When supernatural realities are not just on a television screen or the printed page, a monster assassin doesn’t hide in a shady cabin or run-down hotel. A monster assassin knows how to blend into the crowd, gather intelligence unnoticed, and strike with lethal precision when the time is right.


    I stifled a yawn as Dad pulled into the garage forty-five minutes later. We were out of it, and I felt my compounded stress, sores, and stress release as the garage door closed. We were sealed off from the outside world and given the threats that we dealt with and that these adventures implied. It was a necessity to have a place where we could reset and relax.


    The three of us climbed out as Mom ushered us inside. After the first dozen encounters, Tony and I found it easier to ignore the clock altogether. It was late, and while I was ready to fall over, I knew sleep would be slow in coming. Mom took my arm and hauled me to a kitchen chair, where she examined my hands, feet, back, and chest, prodded my muscles, checked my blood pressure, and flicked a small flashlight across my vision. A monster assassin has some fantastic perks, but there is an ever-growing list of issues, concerns, fears, worries, paranoias, and don’t get me started, social inconveniences. Friends? Not since high school? Dating? Tony and I, at one point, had managed to download dating apps, but the following encounter destroyed both of our phones. We’re twenty-year-old adults still living at home while doing college online. Now, why do we live in the rural Midwest? The easy answer is plenty of people keep the big cities locked up tight. There are people in tights, yes, those kinds of people, and there is even a magical government complete with elected leaders, legislation, and grumpy people. The magical world had to modernize, and they’ve done just that.


    With a lot going on behind the scenes, my parents set up shop and decided to raise a family and expand our network into a nondescript area. Believe me, small towns have mysteries, too, and this area has kept us pretty occupied three hundred and sixty-four days in the year. Fosters give new meaning to the phrase, “game face.” We’re not random, or abnormal. To the rest of the world, we’re simply the Fosters and we use that to do what we do without anyone being any the wiser.


    It was also nice to be secretly wealthy. Thanks to a considerable family investment in the institution, we don’t miss classes and don’t have to worry about flunking out. Mom pressed her fingers gently into my face, around my nose, and then across my forehead. I sighed and let her do her thing. I didn’t mind free and regular checkups. It certainly beat ending up in the obituary pages under an assumed name or a charred corpse on the evening news.


    “Are you sore anywhere?” Mom asked. She gave us each a visual inspection. She had a headset where she muttered to herself in unbelievably detailed and anatomically specific terms, which she would then add to her well-kept medical histories of each of us.


    before putting her hands on her hips. Dad came up and gave her a kiss.


    “Are we good, or do we need to have a family hospital?”


    I began to shake my head but stopped at threads of pain spread from my shoulders and into my back. I gritted my teeth as the pain centered between my shoulder blades, and my hands tingled. In the mad dash to evoke the distraction plan, I hadn’t really focused on them, and adrenaline works wonders at the moment''s most tense situation. Mom crossed to me and gently pressed her fingers into my back, then she examined my hands.


    “I’d say these sting and itch more than anything else.”


    Mom sniffed, “You’re lucky, but it''s no laughing matter if you overload an enforcement. I watched the footage; it was an innovative idea, but many things could have gone wrong. You might not have had sufficient speed, or Minotaur could have attempted a more brutal attack at your dad and brother, which would have put you in striking range because he most likely would have swung from above.”


    She took another moment, and her brow furrowed. “We’ll need to set you with some basic counters. There is a faint discoloration on your fingertips. I’m assuming you were wearing fingerless gloves?”               I nodded, “The catapult feature coupled with the barrel roll.”


    Mom groaned, “I don’t think the exposure was concentrated enough to do any lasting damage. The coloration tells me that this minotaur was hauling around some residual from his last challenger. You’ll need to take the full range of anti-venoms just to be safe.”


    “Ugh, seriously?” I asked. “It''s not like their horns are poisonous.”


    “True,” Mom added, “And to their credit, Minotaurs are immune to physical ailments and poisons, but we all know that certain creatures have components in their blood that are deadly to humans.”


    “And they don’t exactly bathe and sterilize their horns after any particular kill,” Dad acknowledged, “it’s probably a gym smell or a badge of honor among their kind. I’ll talk to Pop, and we’ll have counters on hand to combat infections and contaminations.”


