you, sounds like. Makes you more valuable than any ol’ bartender.”

He took another sip of his drink, letting Rudy’s words sink in, a slow smile forming as he considered the possibilities.

“I bet those hunters don’t mind knowin’ someone’s got their backs like that. And the folks here… they’re probably a lot safer with someone like you keepin’ an eye out.”

Bram leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly as if confiding in Rudy.

“You ever see anything that wasn’t… normal?⁴ Somethin’ that’d make a regular guy question what’s really out there? People talkin’ about… strange things that don’t fit into the usual mountain lion story?”

His tone was casual, but there was a glint in his eyes that suggested genuine curiosity, maybe even a hint that he was searching for something specific.

“Oh, sure, everyone out here has,” Rudy replied, a hint of a smirk on his face. “Oncoming headlights that never quite materialize into a vehicle; old side roads that come and go from one pass to the next; people out in the desert where there shouldn’t be any people… but when you go check, there’s no one there, not even tracks. And, of course, this is sasquatch country,” he added with a chuckle. “There’s at least one local group of Bigfoot hunters that heads out into the woods a few times a year, looking for the proof they just know is out there.”

Bram chuckled, his fingers drumming a slow beat on the bar, clearly entertained by the stories. But there was a flicker of something else—interest, maybe even familiarity—as Rudy recounted these strange happenings.

“Ah, Bigfoot hunters… gotta love ’em. Nothing like a dedicated believer to keep things interesting.” He took another bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before glancing back at Rudy. “But I gotta say, the headlights that don’t turn into cars? Roads that vanish and reappear? Now, that’s the kinda thing that’d make even me raise an eyebrow.”

He leaned back, tapping his fingers along the rim of his pint glass, his expression turning contemplative.

“Truth be told, I’ve seen a few odd things myself, out on the road. Not quite Bigfoot, mind you, but… things that didn’t fit the picture, y’know?” He gave a small shrug, trying to play it off as casual curiosity. “You got any stories like that? The kind that make the hair on the back of your neck stand up?”

There was a hint of challenge in his voice, as if he were daring Rudy to open up just a little more.

“Nah, just old ghost stories the local kids tell around campfires,” Rudy replied, shrugging it off. But he eyed Bram with a hint of curiosity. “But you’ve seen things? Anything worth tellin’?”

Bram raised his eyebrows, clearly intrigued by Rudy’s question. He paused, as if weighing how much to share, then leaned in with a conspiratorial grin.

“Alright, you asked for it.” He took a slow sip of his beer, letting the suspense build before he continued. “Couple years back, I was out near the Nevada border. Hitchin’ along as usual, lookin’ to catch a ride before nightfall. Got picked up by this old trucker who didn’t say much, which suited me just fine. We’re drivin’ along in silence when, all of a sudden, the whole cab gets hit with this awful smell. Like… rotting meat, but worse, if you can imagine it.”

He grimaced, shaking his head as if the memory alone was unpleasant.

“Next thing I know, the headlights catch something crossing the road up ahead—a figure, shrouded in darkness. Looked human… but it wasn’t moving right. Too stiff. The trucker slams on the brakes, and we just sit there, watchin’ as this… thing, whatever it was, drifts across the road and disappears into the desert. Neither of us says a word.”

He leaned back, tapping his fingers against his pint glass as he let the story sink in.

“When I looked over at him, the trucker just shakes his head and says, ‘That ain’t the first time.’ Then he drops me off at the next town, no questions, no goodbyes. Just leaves me there, like he’s been doin’ this forever.”

Bram shrugged, trying to play it off casually, though his gaze sharpened as he watched Rudy’s reaction.

“Could’ve been a trick of the light, I guess. Or maybe the desert’s just got a way of messin’ with folks’ heads. But that smell? I’ll never forget it.”

Rudy nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ve heard truckers talk about things like that… usually chalk it up to being on the road too long, driving into the night when they should be pulled over and sleeping. But what’d you make of it?”

Bram tilted his head, considering the question, his gaze drifting to a distant point as he recalled the memory.

“I mean, sure, it could’ve been a long-haul fever dream. But there was something about that thing on the road… felt real, y’know? Like it wasn’t just a trick of the eyes.” He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the collar of his worn jacket. “Whatever it was, I got the sense it didn’t belong there. Like it was… out of place, maybe even out of time.”

He shook his head, giving a short, dry laugh.

“I don’t know, man. Could’ve been anything. But there’s somethin’ about the wide-open spaces out here that lets all the weirdness crawl out from the cracks, if you know what I mean. The world’s big enough that not everything gets to be explained.”

Bram leaned forward, lowering his voice to a near whisper, his tone almost confessional.

“But if I had to put my finger on it? I’d say there’s somethin’ in those deserts and mountains that ain’t meant for folks like us to understand.”

He sat back, watching Rudy with a look that was equal parts curiosity and respect, as if gauging just how much Rudy believed in the mysteries lurking beyond the ordinary.

Rudy nodded again, taking a slow sip of his beer.

“I’ve heard that on one of these old back roads, there’s sometimes a worn-over path that leads to an old ghost town. Now, we’re in the ‘Wild West’—or what’s left of it—but most ghost towns are already on the map. Tourist spots. Anyway, this place is different, enough so that everyone who finds it ends up poking around till the sun goes down. Sometimes they decide to camp, sometimes they think it’s time to head back. But that’s when they realize… the road out of town is either gone or just loops right back, putting them right back in this ghost town.”

He took another drink, his eyes distant, as though picturing the place.

