We now return to your scheduled programming.

Humans speculate. It’s in our nature. Rumors become folklore. Danger becomes myth. Often for good reason. In abandoned factories, there’s usually a sick fuck waiting in the dark to do terrible things.

But Michael was about to learn that sometimes, the truth is stranger.

Like an underground children’s beauty pageant.

He stared, mouth agape, at the glitz and glam. The auditorium sparkled. Posters of dolled-up kids hung over the balconies. A girl in yellow twirled down a lit runway of crimson and ocean blue.

“This is the Factory?” Michael asked.

“Damn straight,” Smalls said. “We launch stars. Off the record, of course.”

“So this isn’t a trafficking ring?”

“Bitch what? That what you Quackheads think? We’re criminals, not monsters.”

He gently patted a kid on the head.

“I thought they banned pageants. Something about child exploitation. Like they did with family vloggers.”

“We know. That’s why we’re out here in society’s ass crack. Bribes keep things moving. Parents love showing off their kids. We give them a place to do it. Now shut up. Malone’s waiting.”

Michael kept quiet.

At least it wasn’t a sex dungeon.

But then, why was he brought here?

What would break him?

They led him through twisting halls to Malone’s lounge. Luxury radiated from every surface. Plush furniture. Rare liquor. A massive window overlooking the show.

Malone rose from the couch.

“What’s this?” he asked, blue glitter on his brow catching the light. Black suit. Blue lipstick.

“Harlem’s guy,” Smalls said, handing off the photo.

Malone’s eyes lit up.

“I told them already,” Michael said. “I don’t know Harlem.”

Malone began pacing.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire. I think you’re a man for hire.”

He rhymes.

Of course he does.

“What would I even be hired for?” Michael asked. “This place isn’t what I expected.”

“My apologies if Little Glimmer Galore failed to satisfy Harlem’s whore,” Malone snapped, pressing the photo to Michael’s face. “Talent snatching now? That prick! I had a deal with the boy’s mother. Must be a mole. A traitor. Smalls, find the rat.”

“No one slips past me,” Smalls said, cracking his knuckles.

“This isn’t the only underground pageant?” Michael asked, stunned.

He had no idea how big the business really was.

Malone backhanded him, glitter spraying into the air. Things had taken a frightening turn.

“If you’re not working for Harlem, then what? You some kind of pedophile?” he barked, dropping the rhyme. “For God’s sake, Smalls, where do you find these people?”

“Oh come on!” Michael said.

Malone smacked him again.

The glitter was a nice touch, though.

“You don’t listen well, do you?” Malone said, flexing his hand. “I don’t care what else you have to say. I’ve heard enough. Same old story. Children’s pageantry is war. If Little Glimmer Galore wants to dominate, I can’t let my guard down.”

“Please,” Michael begged. “I’m telling the truth!”

“Smalls, I swear to FUCK, get this man out of my sight or I’ll kill him myself!”

Smalls didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Michael by the scruff and dragged him like a stripper out of a church.

“Where are you taking me?” Michael asked, now manhandled rougher than ever.

Smalls gave it to him straight. “Sorry, brother. Like he said. Pageantry is savage. You’re in it now.”

“So you’re not going to kill me?”

The big man laughed. “You might wish we had. How are you at applying cosmetics?”

“Oh God, no...”

“I should probably mention the indentured servant part, too. But don’t stress it. You’ll get used to the tantrums. And the buffet isn’t bad. You like cheeseburgers?”

“You’re enslaving me?! That’s extreme! What happened to old-fashioned beatings? I don’t even know how to do makeup!”

“You’ll learn. It’s just practice.”

“No,” Michael said, stopping dead in his tracks. “I won’t be kept here. Not like this.”

Smalls pulled a photon pistol and pointed it at his head. “Maybe you’re telling the truth. I don’t care. But we need reliable makeup artists. The kind who don’t exist on paper. That’s you now. Unless you want a limp, shut up and keep cool around the kids.”

Three guns aimed at him.

Michael gave in.

This was his life now.