    “Pop should also create full hand gloves,” Mom said, “The few seconds between evaluating your needs could make or break getting treatment in time.”


    “Done deal,” Dad said, “I’ll also review the enforcement strength, so we avoid burns and broken bones.”


    An enforcement. It was a term coined by Grandpa Foster, or Pop, to describe the additional features loaded into a specific tool or object, which normally looks nondescript until we activate it or set it to go off while we lie in wait. My grandparents were once assassins in their own right. They were lucky to reach old age, but you can’t just hang up your axe, sword, or exploding blender. Monster assassination for our family of Fosters historically had been a family business. There were other family members who weren’t so lucky. We have a fair share of horror stories, all of which are chuck full of dumb luck and brash stupidity with plenty of trial and error and a mountain of family secrets.


    Mom applied multiple kinds of lotions and salves. After a quick bite, I slipped downstairs and slept for a few hours. Dad would probably be up most of the night, while Tony would be the next to get checked out. Tony and I never dealt with the logistical side of contracts, mainly to keep any potential clients ignorant of our family dynamic. I slumped against my pillow, selected a soothing album, and settled into sleep.


    By the time I awoke, the sunlight cut through a gap in the curtains, and I reasoned it was early afternoon. After a few minutes, I pushed myself out of bed, stretched, showered, and decided to settle in to hit the books. Out of the Fosters who actively take contracts and who call themselves assassins have, after a few generations, begrudgingly accepted the fact they were part-time treasure hunters as well. It’s an unhappy point on the family tree, sometimes referred to as the family hiccup, but for the first few Fosters after Edward and Valerie and their introduction to magic along with plans and deeply seated emphasis, we had to be ready to take on the monsters in the world.


    I sprawled out on my bed with the typical leather-bound journal often typecasted for some fantasy adventure. Edward and Valerie were interesting relatives who, at some point, had found an annotated Grimm Fairy Tales along with what was described in our ancestor''s writing as a cash of knowledge and information. There were worries about survival and occasionally retirement, but most of the time, Edward and Valerie’s children often speculated about the annotated book’s code and the purpose of something called the Bundle. I could spout several family theories on the subject and most of them had turned into jokes. Despite this fact, the Bundle, over the years, had become the center of our attention and each branch of the family, namely my dad’s brothers, our cousins, and a few extended cousins. Everyone wanted to find it and to know what it contained and if it was valuable.


    I set the journal aside and scooped up a new set of journals Mom had set aside for me to look at. These leather-bound tomes were embossed volumes suitable for a millionaire''s library. I read a card that gave a brief summary and several drawings, illustrations, and ramblings of the time period. After about two hours, I rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying to push myself to finish Victoria Foster''s commentary on monster politics and the months leading up to The Great War.


    She draws maps but has no concept of geography or art.


    We often joke that Fosters if they’re not treasure hunters, they’re wannabe artists. I''d seen a few drawings like this, and they often were an attempt to catalog their encounters, and how they “dispatched their savage enemies”


    Their methods were counter-productive, if not crude and wildly ridiculous. A few of the older volumes were sometimes referred to as “handbooks,” but each one contained plenty of ramblings and we soon found that up until the 1920s, most Fosters seemed eager to get to work and take on the bad guys like a gunslinger in Old Western dime novels, or gritty detectives, noir style in the big cities. They all dealt with a ton of monsters, but their writings showed that they had no clue what they were doing. I closed Victoria’s journal, feeling annoyed that I had completely wasted my time. Victoria had quickly become one of several ancestors who presented the zeal, and dedication for the job, but they always rehashed the same ideas. They talked about how they chose their targets, or how, for the good of their city, state, and even the nation, and sometimes all three. Each entry often came off like a short story that had no ending. I tapped the journal and got to my feet. These journals are why T.V. shows shouldn’t reboot or rehash old material even if it sells.