“So, when folks finally give in, accepting they’re stuck there till morning, that’s when they start seeing things. People showing up, all dressed in old Western gear like they’re reenacting somethin’. But they don’t acknowledge the ones who are stuck there. I’ve heard stories of gunfights breaking out in the streets—whoever gets shot vanishes before anyone can check on them. But the most common sight? A sham trial, some kind of mock court, where a Native American man is dragged out, sentenced, then marched to the gallows and hung.”

Rudy’s voice dropped slightly, almost reverent.

“From what I’ve heard, that body stays there till sunrise… and only then do the travelers find they can leave, no problem.”

Bram listened with rapt attention, his eyes widening slightly as Rudy spun the tale. He seemed to hang on every word, nodding occasionally, and when Rudy finished, he let out a slow, low whistle.

“Now that… that’s somethin’ else, Rudy. And you’re tellin’ me folks actually make it out of there? They see all that—gunfights, gallows, ghosts, the whole show—and then just walk right back into the world like nothin’ happened?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, meeting Rudy’s gaze directly.

“Ever heard of anyone who didn’t make it out? Who just… disappeared with that old town?”

There was an edge to his voice, almost a challenge, as if he were both skeptical and secretly hoping that Rudy had another story to back it up.

Rudy shook his head.

“Nothing that specific. There are always missing people, sure, but my guess is most of them just fucked off down the highway, left whatever life they had here behind. Or maybe tried to disappear into the desert for the same reason… and didn’t make it back out.”

He paused, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“But you know what they say… how would I know someone disappeared with the town if they never made it back to tell the tale?”

Bram let out a bark of laughter, clearly amused by Rudy’s logic. He raised his glass in a mock toast, grinning wide.

“Touché, my friend. Fair point. Guess if the town did swallow someone up, we’d never be the wiser. Makes it even creepier, if you ask me.”

He took a sip, the laughter fading as his gaze shifted, thoughtful once more.

“You know… I’m startin’ to think I came to the right place. Seems like King County’s got more stories tucked away than most folks’ll see in a lifetime.”

He eyed Rudy with a newfound curiosity, his tone lowering.

“Ever feel like all these stories, these… sightings—they’re just the surface? That there’s somethin’ deeper goin’ on? Like maybe they’re all connected in ways we just can’t see?”

Rudy wandered over to the front door, opening it just enough to fish a white padded envelope⁵ from the mailbox outside before heading back to his spot behind the bar.

“Oh, sure… but isn’t that what we do? As people, I mean. We look for patterns in coincidence, try to make things mean more than they do. Try to find a rhyme and a reason for why life isn’t easy, why bad things happen to good people.”

He shrugged, glancing down as he absently turned the envelope over in his hands.

“But I try not to linger on it. If there is some grand conspiracy, what’s a bartender from King County, Colorado, gonna do about it?”

Bram watched Rudy retrieve the envelope, his gaze flicking from the package back to Rudy with keen interest. He nodded slowly, taking in Rudy’s words with a thoughtful expression.

“Guess you’re right. It’s just in our nature to dig around in the muck, tryin’ to make sense of things that probably aren’t meant to be understood.”

He took another sip of his beer, then gestured casually toward the envelope in Rudy’s hand.

“Though, speakin’ of patterns… you get a lot of mystery mail, or is this a special delivery?”

He raised an eyebrow, curiosity plain on his face.

Rudy examined the envelope, noticing what Bram had already picked up on—no markings, no address, no return information, and no stamp.

“Can’t say this is normal.”

He pulled a sturdy buck knife from his pocket and used it to slice open the envelope.

“It’s probably some kind of multi-level-marketing scheme, or maybe a local realtor dropping these in every mailbox in the area.”

But as he looked inside, his eyebrows furrowed. He reached in and pulled out an unmarked audio cassette.

“But… this doesn’t look like any of that.”

Bram’s eyes narrowed as he studied the cassette, a strange mixture of curiosity and unease creeping into his expression. He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, watching Rudy with genuine intrigue.

“An unmarked tape? Now, that’s old-school… and a little unsettling, if I’m bein’ honest. Who drops off a random cassette in the middle of nowhere without so much as a name?”

He gestured toward the jukebox, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, it’s your call, but… aren’t you the least bit curious? I know I’d have to give it a listen. ’Course, could just be someone’s terrible mixtape, too.”

There was a glint of mischief in his eyes, though his gaze kept flicking back to the tape, as if he suspected it held something more than just music.

Rudy raised an eyebrow at Bram.

“Maybe it’s some hitch-hiking guitarist’s demo tape, lookin’ in all the wrong places for a gig.”

He set the envelope and cassette on the bar before disappearing into the back. A moment later, he returned with a small silver boom box—about the size of a shoebox—with a built-in cassette deck.

Bram laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender, though a flicker of nerves showed in his eyes as Rudy set the boom box on the bar.

“Hey now, if I were droppin’ off demo tapes, I’d at least put my name on it. Can’t get famous with an anonymous cassette, right?”

He watched with barely concealed anticipation as Rudy positioned the boom box. The dim light caught on the silver surface, and for a moment, it felt as if the room itself held its breath.

“Well… let’s see what mystery gift we’ve got here.”

He leaned in slightly, his expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension, fingers drumming lightly on the bar as Rudy prepared to press play.

Rudy popped the cassette into the old boom box and pressed play. For a few moments, there was only silence, then a burst of static crackling softly before any voices came through. Slowly, faint sounds began to emerge—muffled voices and the quiet clinking of glasses, as though captured from a distant room.

A woman’s voice, tense and nervous, broke through the noise.

“I just don’t feel safe anymore, Danny. Ever since that night… something isn’t right. I keep seeing shadows, and the way people look at me… it’s like they know something.”

