Gideon led Joel to an inconspicuous entrance tucked beneath the collapsed remains of what had once been a roadside diner. The cracked remnants of a faded sign reading “Marge’s Eats” leaned precariously against the rubble, half-covered by creeping vines.


    The inside of the diner was a hollowed-out shell of what it once had been. The tiled floor was cracked and uneven, patches of dirt and grime filling in the gaps where once-pristine checkerboard patterns had shone. Booths lined the walls, their vinyl seats ripped and spilling faded yellow stuffing. The tables, some still bolted to the floor, were scuffed and layered with a fine coat of dust as if the echoes of long-forgotten meals still lingered there.


    An ancient jukebox stood in one corner, its once-bright neon now a dim shadow of itself, the plastic panels cracked and warped. Joel thought he could almost hear the faint notes of a song it might have played decades ago, but the machine was dead, its silence heavier than the darkness of the space.


    A truck jutted through the front of the diner like a steel beast frozen mid-charge, its front end buried deep in the shattered brick and twisted metal of the entryway. The rusted cab leaned precariously to one side, its windshield spiderwebbed with cracks and splattered with long-dried mud. The faded logo of a long-forgotten delivery company was barely visible beneath streaks of grime and scorch marks, the letters warped as if by fire. Its tires, once thick and rugged, were now deflated and sagging against the cracked pavement, tangled in a nest of weeds that had crept up through the destruction. Inside the cab, the steering wheel hung askew, and the driver''s seat was eerily empty, the door hanging open as if whoever had been behind the wheel had fled—or been pulled out. The entire scene felt like a frozen moment of chaos, a silent testament to the instant when the world had tipped into ruin.


    Joel paused in front of the truck, letting out a low whistle as he eyed the mess. "You think whoever was driving this was trying to isekai themselves?" he said, smirking as he tapped the rusted cab with his knuckles. "I mean, step one: truck. Step two: dinner. Seems like they were halfway to a fantasy world, just forgot the portal."


    Gideon squinted at Joel, his ears twitching. "What are you talking about? Isekai? Is that some kind of mechanical term?"


    Joel chuckled, leaning against the bent fender. "Not quite. It’s when someone gets hit by a truck—or sometimes just sneezes too hard—and wakes up in a magical world with superpowers. Classic trope. You’d love it. Probably get a heart card for it too."


    Gideon blinked his expression deadpan. "So… you''re saying humans dream about getting run over by trucks to escape their world?"


    Joel laughed, shaking his head. "Not exactly a dream, more like… a narrative device. But yeah, I guess when taxes and rent get too much, a truck to the face starts looking like a golden opportunity."


    Gideon frowned, his nose wrinkling. "You people are strange. Why not just fix your world instead of fantasizing about magical trucks?"


    "Believe me," Joel said, gesturing at the wreckage around them, "If fixing things were that easy, I wouldn’t be here cracking jokes about it."


    Joel then surveyed the counter ran along one side of the room, its surface marred with knife gouges and blood stains. The stools, their chrome bases tarnished and bent, leaned haphazardly as if trying to escape their moorings. Behind the counter, the kitchen was barely visible through a wide window, the stainless steel appliances dull and speckled with rust. An overturned fryer lay on its side, its cord dangling limply like a severed limb.


    The air smelled faintly of mildew and charred grease, a lingering memory of the meals once served here. The windows, now shattered or boarded up with scavenged planks, let in faint beams of moonlight, illuminating cobwebs in the corners and casting eerie shadows over the room.


    Scattered across the floor were remnants of a bygone era—crumpled menus, broken plates, and a faded "Daily Special" board lying face-down. Joel snorted as he noticed the clock above the counter, its hands eternally frozen at 4:20. "Looks like this diner was ahead of its time. Bet the chef was slinging pancakes and rolling joints."


    Gideon gave him a blank look, his ears twitching. "Rolling joints? Why would someone roll their food?"


    Joel shook his head, trying to keep a straight face. "No, not food. It’s… uh… a BC thing. Let’s just say, that if the apocalypse hadn’t hit, this place would probably still be packed. Maybe not for the food, though."


    Gideon tilted his head, clearly unimpressed. "I don’t see how drugged pancakes would attract anyone."