    Edward Foster: The strange references and theories I have made are based on my youth studies of stories long since considered fiction. I am in awe! The bundle’s pages are old and filled with wild and detailed accounts regarding encounters with monsters and creatures not of this world. These beings range from fairy tales and folklore to some plucked straight from gothic nightmares. I have found that the writers, as I suspect several, have committed their thoughts to these pages but haven’t grasped the gravity of their situation. A few appear to have corresponded with each other, while most of the entries seem to have offered a welcoming and bold fellowship. I detect there is something beneath these words. I feel a connection to these unnamed writers. It''s almost like a brotherhood has reached out to me from beyond the cosmos, and they are welcoming me into their ranks to take on a challenge. I must admit that I feel overwhelmed but excited and destined to take on such a mighty cause, even though I do not fully grasp the cost it might put on me.


    Valerie Foster: Edward has reviewed the pages and looks like a little schoolboy eager to impress his teacher and display his intelligence. I’ve never seen him so anxious to learn and, metaphorically speaking, devour the bundle’s contents. We’ve decided to be vague about the bundle’s contents and offer brief, deep descriptions should these writings ever be acquired by some unseemly foe.


    Colonel Reginald Foster: I feel well-equipped to tackle this great task and am vigilant and determined to tackle such an extreme calling. There was no election. There was no question. I am open to taking on this task despite the risks and uncertain dangers. The notion of dispatching monsters and defending the innocent. My brothers in arms have displayed incredible courage, and I am proud to be counted among them. Yet, they stand on the edge of ignorance because I must remain duly aware that there is more out there.


    If you read them with a Shakespearian vibrato, it’s not too hard to take their robust, posh, and embellished voices and put them on stage, each one sounding more ridiculous than the last.


    Maybe the next set would be more worthwhile. I forced myself to dig into a few new pages and then I set it aside to send them off to a cousin living somewhere in Delaware. Once the books were secure, I licked my lips and placed a hand on my stomach. I was getting hungry.


    I wandered out of my room and lazily put my hair into a ponytail. When I was about halfway down the hallway, several noises drifted up the stairs from the kitchen.


    “Hey Mom,” I said, working my way down to the stairs as Mom turned from the shirt and put a few dishes into the dishwasher while wearing a knee-length red dress with a thick black piece of material along the rounded neckline. She had a silver tube earpiece on her ear and was rather focused on securing the dishes and manning several pans on the stove while listening to something that required intense concentration, she indicated when she placed her fingers against the earpiece.


    “Well, that’s exciting,” Mom said, padding her beehive bun, and I glimpsed a shiny Federation badge straight out of the Original Star Trek TV show.


    “Has Dad slept at all?” I asked, taking a casual glance at the array of food options Mom had organized on a multi-tiered servering cart sitting beside the pantry door.


    “Hold on,” Mom said, placing her fingers against the earpiece. I waited for Mom to pull her attention away, but in just under a minute, her expression went from intrigued to concerned, which was rarely a good sign. Mom occasionally listened to client conversations, normally to make sure that all the details had been documented correctly and to have a second opinion to try to avoid falling into a potential trap.


    In this situation, the wrap-up. If Mom was listening in, I had to assume that it had gone from terrible to chaotic considering the state of the farm and the potential legal attention this would generate.


    I gently padded my stomach; no sense in letting you suffer any longer.


    I began my debate between savory omelets and a few sugary cereals when Mom brought her hands down and dried them on a dish towel.


    “Do I want to know?” I asked.


    Mom shook her head and chewed on her lips before straightening the towel on the oven handle.


    “Dads on the bridge?” I asked, “Are we taking all this there?”


    “Yes, and the conversation hasn’t been going well.” Mom said. “I’ve been listening in for the past hour. Our client informed us that there is an uproar for the M.A.G.E agency in the area. They’ve launched their investigation, and the client is dead set that they knew the signs and want the Minotaur apprehended for questioning.”


    “That’s not going to be easy,” I said.


    Mom grimaced, “Which only makes things worse, and it fuels conjecture directed right at the possibility of some covert group or a joint effort by illegal monster hunters, which doesn’t make the agents happy, and it escalated when rumors began to spread that even the Messenger has gotten involved.”


    “The Messenger?” The name sounded familiar, but it wasn’t like I kept a running list of names in my head and some of the more mystic beings loved going by code names.


    “He’s a wizard,” Mom said.


