“Good morning, son,” he said, his voice a firm, manly rumble that commanded attention. “I heard about what happened at the drive-in last night. The news travels fast in a town this small, and it travels even faster when it's being carried by a lie.”
“Yeah, it was a setup, Dad,” I replied, reaching for the milk carton. But as I began to pour the white liquid into my bowl, my dad slid the morning edition of the Valley Sentinel across the oak table. The newsprint was still damp, the smell of fresh ink and cheap paper filling my nostrils.
The headline hit me like a physical blow: LOCAL HERO BITTEN BY FICTIONAL CREATURE.
I stopped pouring, the milk splashing over the edge of my bowl and soaking into the wood as I snatched the paper. The article was a masterpiece of master manipulation. It claimed Amelia had been bitten and scratched—a total lie—and warned the town that the upcoming full moon this Friday would transform her into a "destructive beast" with "primal, lunar instincts." It painted her as a ticking time bomb, a 50-foot monster waiting for a lunar trigger to tear the valley apart.
“This isn't what happened!” I shouted, the paper crinkling in my grip. “I was standing right there. She dominated that wolf. It never even touched her skin. This reporter is trying to lock her in invisible chains of fear to turn the town against her. They’re using the full moon as a deadline for her execution.”
My dad looked at me, his brow furrowed. “The world believes what it sees in print, Richard. Fear is a heavy weight, and it makes people do desperate things. Unless you have something better than a teenager's word, they’ll bring the authorities back.”
“I do,” I said, pulling out my phone. I showed him the high-definition photos of Zack Roberts and the strange, metallic gun emitting those eerie green sparks. “This wasn't a biological creature, Dad. It was a projection made solid by frequency. Look at the sparks—they aren't fire; they’re data. It’s hard-light technology.”
My dad’s eyes widened as he scrolled through the images, his thumb swiping across the screen. “If these are real, then someone is waging a psychological war on Amelia. Go quickly, son. Break those chains. Set the truth free before the moon rises.”
I didn't finish my cereal. I jumped on my bike and pedaled toward Vanguard Pharmacy. The pharmacy was a massive structure of glass and white brick. The front entrance featured towering windowpanes that reflected the blue sky, while smaller, high-set windows near the roof line kept the interior feeling like a secure vault. Inside, the ceiling was a grid of hundreds of tiny, glowing LED lights that hummed with a low-frequency buzz.
The air inside smelled of sterile floor wax and the sweet, cloying scent of the candy aisle. I sprinted past the dark cosmetic shelves and the rows of "mini" candy bars filled to the brim in plastic bins. I didn't stop for the toys or the trinkets; I headed straight for the back-left corner where the photo kiosk sat. The machine looked like a sleek, black monolith. I connected my phone, the wire clicking into place, and watched the progress bar crawl across the screen. “Thank God for modern technology,” I whispered as the printer began to whir, the "rhythmic-click-thump" of the machine sounding like a heartbeat as it spat out the glossy 4x6 prints.
I paid my $1.47 at the register, grabbed a quick energy bar, and raced back to my garage. I needed a specific type of environment to analyze the evidence. I laid the glossy prints out on my old wooden desk, clicked on the high-intensity desk lamp, and pulled a heavy magnifying glass from the drawer. I scoured the man’s face first—it was Zack, clear as day. Then, I moved to the weapon.
Under the lens, the matte-black metal of the gun revealed a secret. Etched near the trigger guard in microscopic, laser-precise lettering were four letters and four numbers: QX-1100.
My heart skipped a beat. I recognized that serial sequence from the old journals in the basement. It wasn't standard; it was a private laboratory code used by the Rose project's rivals. I knew exactly whose naming convention that was. I raced over to the Rose house, my bike tires skidding on the gravel of their driveway. A mob had already gathered near the gates, a sea of anxious faces shouting questions at Amelia’s father about "wrath" and "beastly natures."
“Get back!” I shouted, pushing through the crowd to stand beside Dr. Rose. “This man is telling the truth! Amelia is no monster!” I held the photos up for the neighbors to see, the sunlight catching the glossy surface. “Look at Zack Roberts! Look at the technology! She was framed by a man using a QX-1100 frequency projector! That wolf wasn't real!”
The crowd grew quiet, the visual evidence dampening their fire like a bucket of ice water. As they began to disperse, muttering amongst themselves, Dr. Rose pulled me into his garage, his face pale under the flickering fluorescent lights. He took the photo of the gun and stared at it for a long time, his hands trembling.
“John Roberts,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He began to tell me a tragic story of their college days—a brilliant man with flat, brownish-black hair and a serious demeanor. They had worked together in a windowless lab filled with DNA "spinners" and frequency modulators. They were trying to heal the human brain, but a freak accident with a white, cube-like machine had blasted John with a concentrated beam of light.
“It rewired his mind,” Dr. Rose explained, his eyes distant and filled with regret. “The light didn't just burn him; it changed how he processed reality. He became aggressive, erratic... a genius turned inside out. He was locked away in an institution, but he escaped years ago. If he’s the one building these QX models, he’s not just trying to kill Amelia. He’s trying to erase my legacy by destroying the thing I love most. He wants to prove that science only creates monsters.”
I put a hand on the scientist’s shoulder. “He won’t succeed. I’m going to follow the trail of the next monster. I’ll follow it backward until I find his hole, and then we’ll end this.”
I walked into the backyard to find Amelia. She was lying on her towering bed, her bright blue eyes wet with unshed tears that soaked into her oak-grain pillows like a spilled bucket of water. When I told her the mob was gone and that I had a plan to catch Zack and his father, she sat up, the heavy wooden frame of her bed groaning under her 50-foot weight.
“I’m glad you’re here, Richard,” she said, her voice a warm, with a rumble that made the nearby bushes sway. “I feel like the whole world is waiting for me to trip so they can call me a monster. But as long as you see me... I think I can keep standing.”
“I’ll always see you, Amelia,” I promised, leaning against her immense, warm thumb. “Now, let’s get ready. Friday is coming, and I have a feeling the Roberts family is going to put on one hell of a show.”