A man’s voice replied, calm but firm. “You need to let it go, Clara. You’re just imagining things. No one’s out to get you. Just focus on your job. It’ll blow over.”

“But I heard them! I heard the whispers when I was closing up.” She paused, her voice barely above a whisper. “Something about a sacrifice… a ritual in the woods. I can’t ignore it. I think they’re watching me.”

In the background, the sound of a door creaking open and footsteps echoed, growing closer.

“Listen,” Danny continued, his tone suddenly urgent, “if you keep talking like this, you’ll put yourself in danger. Just keep your head down, alright? Promise me you won’t say anything to anyone.”

“I can’t. I have to tell someone! I don’t want to end up like—”⁶

The tape abruptly cut off, the voices replaced by a sudden rush of static before fading back into silence.

The room fell quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the boom box as the tape stopped. Even the jukebox and pinball machine seemed to dim their noise, as if in response to the tape’s unsettling message.

Bram’s face had lost some of its usual cheer, replaced by a thoughtful, almost grim expression. He cleared his throat, glancing at Rudy.

“Well… that’s one hell of a message to drop off anonymously. Sounds like Clara was into somethin’ she shouldn’t’ve been.”

He tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the bar, the unease in his eyes reflecting the tension hanging in the room.

“Any idea who those two might be? Locals, maybe? Or some trouble from out of town?”

He offered a small, cautious smile, but it was clear he was more shaken by the tape than he was letting on.

Rudy’s cheerful demeanor turned to stone as the voices on the tape identified each other, his face going blank.

“Yeah, I have an idea.” His voice was steady but edged with something hard. “I’m sorry, Bram, but I’ve gotta ask you to leave while I look into this. You can finish your meal, of course, but if this is what I think it is… it’s urgent.”

Bram’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he gave a respectful nod, clearly sensing the gravity of Rudy’s reaction.

“I get it. Sounds like there’s more to this than I thought.”

He picked up his sandwich, taking one last bite, chewing thoughtfully as he watched Rudy for a moment.

“If you need a hand… or just someone to keep an eye out, you know where to find me.⁷ Folks like us don’t cross paths by accident.”

Sliding off the stool, he left a few crumpled bills on the bar in thanks, offering Rudy a final, understanding nod.

“Take care, Rudy. Sounds like you’ve got some shadows to chase.”

With that, he made his way to the door, casting one last glance over his shoulder before stepping out into the dim afternoon light.

As if on cue⁸, before the door could even finish shutting, a woman stepped through. She had dark brown hair, almost black, and warm brown skin with a faint olive undertone⁹. Dressed in a simple white button-down blouse, clean khaki slacks, and high-heel pumps, she removed a pair of oversized sunglasses as she stepped into the dim bar.

Before she could make her way to the bar or take a seat, Rudy spoke up.

“Hey, I’m sorry, but I’m closed. Well, closing… I was just about to turn the sign off.”

The woman paused just inside the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the bar before settling on Rudy. She offered a small, composed smile, her eyes taking in every detail of the room—and of Rudy himself. There was something poised and deliberate about her movements, and even as she stood there, she exuded a quiet confidence that felt out of place in the bar’s worn-down surroundings.

“You’re Rudy, right?” she asked, her voice smooth and calm, with a hint of an accent that was hard to place. “It’s been a while. Though, if I recall, we weren’t exactly on a first-name basis back then.”

Ignoring his mention of closing, she stepped forward and slid her sunglasses into her bag.

“But you do recognize me, don’t you?”

There was a subtle gleam in her eyes as she studied him, as if she were gauging just how much he remembered.

Rudy narrowed his eyes, trying to get a clearer look at her through his aging vision, all the while still wiping down the bar to finish closing up.

“You look familiar… almost like…” He paused, studying her carefully. “Are you related to Amina Kahn?”

The woman’s lips twitched slightly, as if amused by Rudy’s question. She stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on the bar.

“Not related, no. It’s me, Rudy—Dr. Amina Kahn.” She paused, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Or, I suppose, just Amina now.”

She studied his face for a reaction, and there was a flicker of something in her eyes: part nostalgia, part challenge.

“You look… well. Surprised to see me?”

There was a subtle, almost playful edge in her tone, though her gaze remained steady and serious.

Rudy raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

“You’re fucking with me, right? I haven’t seen Dr. Kahn in almost 20 years, and you’re barely older than that.”

Amina let out a quiet laugh, a sound both knowing and tinged with bittersweet familiarity. She met Rudy’s gaze, her expression softening as if prepared for his skepticism.

“I knew you’d say that.” She sighed, placing both hands on the bar as if bracing herself. “But it’s me, Rudy. Time hasn’t been… quite the same for me as it has for you. I’ve had some… let’s call them unconventional experiences since we last saw each other.”

She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a murmur, as if sharing a secret.

“I wouldn’t blame you for not believing it, but I didn’t come all this way to play a joke. I’m here because of you.”

Her gaze sharpened, her eyes searching his face for understanding.

Rudy looked at her, a solemn understanding settling over his face. In the width of a breath, his mind flashed back to his years in the United States Marine Corps. It felt like a different life altogether—a life filled with harsh desert heat, whispered orders, and shadows that hid more than they revealed. His unit had been a strange collection of soldiers, handpicked for their experiences with the supernatural, yet Amina had always stood apart¹⁰. Officially, she was just a scientist assigned to support them, yet she’d carried a quiet authority that made all of them—soldiers hardened by the unnatural—take her seriously.