    “Oh!” It wasn’t every day that you mentioned a wizard by name, especially if it''s one of the historically famous ones with a fancy code name.


    Magical creatures figured out how to blend in and mingle, but someone had to make sure the more bloodthirsty ones never crossed the line. Wizards fit that bill perfectly. I hadn’t met a wizard, but several ancestors had chance encounters with them, and a few of them hadn’t ended well. They’re not evil, except for the dark one, of course. Still, wizards tend to be the most mysterious, as well as witches, though it''s pretty easy to see witches if you watch for the green shades of envy. I figured out my food but suddenly didn’t feel as hungry as I had a moment ago.


    “Our client is furious that wizards are investigating, and they want to scrutinize any mention of a minotaur, his human alias, and if there was any reason why he went out into the county.”


    “How’s Mr. Morris taking it?”


    Mom shook her head. “We don’t know and it’s not like Dad can just call him up and ask. I’ve been expecting a call or a visit from the sheriff or the police all morning, but so far, it''s been radio silent.”


    “Do you think Mr. Morris mentioned we were there?” I asked.


    “Anything is possible,” Mom admitted. “I watched the van’s footage, and it looked like you guys managed to appear as though you had just arrived, but I am concerned that Mrs. Morris seemingly had been there the whole time and didn’t notice anything.”


    “It was dead silent,” I said, “and I thought was strange as well.”


    I made my choices, but Mom gestured me to back away.


    “Seriously?” I asked, “I know what I want.”


    Mom stuck her tongue out at me and began to load food onto a wheeled cart. “Let’s get to the bridge. I’ll let Dad go into detail. Dad just finished watching a news report about the event, and apparently, the police are calling it the worst case of vandalism ever in this area.”


    “Oh, that’s not good,” I wheezed.


    “Nope,” Mom agreed, “Now let’s get going.”


    “I’ll go take my place,” I said breathlessly. At the same time, my mouth watered from the aromas, “I have a feeling Dad is going to assume there is more to this encounter than we’ve been led to believe.”


    Mom finished putting all the food on the cart, placed her hands on her lips, and took a moment to admire her handiwork.


    “I’ve trained you well, grasshopper.”


    Mom’s role in the business was family medic, chef, nutrition expert, level-headed voice of reason, and communications specialist. Dad was the family tactician. He was brilliant and excellent at reading people, assessing threat levels, and creating plans, sometimes on the fly. As teens, Dad had grilled us on interrogation techniques, asking the right kind of questions while fighting and keeping an ear out for ticks, clicks, and concerns that our targets were stalling, binding their time, or if they were desperate. Mom added to these tactics with handy tips for things to watch out for, mainly traps and she was fantastic at knowing how to use practically anything around us to our advantage. Together, they were a fierce duo, and they modeled teamwork that helped us avoid some gruesome scrapes.


    I led the way back down the hall and stopped by the third picture, where Mom and Dad stood together on a staged Star Trek experience that had occurred in Las Vegas. I gently put my thumb against the corner of the picture and slid it twice to the left and twice to the right. Then, once it was back in place, I pressed the framed photo into the wall. There were three beeps, and I heard a faint hiss, which split a portion of the wall down the middle, opening a doorway into the bridge.


    Yes, the bridge. A literal replica of the bridge from Star Trek the Next Generation’s Enterprise D bridge. Once you’re across the threshold at this entrance, I had the option to move up a small incline to the tactical area and multiple computer bays used for various reasons on the show, ranging from research to engineering.  This upper level sat elevated above the commanding trio’s chairs, and there was an open floor save for the helm seats and the famous view screen. Dad sat in the captain’s chair and in place of pictures of planets, enemy ships, or some kind of data cataloging a phenomenon bent on destroying a star system, the planet, or the ship itself. Dad had assembled a splattered array of images and paused videos that documented multiple moments and a variety of angles of our barnyard encounter.