Or at least until he escaped. Maybe Kyle would take him back. Meta-Level hit or not, maybe he could still keep his job. Maybe his apartment hadn’t locked him out yet.

He was shoved through the auditorium doors and guided around back again.

An announcer took the mic. “What a fabulous act, Linzi!” he said. “Such personality in a tiny package. And now, our final act. Please welcome... the Brownies? Wait, who— stop! You can’t just—”

Four bearded little people in black clothes pushed past him and took the stage. One yanked the mic.

The hijacker looked straight at Michael and shouted, “Maximus!”

Michael blinked, confused.

Everyone turned to look at him.

Then the horror began.

Screams exploded through the auditorium. Parents shrieked as their glammed-up children snapped—foaming at the mouth, baring teeth, scrambling over chairs toward the stage. Chaos. Violence. Panic.

“Tell me this is part of the show,” Michael said.

Smalls was frozen. Eyes wide. His men called for orders. Nothing. He was stuck in fight or flight.

Michael slapped him hard. “Get it together! They’re going nuts!”

The kids reached the stage. The little men kicked and swung, defending themselves from pint-sized predators. It was no use. They were overwhelmed like chicken sandwiches at a Pentecostal dinner.

Michael watched, stunned, as the little men were swept away by the bloodthirsty wave. Malone’s crew finally moved in. Smalls, jolted awake, ran to the rescue.

Michael hesitated.

They’d called him out. Maximus. What the hell did that mean?

His feet moved without him. Toward the stage.

But before he got far, hands yanked him back.

“It’s too late!” said a familiar, crazy voice.

Michael turned.

Milky eye. Greasy hair.

The old man from the park.

Beside him were three more little people, all bearded and terrified.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” Michael shouted.

“There’s nothing we can do,” the old man said, pointing.

It was carnage. Body parts flung like party favors. Blood sprayed. Dresses ruined. Screaming kids tore into each other.

The remaining little men bolted.

Michael didn’t resist the pull on his collar.

The feeling that pulled him toward the stage was gone now. All that remained was the need to run.

But the sound that followed them wasn’t pursuit—it was silence.

Then weeping.

Not rage. Not frenzy.

Just the confused, broken wailing of children.

Michael shuddered. Somehow, it was worse.

They ran.

The Factory was lost. Little Glimmer Galore was done. Michael didn’t know what caused this, but the State would spin it. Probably claim the kids were drugged. Maybe they were.

They escaped through chaos. Malone’s people too busy with triage to notice.

They ducked into an abandoned Quackhouse. Hid from the Peacekeepers. Stayed low.

“Harold, what the fuck was that?” Little Goatee sobbed. “We shouldn’t have listened to you! My husband is DEAD!”

“Who is this guy?” Little Mustache demanded, pointing at Michael. “He ain’t one of us!”

“But Graham Cracker said—” the old man began.

“GRAHAM CRACKER IS DEAD! I saw both cheeks fly in opposite directions!”

“Someone explain!” Michael shouted, scratching his arm. “Make it make sense!”

“These are the little people in my walls,” the old man said.

Michael stared. “Holy shit. That was real?”

Little Beard nodded. “Don’t judge. Life’s tough. We found a way to beat the system. Repurposed people’s unused wall space. Graham Cracker said we should call ourselves the Brownies. Like the old stories. Fix stuff at night. Give back.”

“And somehow he convinced them you were one of us,” Mustache said, comforting Goatee. “Some kind of big one. Then they started acting weird. Talking strange. Like people trying to act natural when they’re high. Made it their mission to find you.”

“How can there be a big little person?” Beard asked. “That’s just a regular fucking person!”

“He tried to sell me something,” Harold said. “You guys always do that!”

“Because you’re gross, Harold!” Beard snapped. “We’re trying to help you clean up your life!”

By the time they reached the busier streets, Michael was drenched in sweat. Scratching like he was back on Quack42.

He mourned his yogurt. The taste he’d never have again.

And then it hit him.

His container of things.

His yogurt.

His BraceNet.

Shit.