Back then, Amina had been untouchable, a figure he and the other soldiers could only admire from a distance. Sure, there was flirting, but none of them had gotten close to her, as far as Rudy knew¹¹. In any case, his unit hadn’t survived long enough to see if any real connection could develop. One final mission had torn them apart, leaving him alone and dishonored, haunted by memories of his fallen friends. Now, standing before him, was a version of Amina who hadn’t aged a day. Whatever experiences she’d hinted at, they must have been extraordinary.

“Okay,” he said simply, and took a deep breath before continuing.

“You knew this world was darker than anyone let on when we met. Full of… ‘unconventional’ things. My unit wouldn’t have been in contact with you if you didn’t already know that.”

He reached beneath the bar, pulling out a couple of shot glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels, pouring them both a shot.

“To old friends, then,” he said, sliding one of the shots her way before downing his own in a single, practiced motion.

Amina’s face softened as she watched Rudy pour the shots, a hint of warmth flickering through her otherwise composed expression. She picked up the glass he slid over, studying the amber liquid for a moment before meeting his gaze. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she raised the shot in a quiet toast.

“To old friends… and old secrets.”

She downed the shot in one smooth motion, setting the glass back down with a quiet clink. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes, as if savoring the familiarity of the burn. When she opened them again, her gaze was steady, carrying the weight of unspoken things.

“Rudy, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t come just out of curiosity or nostalgia.” She paused, her voice dropping slightly. “My employers… they want something from you. They sent me to make contact, but… I’m not even sure what exactly they’re after.”

She studied his face, gauging his reaction, before continuing.

“I’d have warned you sooner, but I only just arrived myself. Whatever it is they want… it’s something they think you know.”

Rudy frowned, his brows knitting together as he tried to make sense of it.

“I can’t think of anything I’d know that’d be worth paying you to come halfway around the world to find me. Why you, anyway? You’re a scientist—or at least, you were. Not an investigator.”

Amina’s gaze shifted slightly, a shadow passing over her expression as she considered his question.

“That’s exactly what I asked them, Rudy. Why me? I’m no private eye, no bounty hunter. But they insisted, said it had to be someone you already knew… someone you’d trust.”

She looked down at her empty glass, idly running a fingertip around the rim, as if lost in thought.

“As for what you know… that’s the part that bothers me. They’ve been vague, to say the least. Just enough to get me here, with promises of answers I’ve been looking for myself.”

Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, and she lifted her eyes to meet his again.

“But they know something about me—about what I’ve become. They made it clear that if I didn’t find you, they’d come looking on their own.”

She leaned forward, her tone turning earnest, almost pleading.

“Rudy, if there’s anything, even a hint of something you remember from back then… now’s the time to share it. This isn’t just about me following orders anymore.”

He shook his head.

“I tried to leave all of that behind. It doesn’t let go easily, but I’m not chasing after it like I once was.”

He poured himself another shot and downed it, then set the bottle on the counter between them.

“Only Doc and I got out of the sandbox, and I don’t know where he’s at. Before that, we took out some big targets—high priority, highly public in some cases—but those are all on record. I can’t think of anything I learned in the six months I was chasing Doc around the Mediterranean. I wasn’t researching… just hunting.”

A memory flickered, unbidden: Doc Mabey, the unit’s medic, someone Rudy had trusted completely. One night, they’d been on opposite sides of their camp, keeping watch. It was supposed to be routine. But when Rudy returned, he’d walked into a nightmare—his entire unit dead, caught in their sleep, or close to it, and torn apart before they could fight back.

Doc had vanished. All Rudy knew was that whatever had happened that night, Doc was at the center of it. Consumed by rage and the need for answers, he’d tracked Doc across the northern Mediterranean, from one war-torn town to the next. He’d been caught and thrown in military prison before he could finish the hunt.

Rudy shook his head again, searching for a reason behind Amina’s sudden reappearance.

“Amina, I don’t know anything special. Nothing anyone with money and connections couldn’t easily learn.”

Amina listened intently, her expression shifting from focused to frustrated as Rudy spoke. She leaned back, pressing her fingers against her temples, clearly trying to make sense of his response.

“You’re probably right. But whoever’s behind this? They don’t seem to think so. They’re convinced you have… something. Some key or clue that’s eluded them.”

She glanced down at the bottle between them, her fingers hovering over it before deciding against another shot. Instead, she fixed Rudy with a steady, almost desperate gaze.

“Rudy, I didn’t come here to strong-arm you. I just need to know if there’s even a possibility—something you might’ve stumbled on back then, without realizing it. Even something small. Because if I go back empty-handed…”

She trailed off, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“These people don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Her eyes softened, and she reached out, placing a hand on his forearm in a rare gesture of familiarity.

“I don’t want to bring trouble to your door. But if there’s anything you’ve kept to yourself, even something you don’t think is important… please, tell me. I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t life or death.”

“I’m sorry, Amina, but I think they’ve sent you on a fool’s errand. Anything they think I know probably died with the rest of the unit in Saudi Arabia.”

He took the bottle and slid it back under the bar, then gathered the shot glasses and placed them in a nearby bussing tray.

“I’d love to catch up, but something just fell in my lap that restarted… well, something I thought I was done with. Another something, anyway.” He looked at her with a touch of genuine curiosity. “Are you staying in Stanton? Will you be in town long?”

Amina sighed, her shoulders slumping as the weight of Rudy’s words sank in. She gave him a small, resigned nod, though a flicker of frustration lingered in her eyes.

“I should’ve known it wouldn’t be as simple as they made it sound.” She forced a tight smile, her expression softening just slightly. “But thanks for being straight with me. It’s… more than I expected.”