    Mom came in and moved left, coming down to the main floor and putting the food cart beside Counselor Troi’s chair. Dad, meanwhile, had his attention firmly on a small tablet while he typed into the tiny keyboard set into the armrest. This room was Dad’s area, and his interface gave him access to a data bank full of wanted posters, profiles, and a wide range of information collected, assembled, or questionably acquired over the years. The set seemed ludicrous, but we each had a unique space where we had complete privacy and could assemble information, and keep potentially dangerous, incriminating evidence beneath layers of safeguards. Most government agencies don’t hold a candle to what we can do with technology. Dad cycled through the information from the Minotaur encounter which had plenty of clear shots of our faces, and the accompanying audio would only put a nail in our proverbial coffin. Mom prepped a plate, and Dad accepted it while the system processed the video footage. It was scary to think that if anyone got access, it could rip our well-tailored alibis apart. I pushed the thoughts away. We all learned pretty quickly to send paranoia packing. We could protect each other; we had to be ready to survive on our own. We have strengths, but each encounter reminds us of our mortality.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Ok, time for food.


    I moved around the back, quickly accessing a station to open my access to the family system. We had a databank to dig through, documenting our past encounters along with an archive of a range of lore and surveillance programs we could use to keep an eye on our target. I slipped into my seat; the one Lt. Commander Data would occupy while on duty. I saw miniature versions of the big stuff Dad had on the screen. I cleared it away and set security sweeps to alert my station if anyone decided to swing by the house to pay us a visit. Tony typically would sit across from me in the navigation chair. There, he’d have access to archived information, video files, and footage for different areas inside and outside the house.


    “How bad is it, Dad?” I asked.


    “We didn’t handle it well, but It’s not a wreck your weekend situation yet,” Dad said, “Somewhere, somehow we misread the situation, and the intel had to have been faulty.”


    “In what way?” Mom asked.


    “The reasons he was out near the farm,” Dad said, ‘It doesn’t make any sense. He went out there a handful of times and the moment he confronted, He didn’t try to talk his way out. He immediately went on the offensive.”


    I slumped a little in my chair. “Is this going to wreck the weekend?”


    Dad shook his head. “it’s not quite there.” He paused and then he added, “Yet!”


    “Oh boy,” I muttered. The phrase “wreck your weekend” typically leaves a nasty taste in my mouth. Over the years we developed categories for different kinds of creatures and the threats they pose. There are also little hints we offer a conversation to say we screwed up yet again; saying you’ve screwed up gets old really fast.


    “It''s like we’re kids again,” Tony said passing through the double doors, “breakfast for lunch.”


    “Grab your food and take your station, please,” Dad said, “we better get this underway.”


    Dad clicked a few buttons, and several images appeared on the view screen with a stark red hue, a visual interaction about the nature of the conversation.


    “Honey, would you play the video file Alpha Seven Zero?”


    “Roger that,” Mom said. She stood at the top of the arch, sitting on a chair that spun three hundred and sixty degrees. The one feature that was not ever put in the TV show. Her fingers danced over multiple digital squeaks and pops. The noises were incredibly accurate, which is what made these spaces super cool to be inside of. I took a few bites as the view screen showed a regular computer desktop. Mom moved the cursor across the screen and played the requested video file.


    Our encounter with a man the world knew as Jared Swanson, a mail carrier in his mid-forties. He had been in the area for about five years, and after last night, we knew him as a Minotaur.


    The video started.


    “Hello,” Dad’s voice called from behind the camera, which was positioned right behind the driver’s side rear-view mirror. The mail truck was an older model, and the door creaked loudly, even over the microphone, as Mr. Swanson climbed out. He had a young face with many lines that most would probably attribute to a lack of sleep.


    “We’re kind of lost,” Dad continued. “Do you have a G.P.S. we could borrow to get back onto the main road?”


    “I think so,” Mr. Swanson padded his coat pockets and then dropped his hands down to his pants pockets. I heard both Tony and myself say a few words, but the microphone had picked up feedback from the engine and Mr. Swanson.


    “I’m not sure where,” Mr. Swanson continued in defeat. I hadn’t realized it then, but the drastic and immediate change from a regular guy to an enraged monster. The indicators were quite alarming. I replayed the encounter in my mind as it played out on the screen. I vividly recalled how I felt in the car in those seconds before he went on the attack. I turned away as his human form vanished, and a knot formed in my stomach; some creatures changed form more gracefully than others. This transformation was pretty grotesque.