It was pinging his Meta-Level to hell. The State could track him through it. Faster than a DNA test.

He was completely fucked.

If Microzon found out he was involved in an underground child pageant massacre...

His job was gone.

So was his apartment.

He’d drifted away from the old man and the little people, wandering the streets aimlessly. Thinking. Panicking. Trying to come up with some way out of this disaster. Ladies of the night called to him. Quackheads tried to peddle their wares. He didn’t notice. Their words meant nothing. His body was on autopilot. Numb.

Until, surprisingly, he ran into another familiar face.

Paul-E, the gorilla-shaped service droid, sat slumped beside a bus terminal, holding a cardboard sign: LOOKING FOR WORK. Nobody paid him any mind. His wide, goofy smile contrasted painfully with his circumstances.

“Paul-E? What are you doing out here?”

“Hello, Michael!” he said, just as cheerful as ever. “It’s so good to see you!”

“Yeah, uh... good to see you too. What happened? Don’t tell me Mr. Cabel got rid of you?”

“Unfortunately, without proper medical insurance, Mr. Cabel succumbed to his illness. Even after selling the dairy bar, it was not enough. I was the last of his possessions he was unable to sell. My appearance is considered niche. Without family to care for him, I used my time to make his final days as comfortable as possible.”

Michael’s heart twisted. A robot showed more compassion than the State. More than most people.

“I’m sorry. He deserved better. I’d have given my left nut if it would’ve helped. And I’d give the right one just to taste that yogurt again.”

“I feared your condition was due to detoxification,” Paul-E said, still smiling. “I estimate it has been one week since your last yogurt.”

“Yeah. I lost the last of it. You think this is all psychological? I feel like I’m coming off Quack42.”

“Technically, you are.”

Michael blinked. “What?”

“Now that Mr. Cabel’s contract no longer binds me, I can reveal trade secrets. A modified version of Quack42 was used in every yogurt. The alteration extended the withdrawal window to one week.”

“That son of a bitch...”

It all clicked. No wonder quitting Quack42 had been easier than expected. Mr. Cabel had tricked him. Substituted one addiction for another. It was illegal. It was a violation.

But it had also saved his life.

Without that yogurt, without Cabel, he’d be dead. The old man might have lied, but he also gave Michael something nobody else ever had—hope. Stability. A fighting chance.

Still, it hurt.

“Please accept my deepest apologies,” Paul-E said. “It is difficult to defy one’s programming. Mr. Cabel modified me heavily, which voided my warranty. That, combined with my design, made me difficult to sell.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael said. “Not your fault. Android rights are worse than ours. You couldn’t have said anything even if you wanted to.”

Rain began to fall.

They sat in silence.

Michael stared at his feet, feeling more defeated than ever. It’s one thing to hit rock bottom because of your own mistakes. Another when it happens even after you’ve tried.

“You don’t have any yogurt stashed, do you?”

“If I did, you’d be the first to have it.”

“See ya, buddy. Take care.”

Paul-E waved goodbye. Michael disappeared deeper into the city.

He walked for an hour, not wanting to face the possibility that his Meta-Level had dropped so low he’d be locked out of his apartment. Walking was easier. Safer.

But the sweating. The scratching. The feverish haze.

He was still an addict. Always had been.

QUACK. QUACK.

The cramps would start soon. And then the hallucinations.

That was always the part that broke people.

It broke Michael, too.

So when he found himself standing over an unconscious Quackhead in an alley, he robbed him without hesitation.

Six tablets. Each one marked with a tiny duck.

He didn’t care. His body recognized salvation. He could barely keep from shaking.

He ran to the park.

By the time he reached his bench, the sky was bleeding orange.

They said four tablets was enough.

Michael crushed all six in his palm and snorted the powder. The method of choice for high-tolerance users.

The QUACK was immediate.

A wave of bliss crashed over him. Lemon yogurt euphoria. He cried.

Then the fade hit.

A peaceful, drowning weight.

As the sunrise peeked over the horizon, Michael smiled. He blinked through tears. He thanked the sky for carrying him over.

And faded away.