She straightened, slipping her sunglasses back on, regaining a bit of her composure.

“Yeah, I’ll be staying in Stanton, at least for a few days. I need to check in with my… employers, but after that, maybe I’ll stick around. Never been to King County before; maybe it’ll be a nice change of pace.”

She hesitated, as if weighing her next words, then added quietly, “Listen, if you run into trouble with that ‘something’ that landed in your lap… don’t hesitate to call. I may not be the same scientist you knew, but I haven’t forgotten everything.”

With that, she gave Rudy a final nod and made her way toward the door, pausing briefly to look back.

“Take care of yourself, Rudy. It’s a darker world than it used to be.”

And with that, she slipped out, leaving the bar in a strange, tense quiet.

Rudy watched Amina leave, a swirl of confusion settling in his chest. He let out a long sigh, lowering his head to gather his thoughts.

With his head down, he noticed something left behind on the bar—a business card. He picked it up, turning it over thoughtfully before slipping it into his wallet. Then, moving with the motions of a routine he’d performed a thousand times, he walked to the door she’d just gone through, locking it and switching off the “Open” sign.

(Mechanics and Meta: Let’s Talk About Amina!)

---

(Mechancis and Meta: Driving Scene Setup (Contains minor spoilers for the next bit))

Within a few minutes, he was in his old Ford truck, merging onto I-70, heading west toward Stanton City. As he pulled onto the on-ramp, he caught a glimpse of Bram just off the main road, loading his guitar and backpack into the trunk of a newer Audi. The scene gave him pause, but he didn’t take the time to stop… maybe Bram had found himself a ride, after all.

Rudy kept driving, the hum of the road doing little to quiet the questions buzzing in his mind.

As Rudy merged onto the I-70, the hum of the old truck filled the cab, a steady rhythm that was almost comforting against the backdrop of the strange events that had just unfolded. Amina's unexpected appearance, the eerie tape, and now Bram catching a ride out of town with someone in a suspiciously high-end car—it all nagged at him, a series of loose threads just waiting to unravel.

The road stretched ahead, winding through the dusky landscape, the sun dipping low behind him. Shadows cast by the fading light seemed to stretch longer, pooling in the corners of his vision as if something unseen was lurking just out of reach. As he drove west, the glow of the sunset glared at him in the rearview mirror, and he reached up to adjust it, annoyed by the blinding light.

But as he tilted the mirror, something in the reflection made him freeze.

A figure was standing in the bed of the truck—a small-framed young woman with short blonde hair, her arms lined with faint outlines of tattoos. Clara. The exact person he was looking for, impossibly here, right behind him.

The shock of seeing her there held him still for only a moment, but that was all Fate needed to slip in a bit of bad luck. A massive THUD jolted him back to reality as the truck lurched violently to the right, tires screeching against the asphalt before veering completely off the shoulder. Rudy gripped the wheel, his mind snapping to the road—or rather, the side of the road now—and managed to regain control just as the truck skidded to a halt, narrowly missing the ditch¹².

Heart pounding, he jumped out, instinctively checking the bed of the truck to see if Clara was okay. But the bed was empty, dust and dirt undisturbed, as though no one had ever been there at all.

Confused, he took a breath to steady himself before turning his attention to the front of the truck. The passenger-side headlight was smashed, along with the fender, the grill, and the corner of the hood. Greasy blood splattered across the metal, mingling with tufts of brown fur stuck to the crumpled metal.

He’d hit a deer. He hit a fucking deer.

He closed his eyes briefly, taking in the surreal events—first Clara’s impossible appearance, and now this. Hell of a day, he thought, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that was slowly settling in his bones.

Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, the glow of the screen a stark contrast against the dim landscape. It was a message from a blocked number:

“We know you’re close, Rudy. Don’t try to run.”

He scanned the empty road around him, the text unsettlingly direct. Whoever sent it knew where he was. And, by the look of things, they were close enough to watch him.

The silence settled thickly around him, broken only by the faint creak of cooling metal from the truck’s engine. Whatever had happened tonight—whether it was ghosts, shadows, or his own mind playing tricks—it was clear that this journey was not going to be straightforward.

Rudy returned to the diver’s side of the truck, opened the door, and fished behind the seat for a flashlight, only to come up empty¹³. Resigned to Plan B, he flicked his cigarette lighter and crouched down to use its small flame to assess the damage. A steady stream of liquid was dripping from the engine bay, and for a moment, panic flared¹⁴. Standing up, he quickly popped the hood and checked the radiator. Thankfully, the radiator was intact; it was just the windshield wiper fluid reservoir that had cracked¹⁵… nothing major, but annoying nonetheless.

Next, he moved to inspect the tire and wheel well. The fender was bent, but it wasn’t rubbing against the tire, and the tire itself seemed fine, still holding air.

Satisfied with the truck’s condition, Rudy’s thoughts shifted to the deer. Knowing what he’d have to do if he found the deer alive¹⁶, his hand reached for the small of his back to check his M1911, feeling the familiar weight of the pistol. He pulled it out briefly, checked the magazine, and re-holstered it before heading back down the road.

When he reached the deer¹⁷, he was relieved to see it had been killed on impact¹⁸. He took a moment to pull the animal onto the shoulder, clearing the road for any other cars that might come through.

Just as he was finishing, another vehicle pulled over, its headlights cutting through the dusk¹⁹. A second later, red and blue lights flicked on, casting a pulsing glow across the road²⁰.

Rudy sighed. Great… now I have to deal with the cops, too.

Straightening up, he brushed his hands on his jeans and turned to face the approaching officer, offering a faint, practiced smile.