    Dad barked an order, and we piled out and sprinted toward the farm. While Jared, our target, opened his mouth and let out a fierce bellow no human larynx could ever have been able to produce. He pulled his arms back and beat his chest as every muscle and contour of his body broke away from clothing. Horns grew from his head; his entire body began to shake and tremble as he grew several inches and sprouted thick deep brown hair across every exposed portion of his body. The feed changed angles, and we scrambled for cover. I glanced at Tony, and he didn''t seem too keen to relive the experience either. Mom lowered the volume, and then Dad clicked the pause button on his armrest interface and rose to his feet. He approached the view screen, placing his arms behind his back. It was rather captain-like of him, but this was no simulation or a laughing matter.


    “Out of several hundred encounters,” Dad analyzed. “we’ve approached vampires, goblins, trolls, imps, crocodiles with two legs.”


    “And let’s not forget the mummies, the zombies, the mermaids, the werewolves and large rats.”


    “Gross,” I muttered, but the conversation continued without any kind of acknowledgment.


    “What was it about our introduction?” Dad said motioning to the screen. “I asked a simple question. One that dozens of people would have responded with a joke or simple comment. Jared, he didn’t”


    Dad returned his attention to the screen. “We all know that Jared Swanson’s presence had reached the point where an M.A.G.E representative was worried something was wrong. These days, if someone in the dead of night is moving around homes, businesses, and farms on the outskirts of town, if they’re not criminals, they’re creatures up to no good.”


    Tony lifted a hand, and Dad motioned to him.


    “I know most conspiracy theories when it comes to monsters are accurate, and I’ll be the first to admit that we could have handled it better. Still, I don’t get why we’re analyzing this so deeply. Did our client get exposed? Are we possibly in trouble? Are there people wanting to protest? Did Mr. Morris point the authorities in our direction?”


    Dad raised his hand. “Those are good questions and there is always plenty of political shakeup and turmoil. Fortunately, it seems we’re in the clear for now. We’ll talk about it more in a moment, but first Honey, would you add your observation.”


    “Yes, I would,” Mom dove back into the console and brought up a few still frames from the video, both of Jared in his human form and in the moments right before he transformed. I quickly polished off my food as Mom enlarged a few images, complete with cow horns protruding from a human forehead and a nearly melting face. Tony squirmed in disgust before setting his bowl on the counter. I followed suit by setting my bowl down beside me.


    “As I watched the encounter, I was stunned and rather alarmed at Jared’s emotional trauma. We’re focusing on this because monsters assess threats differently than humans. We get nervous, defensive, and possibly paranoid. Jared was different. Most monsters can replicate human emotions and use them to blend in. The fact that he responded and then immediately lashed out at you three, makes me worried that he may have been aware of a larger threat.”


    “A threat that he deemed dangerous to himself,” Dad added.


    Mom made some noises on her console and new information appeared on the view screen. “Now, to spare you all from an in-depth psychological evaluation.”


    Mom held a clicker to the screen, and the image zoomed in. The first slide was a still frame capture of the Minotaur’s human disguise along with close to a dozen or more tiny green circles, interconnecting lines, and small boxes of text highlighting the relevant analysis of the displayed image. I didn’t quite understand the science of micro expressions, but I was beginning to grasp it, and my parents were adamant it was a science that would help us read people and a situation.


    “Based on the car’s cam footage,” Mom narrated. She moved a cursor arrow to several key circles by the human face. “It''s pretty apparent the Minotaur mailman was in a heightened state of anxiety and agitation.”


    “We did surprise him,” Tony asked, “if he was on the hunt, he probably was worried we were going to get in his way.”


    “Our M.A.G.E contacts thought the same thing,” Dad said, “we could have been his potential enemy, and monsters'' human appearance doesn’t have to align to any particular age or body size.”


    “The counter to the logic,” Mom added, “is based on their assessment. Jared’s human reputation was spotless. He came off as a level-headed man. He was a good neighbor, and there were suspicions, worries, or any of the signs to hint that he was breaking away from his human persona and reverting to his true form and habits.”


    I folded my arms as the footage crossed my screen. All was quiet outside the house. “So, if he was such an outstanding person, what was he doing out near the farm? What sort of threat would he consider so terrifying that he’d keep going out there and then attack the first person he came across? It doesn’t make sense that he wouldn’t have asked any of his friends for help or backup.”