    Joel raised a hand, stifling a laugh. "Trust me, BC had a reputation even before everything went to hell. Green gold, my friend. Green gold."


    Gideon rolled his eyes and kept walking. "Humans are ridiculous."


    The walls, once painted in cheerful pastel shades, were streaked with soot and grime, punctuated by old posters advertising milkshakes for a quarter and all-you-can-eat pancakes for fifty cents. A bullet hole pierced one of them, the ragged edges dark with rusted blood.


    Joel could imagine the life that had once pulsed through this place: the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the hiss of a grill. Now, it was nothing but a ghost, its remnants a haunting reminder of what the world had lost. “Sure,” he thought, “I made the odd joke, but was it just to stop me from crying?”


    Joel stepped carefully over the shattered glass near the doorway, his gaze sweeping the ruined diner. The place had an eerie stillness to it, like time had stopped mid-breath. The sight of the cracked vinyl booths and the faded "Daily Special" sign tugged at something deep inside him. “Fuck,” he said and Gideon just nodded as they slowly crossed the diner. He hadn''t realized how long it had been since he''d been in a place like this—a place that felt like it had once been alive.


    His mind wandered, unbidden, to a night years ago. A small coffee shop back home, “Whole Wheat… and something” he forgot the rest of the name; however, not too different from this one, though much less broken. He could still picture the bright red booths and the chrome-edged tables, the warm glow of the overhead lights reflecting in Oliver''s smile. They’d snagged a booth near the window, the kind that gave a view of 100th Street outside, streaked with the glow of passing headlights.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    It had been one of their first dates. Oliver had insisted on ordering a milkshake—“The kind that comes with extra in the metal cup,” he’d said, with that boyish grin that made Joel''s chest ache. Joel had teased him for it, calling it cliché, but he’d ended up stealing a sip anyway. It had been strawberry, thick and sweet, and somehow it had tasted better just because it was his.


    Joel’s lips quirked in a faint smile at the memory of Oliver holding up a fry and waving it like a flag. “You know the rules,” Oliver had said, mock-serious. “Fries are meant to be dipped in a milkshake. It’s the law of diners.”


    “That''s not a law. That’s a crime against food,” Joel had replied, snatching the fry and eating it dry just to make his point.


    They’d laughed, heads close together over black coffee, greasy burgers and a shared basket of fries. For a while, the rest of the world had melted away. All that had mattered was Oliver’s voice, the way he looked at Joel like he was the only thing worth noticing, and the promise of a future they were both too scared to talk about but knew they wanted.


    The ache in Joel’s chest deepened, pulling him back to the present. The diner around him was a cruel reflection of that memory—broken, hollow, and abandoned. The warmth of those nights felt impossibly distant now, like a dream he couldn’t quite grasp anymore.


    He caught his reflection in the shattered glass of an old pie case, his face half-obscured by cracks and grime. "That life’s gone," he muttered under his breath, the words meant for no one but himself.


    But even as he thought it, the memory of Oliver’s laughter echoed in his mind, soft and persistent, like the first rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Joel wouldn’t have given the place a second glance, but Gideon stopped in front of a crumbled section of wall and crouched down.


    "Here we are," Gideon muttered, brushing aside a layer of dirt and debris. Hidden beneath was a metal hatch, its surface weathered and pockmarked with rust but clearly reinforced. He tapped it twice, a pattern that Joel realized must’ve been a signal.


    A soft mechanical click sounded from beneath, and Gideon grinned. "You’re in for a treat."


    Joel eyed the hatch warily. "If this is your idea of a treat, I’d hate to see a punishment."


    Gideon chuckled as he swung the hatch open, revealing a ladder leading into darkness. "Welcome to the burrow. Watch your step—Ren hasn’t fixed that second rung yet, and she’ll definitely blame you if you break it further."


    Joel took a deep breath and descended, his boots finding purchase on the slick, uneven metal. As he climbed down, a faint hum greeted him, the sound growing louder with each rung. By the time he reached the bottom, Gideon had already activated a series of dim, flickering bulbs strung along the walls of the tunnel.


    The corridor stretched ahead, its walls braced with scavenged beams and layered with scrap metal sheets. The air was cooler here, carrying a faint metallic tang and the earthy scent of damp stone. Each step took them further from the surface world, the distant hum of wind and faint cries of nocturnal creatures fading into silence.