“Evening, Officer,” Rudy said, his tone steady. “Yeah… I hit a deer. It’s dead, and it fucked up my truck, but I’m fine.”

He nodded toward the front of the truck, watching as the deputy’s flashlight beam traced over the cracked headlight, bent fender, and the remnants of blood on the grill. The young officer grimaced slightly, sympathetic but clearly relieved that no human injury was involved.

"Doesn't look like anything too serious," Rudy added. "Radiator’s fine, just lost some windshield wiper fluid. Tires are holding air, so I should be good to limp my way into Stanton."

The officer nodded, his earnest expression softening. "Well, that's a relief. Still, I’ll write up a quick report—standard procedure. Won't take but a minute."

As the officer pulled out his notepad, Rudy glanced over to the deer lying on the shoulder, casting a quick look up and down the empty road. The thought of recent events—the cryptic tape, Amina’s warning, the strange figure in his rearview mirror—lingered at the edge of his mind, but he kept his expression carefully neutral.

The deputy finished jotting down the notes, then looked up, nodding toward Rudy with a hint of curiosity.

“Need a hand with anything else, sir? Otherwise, I’d say you’re good to go.”

Rudy shook his head and answers, “no, I’m good.”

The deputy glanced back at the deer, his expression shifting slightly, as if something about it was bothering him.

“You know, it’s odd…” he said slowly. “Don’t usually see ‘em out on this stretch at this time of year. They tend to stick to the woods. Could be somethin’ spooked it, drove it toward the road.” He cast a curious look at Rudy, as though wondering if he’d noticed anything unusual himself.

“Anything else strange on your way through?”

Rudy shook his head. "No, nothing out of the ordinary," he replied. "Anything I need to be cautious of? It is weird that the deer would be out, this time of year..."

The deputy nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward the darkening woods just beyond the road.

“We’ve had a couple calls lately,” he said, his voice low. “Locals saying they’ve heard strange noises out in the woods—more than the usual coyotes, if you catch my drift.” He shrugged, trying to downplay it, but a glint of unease flickered in his eyes. “Might just be folks jumpin’ at shadows, but with the season shiftin’ and all… well, sometimes the wildlife acts strange when things are about to change.”

He lowered his voice a notch, leaning in slightly. “There’s also been a handful of… disappearances, let’s call ‘em. Nothing proven, but enough to keep my eye open. We’re advising folks to stick to the main roads, especially after dark. You know how it is around here.”

The deputy glanced back at his car, then at Rudy, his expression one of cautious concern.

“I’ll let you get on your way if you’re good to go. But keep an eye out. Sometimes it’s better to be a little paranoid, especially ‘round King County.”

Rudy chuckled dryly.

"Yeah… sometimes I think this place is cursed, y'know? Bad things happen in King County."

He made his way back to his truck, giving the deputy a nod of thanks before climbing into the cab.

The officer watched him for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, before nodding, agreeing with Rudy.

“Can’t say you’re wrong, sir. Seems like trouble has a way of finding folks here.” He tipped his hat, stepping back as Rudy climbed into the truck.

“Take care out there, Rudy. Roads don’t feel right tonight.”

With a final, respectful nod, the deputy returned to his patrol car. As Rudy pulled back onto the road, the red and blue lights faded into the distance, leaving him alone with a nagging feeling that refused to settle. Between the strange sighting of Clara in the rearview mirror and the officer’s quiet warning, an uneasy tension had set in, following him down the dark stretch of highway.

Once inside the truck, Rudy took a moment to check the cab, gathering up the trash and loose papers that had slid around during the chaos. Among the clutter, he searched for the tape. He’d brought it with him, thinking it might be useful, and had set on the seat before hitting the road. But as he rifled through the cab, it was nowhere to be found.

Frowning, he fished under the bench seat, checked every corner, and even scanned the ground outside, wondering if it might have slipped out when he got out to inspect the deer. Still, nothing.

For a brief, uneasy moment, he wondered if the deputy had somehow taken it while he’d been distracted. But no… that didn’t make sense. The officer hadn’t even been close to the cab. Still, the cassette was gone.

With a resigned sigh, Rudy lit a cigarette, the faint glow momentarily casting his face in shadowed relief, and settled back into the driver’s seat. He took a long drag, flicked the ash out the window, and finally pulled back onto the highway. Stanton City lay ahead, but the unsettling feeling of the night clung to him like smoke, winding through his thoughts as he drove into the dark.

---

Rudy pulled into the parking lot of Meg’s Diner, the neon sign flickering faintly against the encroaching dusk. As he stepped out of the truck, the familiar smell of fried food and freshly brewed coffee hit him, comforting in a way he hadn’t expected. The place hadn’t changed much since he first started coming here, and a wave of nostalgia washed over him as he headed inside.

The bell above the door jingled, and the interior welcomed him with a warm blast of chatter and clinking dishes. Meg’s was bustling, with a few regulars scattered in booths and perched at the bar, nursing mugs of coffee as they settled in for the evening. The walls were lined with faded, framed photos from the diner’s early years, neon signs advertising pie and burgers, and checkered tile floors that seemed perpetually sticky.

Behind the counter, a middle-aged waitress glanced up — Trish, according to her nametag, though Rudy could never forget her — her face lighting up in recognition. She wiped her hands on her apron and approached him with a practiced smile.

“Well, if it isn’t Rudy,” she said. “Been a while. Usual booth?”

She nodded toward a small booth near the back, where he often took his coffee and eggs on his stops through town. Her gaze lingered on him with a hint of curiosity, as if sensing there was more to his visit tonight.

He smiled at Trish and shrugged.

