CHAPTER 37: THE BROADCAST

6:23 am August 27, 2042

The long night ended, and the new day came. It was early; dew filled the city. Just a few cars breezed through the city, and not many people were on foot either.

Atkinson Drive.

A huge mansion rocked in mild silence and chatter—the home of Al-daeem and his allies.

Al-Daeem sat on a high chair by his side; seated was Jean, who clung close to him. By his right side stood a shadowy figure, while another up ahead—Cecil—sat dressed in full black covering. Al-Daeem spoke in the midst of the silence.

"So he retaliated. How ironic—he’s actually telling us, ’I’ll give you what you give me.’ "What’d you have to say about that, Cecil?"

The ginge in black clothing with a squeezed face spoke out, fist clenched.

"He had the audacity to go into my home and bring family into this, knowing I know he still got people of his own for this. I’ll kill Timothy Slinger myself."

Al-Daeem, with a gracious smile, said. "Now that’s what I love to hear, but even then it was soon to happen that butcher Timothy was going to fight back. He turned his attention to the corner of the Mede brothers, who were in the presence of a computer, saying to them.

"Is everything all set? Are we good to go?"

One of the Mede brothers, Eric, answered.

"We are, sir; it’s your call."

Hearing that Al-Daeem spoke softly to Jean’s ears.

"Who would’ve thought they’d be more than just brute force? I couldn’t have imagined they’d be geeks."

Jean chuckled, adding giggling before speaking. "Well, boss, it’s safe to say anything you lay your hands upon prospers.

The boss raised his head up. "Attention, everyone," he said.

"We do in ten, so get dressed. Make sure you pick something fancy; first impressions count." He winked after speaking.

6:28 a.m.

The early morning had begun to settle over the city, with only a few people walking about. The dew looked thicker than before, blanketing even the eighty-story monolith of the Hero Association building.

Inside, only three or four people sat at their desks, engaging in nothing but early-morning chatter.

Some officials who had worked overnight were still asleep in the building’s rest beds, as were those on the upper floors—though one was awake. No, two were awake.

Alone in the break room by the coffee maker was the ponytailed Raymond Miller. His face was low, as if waking up this early was too much for him—but he had to. Someone like him didn’t get to live the same way as the average human.

His eyes carried bags beneath them, his nose seemed slightly larger than usual, and his frontal hair was a mess—not the kind of face anyone would want to meet first thing in the morning. His expression contrasted sharply with his gray shirt, which had a smiling Barbie girl printed on it—arms akimbo, hearts in her eyes, and the words "Hey, it’s morning!" written beneath.

When the coffee finally finished brewing, he picked up the cup to take a sip—then a familiar voice called out to him.

"Hey, it’s morning. Cool shirt."

A soft, brushed sigh escaped before he greeted,

"Hey, good morning. Want coffee?"

Timothy focused on the bread placed on the counter and replied,

"Yeah, sure. What’s with the look?"

Brushing his frontal hair back with his hand, Raymond answered,

"Ugh, I tend to look like this when I’m stressed. I look like that grumpy old man who’s always trying to kidnap the Smurfs."

A short laugh came from Timothy—"Haha"—but it quickly faded as his face twitched, shifting into slight annoyance. He muttered harshly to the bread.

"Stay still, you dumb meal."

Raymond had brewed Timothy’s coffee. He walked closer and handed him the black tea.

"Thank you," Timothy said.

"You’re welcome," Raymond replied.

Done slicing the bread, Timothy placed three slices each on two plates, giving one to Raymond. Before they ate, Timothy asked,

"Feeling stressed? Why, though?"

"You ought to know," Raymond said. Then, adding with a sigh, "The issue in the city—everything’s going bonkers. My head hurts."

"I get that," Timothy replied. "The demons are speaking to you. Just do what I did—cut them off. Look at me, I’m free from those shackles. Funny, a few weeks back, I’d never have imagined being the one saying this to you."

They both laughed, and then Raymond brought up the matter of last night.

"Talking about demons, we haven’t even heard anything about last night’s Thanksgiving."

"Oh, that?" Timothy said casually. "Don’t worry—it’ll come up soon. It’s just a matter of time."

Raymond frowned. "So you’re cool with them finding out? I guess the police force is in a mess right now, so they won’t make further investigations, but... hmm, it’s risky."

Timothy nodded, making an ’I know’ face.

"Risky, yeah—but don’t worry. I took precautionary measures. They can’t trace it back to me." He paused, a thought striking him. "Although, they could trace it to me if the Hero Association helps with the investigation. But I’ll worry less about that for now."

They had a brief, five-second breather before Raymond changed the subject.

"Got plans today? I was thinking we should meet with the others and contemplate the Retribution matters."

"Love to join," Timothy replied, "but I’ve got this person I’ve been tracking. I need to meet up with him—convince the guy to join our little fight club."

"Okay, then." Raymond, ponytail swaying, turned toward the living room. Following behind was Timothy. A clap from Raymond’s hands switched on the TV.

6:45 am.

As both men sat to watch the program—

Static.

Then—darkness.

Suddenly, a sinister figure appeared across every screen in Ultra City.

Clad in black armor and seated on a throne of obsidian—Al-Daeem, or as he now called himself, Sultan.

Behind him stood six shadows—two of which were disturbingly familiar.

"Hello, and good morning, citizens of Ultra City," Al-Daeem said, his voice rich, cold, and confident. "You may call me Sultan. These are my comrades... you might recognize two of them—Sun and Wukong. Yes, they’ve joined my cause."

He leaned forward, eyes piercing through the screen.

"Your sins have reached the brim. A god and his warriors will cleanse your city. We were the cause of the massacre—and that... was just the beginning. A greater terror is coming. I am giving you a chance: prepare."

Timothy’s eyes filled with disgust as he yelled,

"This fucker!"

As if Al-Daeem had heard him, he continued, his tone mocking.

"I know a man who must be raging right now—but you saw this coming. It’s a matter of whose grit is stronger."

His face twisted grotesquely, a wild smile spreading across his lips, teeth glinting white against the darkness. Then, just as quickly, his expression straightened—cold, composed, terrifying.

"On September 1st, 2042..."

His voice deepened, dripping with finality.

"Retribution is coming."

And just like that, the transmission ended.

Silence fell across Ultra City.

Every citizen who had turned on the TV this early saw it. Every screen had burned his message into their minds.