    Joel trailed his fingers along the wall, feeling the grooves of weld marks and patchwork repairs. "This place is... something," he said, his voice low, almost reverent.


    "Not bad, huh?" Gideon replied, glancing back with a smirk. "Built it ourselves. Well, mostly Jace. The kid’s got a knack for finding the right junk in all the wrong places. However, the rest of the team helped as well."


    As they walked, the soft glow of the bulbs illuminated the burrow''s makeshift infrastructure. Pipes snaked along the ceiling, some dripping faintly, others patched with tape or crude soldering. The occasional hum of machinery hinted at a power source—probably the generator Joel had heard earlier.


    "Power’s from an old solar rig Jace rigged up," Gideon explained, noticing Joel’s gaze. "It’s not much, but it keeps the lights on and the air breathable down here. Ren wanted to power up a fridge, but, well, priorities."


    Joel nodded, taking in the ingenuity around him. "This must’ve taken months."


    "This place? About a week, really. Logan has a pretty good system for when we show up in a new world," Gideon said, his voice softening. "The burrow’s been home to survivors long before I came along. Ren and Jace have kept it running, along with the rest of the team. I have been trying to keep the lizards out."


    “You still have to explain the whole, new world thing to me,” Joel stated.


    “Yeah, yeah, let us survive until tomorrow first.”


    They reached a wider section of the tunnel, where the walls were lined with shelves holding jars of preserved food, stacks of scrap metal, and bundles of frayed wires. Joel spotted a few makeshift weapons—spears, modified wrenches, and even a blade that looked like it had been fashioned from an old car door.


    "Stockpile," Gideon said, gesturing to the shelves. "Ren runs a tight ship. If you see her making inventory later, don’t interrupt. Trust me."


    Joel smirked. "I’ll keep that in mind."


    As they pressed on, the faint murmur of voices drifted through the tunnels. Gideon’s ears twitched, and his expression softened. "Sounds like the gang’s up ahead. Hope you’re ready."


    Joel swallowed, his nerves prickling as the path widened into what looked like a common area. The faint light of a larger bulb illuminated a low-ceilinged chamber filled with mismatched furniture, old rugs, and a central table covered in maps and tools.


    Two figures sat at the table. Ren stood apart, a stark contrast to the grimy surroundings. Her form, lean and lithe, was cloaked in layers of tattered white cloth, a beacon of purity in the chaos. A weathered leather duster, its edges frayed and stained, hung loosely over her shoulders. Beneath her makeshift wraps, though intended for practicality, inadvertently revealed a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage, a promise of the curves beneath. The subtle suggestion of her feminine form hinted at rather than fully exposed, was a deliberate choice. It was a strategic move, a way to command attention and respect, even in the harshest of environments.


    Her jawline was sharp, a testament to countless battles fought and won. Her eyes, piercing and intelligent, missed nothing. Each movement was deliberate, a silent declaration of power. She was a force of nature, a quiet storm that could unleash chaos at a moment''s notice.


    Ren leaned against a crumbling table, her arms crossed causing her cleavage to show even more, her expression a mix of boredom and irritation. "We don''t need a stinking human, Gideon. I could make a bomb and drop it right into their camp. Problem solved."


    Her voice was low but carried a certain authority.


    The other, a young man with grease-streaked hands and an easy smile, Jace, leaned back in his chair and waved. "New recruit, huh? Let me guess—he’s already broken something."


    Jace exuded an aura of raw, untamed energy. His shaggy hair, a rebellious tangle of dark strands, framed a face etched with a mix of youthful recklessness and hardened determination. Beneath his unkempt exterior lay a wiry strength, honed by countless battles against nature and its inhabitants. His clothes, a haphazard patchwork of scavenged armour and worn fabric, spoke of a life lived on the edge.


    Joel couldn''t help but be intrigued by the young rabbit. There was something in his eyes, a spark of defiance that mirrored his own. Jace wasn''t just a fighter; he was a survivor, a force of nature. Joel wondered what kind of trials had forged him into the man he was, and what kind of future awaited him.


    "Ren, Jace," Gideon said, stepping aside to let Joel into the room. "Meet Joel. He’s with me."


    Logan said in the background, “Pay-up!”