"Sure, but I don’t know if I’ll be staying long. Are you busy, or do you have a minute to talk?”

Trish raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. She glanced over her shoulder at the other tables, each one well in hand, and then nodded with a friendly smile.

“For you, Rudy? I can spare a minute. What’s on your mind?”

She grabbed a coffee pot from the warmer, filling his cup as they made their way to the booth. Once he was settled, she slid into the seat across from him, folding her arms on the table and giving him her full attention.

“So, what’s up? You don’t usually come in here with that look on your face.”

Her voice was light, but a hint of concern flickered in her eyes as she studied him.

He sighed, bracing himself for the conversation. He knew this wouldn’t be easy—Trish had been Clara and Danny’s supervisor, and she’d taken it hard when Clara went missing.

“Do you remember Danny?” he asked, his tone careful. “One of the cooks from a few years back? Clara’s friend?”

Trish’s face softened, her guarded smile fading as Rudy mentioned Clara and Danny. She set down the coffee pot, her fingers lingering on it for a moment as she gathered her thoughts.

“Of course I remember Danny. And Clara…” Her voice trailed off, a hint of sadness creeping in. “Hard to forget, y’know? That girl was like family. Always eager to help, always had that spark. Losing her like that, without a trace… well, it hit all of us pretty hard.”

She shifted in her seat, glancing down at the table before meeting Rudy’s gaze again.

“Last I heard, Danny moved out of town. Took it bad, her disappearance. Blamed himself, I think, for not being able to protect her or something.” She paused, searching his face. “But… what’s bringing them up now, Rudy? Did something happen?”

Her eyes held a mixture of hope and apprehension, searching his for answers.

Rudy took a sip of his black coffee as Trish spoke, letting her words sink in.

"Something came up," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "But I can’t really talk about it... I’m sorry. I think it’s related to Clara’s disappearance, though, and it involves Danny. Do you happen to have his number, or maybe know anyone else who might know how to get a hold of him?”

Trish’s eyes narrowed slightly, her expression shifting from concern to a mix of intrigue and caution. She leaned forward, lowering her voice, as if speaking about Clara and Danny required a certain level of discretion.

“I don’t have his number, but I remember he was close with a guy named Mike Hastings,” she murmured. “Mike’s another one who’s been here forever, like you and me. Works over at the auto body shop by the old train station—you know the place?”

She paused, drumming her fingers lightly on the table.

“If anyone knows where Danny might’ve gone, it’s Mike. They were close back then, and I’d bet he’s still in touch.” Her gaze settled on him, a flicker of unease in her eyes. “Just… be careful, Rudy. Whatever it is you’re sniffin’ out, I don’t want to see you end up where Clara did.”

There was a raw honesty in her tone, a sense that she knew just enough about King County’s shadows to worry about Rudy getting too close to them.

Rudy glanced at the old analog clock above the kitchen door, noting it wasn’t too late yet. The body shop had probably closed about a half hour ago, so with any luck, Mike might still be there.

“Thanks, Trish. I know the place… actually need to get some body work done myself—hit a deer on the way over.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Everything’s okay, it just busted up my headlight.”

He took another pull from his coffee mug before setting it down, unfinished. Standing up, he fished a few bills from his wallet—thankfully, Amina’s card was still there—and handed them to Trish.

“For the coffee, and your time.”

Trish accepted the bills with a small, grateful nod, slipping them into her apron pocket as she watched Rudy with a mix of fondness and worry.

“Take care, Rudy. And if you find anything—about Clara, I mean—don’t keep it to yourself. Folks around here… well, they might not say it, but they haven’t forgotten her.”

She gave him a warm, sincere smile before turning to pour a refill for a regular down the counter. The diner hummed on behind him as Rudy headed toward the door, the soft ticking of the clock above the kitchen marking each step he took toward answers long buried.

Outside, the evening air was thick with the familiar scent of dust and grease. The old auto body shop by the train station wasn’t far, and as he approached, he spotted the faint glow of light spilling from the garage windows—someone was still inside.

Rudy quickly debated whether it was close enough to walk, but with time being of the essence, he decided to drive. Pulling into the body shop’s lot, he parked and headed to the door. The “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign was flipped in the window, but the door itself was unlocked²¹.

He pushed the door open, setting off a bundle of jingle bells hanging from the inside push-bar, though he didn’t step fully inside.

“Knock, knock,” he half-shouted into the dim building. “I’m looking for Mike Hastings… any chance he’s still around?”

From somewhere in the back, a voice called out, “Yeah, just one minute.²²”

Giving Mike his “minute,” Rudy stepped back outside and lit up another cigarette, exhaling slowly as he waited.

As Rudy took a drag, he heard the faint clang of metal and the hum of machinery powering down from the back of the shop. After a moment, the door swung open, and a tall, wiry man with graying hair and grease-stained hands stepped out. Mike Hastings, wearing a worn denim jacket over a shop shirt, wiped his hands on a rag and squinted at Rudy through the dim light.

“Didn’t expect anyone this late,” Mike said, studying Rudy’s face. “You’re Rudy, right? Seen you around Meg’s a few times.” He gave a nod of recognition, his eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and caution. “What brings you by this time of night?”

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms as he sized Rudy up, clearly curious about the reason behind his visit.

“Yeah, it’s Rudy,” he replied with a friendly smile. “I can’t say I recognize you, but maybe you’ve got a better memory for names and faces than I do.” He gave a dismissive gesture, as if it didn’t really matter.

“I’m not looking to take up much of your time, and I don’t need body work… at least, not immediately,” he added, glancing over at his truck and finally taking in the extent of the damage.

“Trish over at Meg’s said you were friends with Danny and that if anyone knew how to get in touch with him, it’d be you. Something came up about Clara, and I need to talk to Danny to get more information.”

Mike’s expression shifted, a guarded look crossing his face at the mention of Clara and Danny. He tucked the rag into his back pocket, studying Rudy for a long moment before nodding slowly.

“Yeah, I knew Danny pretty well. We were close back when… well, when things were simpler.” He paused, clearly weighing his words, and his gaze flicked to the ground for a moment before continuing. “Haven’t seen him much since he took off, but I do have a number I can try. He keeps it pretty close to the chest, though; wasn’t too keen on staying in touch after Clara… you know.”

Mike glanced over his shoulder into the shop, as if checking that no one else was listening, then leaned in slightly toward Rudy.

“Look, I don’t know what kind of trouble Danny might’ve gotten himself into or if this is gonna dig up things better left buried… but if it’s about Clara, it might be worth it.”

He pulled a beat-up flip phone from his jacket pocket, scrolling through a few contacts before scribbling a number on a scrap of paper and handing it to Rudy.

“Here. Just… don’t mention that it came from me, alright? Danny’s not the same as he was back then.”

Rudy nodded, taking the paper from Mike’s hand.

“Thanks, Mike. I’ll keep your name out of it. I don’t want to drag anyone else into this, either... I just want to find Clara and give some people closure, you know?”

Mike nodded, his expression softening slightly at Rudy’s words.

“I get it. Clara was… good people. She didn’t deserve whatever happened to her.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, a flicker of old pain evident in his eyes. “Just be careful, Rudy. Danny’s been through a lot. If he thinks you’re sniffing around too closely, he might not take it well.”

He hesitated for a moment, then gave Rudy a firm nod, as if coming to terms with whatever might come of this.

“If you need anything—help with the truck or anything else—you know where to find me.”

With that, Mike stepped back into the shop, offering Rudy a final nod before letting the door close behind him. Alone in the dim parking lot, Rudy glanced down at the scrap of paper, the hastily scrawled number staring back at him. The lead to Danny felt like a small victory, though it was tinged with the unease of the unknown ahead.

Rudy returned to his beat up truck and started back down the road, the weight of all he’d learned settling heavily on his mind as he drove back to Shepherd's Inn. The quiet of King County at night felt even more unsettling now, with each shadow stretching long under the dim streetlights. After parking his truck, he stepped inside, the familiar comfort of the Inn offering a small respite. Yet, the mysteries surrounding Clara, Danny, and Amina lingered just beneath the surface.

With a final, thoughtful glance at the empty bar and the now-quiet rooms, Rudy locked up and made his way to the RV he had parked out back, ready to rest but fully aware that this was just the beginning of something much larger.

1. All NPC dialogue is from ChatGPT. I swear.

2. A lot of the names in King County were named after my friends and family, like you do. LeGrande was my high-school-best-friend’s middle name.

3. I don’t think ChatGPT knew it messed up, here, but I decided to roll with it.

4. This was about the time I realized ChatGPT was going to skip the Fame Plot Point, and was trying to hint at something I didn’t suggest in my rundown of the scene. I was only annoyed that it tried to get Rudy to spill his guts about being a Hunter with absolutely no subtlety.

5. I figured ChatGPT wasn’t going to get back to the script, so I pushed it.

6. This whole conversation was ChatGPT… All it knew was I wanted a cassette tape that reopened a cold case.

7. Rudy has no idea how to get a hold of Bram.

8. Another instance where I had to prompt ChatGPT to move the story forward.

9. This is the “New Enemy.” When I gave ChatGPT the prompts, I specifically pointed out that all the characters in this story were men, all the NPCs it had made me (including a few that aren’t in this story) had been Caucasian, and I wanted a woman of color. This isn’t some attempt at virtue signaling, just noting a pattern in ChatGPT’s preference toward white folks.

10. Mythic Fate Question: Was this character involved in the Gulf War with Rudy?
Answer: Yes!

11. Mythic Fate Question: Was she a romantic interest of Rudy’s in Saudi Arabia?
Answer: No!

12. Finally, some actual game mechanics! Looking at the Challenge Difficulty Table for Cthulhu Confidential (page 53, for anyone who forgets where it is), I decided this was a “Climactic or pivotal story event,” and looking at Rudy’s sheet he only has 1 die in Driving. That puts the Advance difficulty at 7+, Hold at 4-6, and Setback at 3 or less. I rolled a 4!

13. Mythic Fate Question: Is there a flashlight in the truck (Very likely)?
Answer: No!

14. Mythic Fate Question: Is there anything leaking from the truck?
Answer: Yes!

15. Mythic Fate Question: Is it windshield wiper fluid?
Answer: Yes!

16. I actually asked ChatGPT what the proper steps were when you hit a deer and it mentioned that sometimes the deer is still alive (I hadn’t even thought about that), and I determined that if it were, Rudy would put it out of its misery.

17. Mythic Fate Question: Is the deer still in the road?
Answer: Yes!

18. Mythic Fate Question: Is the deer still alive?
Answer: Exceptional No!

I took this to mean the damage was extensive and there would be no way the animal would have survived. However, I wasn’t going to describe that part, so the deer was just for-sure-dead.

19. Mythic Fate Question: Has anyone stopped to check on Rudy?
Answer: Yes!

20. Mythic Fate Question: Is this person a police officer?
Answer: Yes!

21. Mythic Fate Question: Is the door locked?
Answer: No!

22. Mythic Fate Question: Is Mike still around?
Answer: Yes!