    “That’s a good point Emma,” Dad acknowledged, “and there is some concern that Jared may have left some kind of clue with someone he trusted. M.A.G.E is investigating his associates, but they’re worried someone else, maybe someone more terrifying could go off the rails.”


    “It also begs the question, is the threat out there in the county? or was he on something’s trail?” Tony said.


    “Agreed,” Dad said, “and Mr. Morris’s angle creates some trouble because he’ll now have police protection and he’ll be on high alert along with all of his workers.”


    Dad scratched his chin. “He was out there, and we don’t know why. That is scary.”


    I glanced at the screen as the mail was dropped up and some teenagers wandered up the block. Dad often mulled over problems and inconsistencies in behaviors and testimony. I felt puzzled, and I was surprised Tony looked a bit perplexed.


    “Why do we need to know why? Isn''t that what M.A.G.E investigations teams are for?”


    “Yes, but that''s where the line crosses,” Dad said. “And that’s where things get dicey inside M.A.G.E. There are layers of security that prevent them from figuring out who we are. Where we live and anything about us. I reasoned over the years, having dealt with a few different officials inside M.A.G.E, that word does get around, but they’ve never had anything concrete to investigate, and I deal with the contracts to make sure that nothing is ever confirmed.”


    “Which raises the alarm that since we were given a contract and a target with possibly bad intel.” Mom said, “That means, in theory, someone possibly wants to shake things up.”


    “Like a government mole or some rogue agent?” Tony asked.


    “Anything is possible,” Dad said with a narrow brow. “We need to pin down why Jared was going out to the county because the why would explain why he lashed out at us, and if there is someone who used their M.A.G.E connections, or worse their knowledge of us to do their dirty work.”


    Dad rarely likes to use the term, dirty work. We had to lie, cheat, steal, injure, and decapitate to list a few of our dastardly deeds. When we did the hard job, people could sleep at people, and we made sure that it was for a reason. We didn’t just kill for the sake of killing.


    If someone had used us to deal with an innocent individual. That was unacceptable.


    Tony rolled his eyes, looking a little annoyed, and helped himself to more food.


    “So, we’re chasing after shadows until we pin down that some politician is terrified about losing an election, or they’re concerned about some brewing scandal.”


    “Yes and no,” Mom said.


    “Ok,” Tony said.


    “Unlike our past encounters when we’ve had to go to ground for a few weeks to a month. Those instances were logical and clear-cut. We should be on our guard because, over the next little while, the jobs we get could have comparable results.”


    “Which we wouldn’t know about until we’re staring down the snout of who knows what,” Dad said. “I know we often joke about dumb luck when it comes to encounters, but I don’t like being blindsided and if people are aware of us. We need to know who they are and what they know so they can’t spoil our operation.”


    Tony returned to his seat and held up his hands in surrender. The back and forth may have seemed one-sided, but we often chatted like this. We had to review everything to hopefully not overlook the obvious.


    Tony then motioned to me, “Emma, do you see any reason we need to be on death con 1?


    My eyes fell on my console screen as I considered Tony’s question and everything we had seen, considered, and put into perspective. We did have a sizable history dealing with politics and corruption. Some relatives, if the records were accurate, had even served in multiple layers of government state, federal, and magical. In most cases before the big reveals, there was understandable worry; and if M.A.G.E had a spy in their ranks, the shake-up would be brutal, and if there was an unknown threat lurking in the shadows, biding its time while having been able to avoid detection by the smartest and most dangerous individual the world had ever presented to society. That would be alarming and terrifying, to say the least.


    “It’s not a bad idea to be cautious,” I replied, and I glanced down at my console. The word stuck in my mind. Cautious? I pictured the Minotaur as a man and opened the video to watch our initial interaction. It wasn’t uncommon for us to take off on tangles. Dad, Tony, and Mom continued the conversation while I worked.


    “Dad, have you considered any mythological influences?” Tony interjected. “What if M.A.G.E is getting all worked up over nothing? The Minotaur might have been doing something like a werewolf when one howls at the moon.


    Mom folded her arms behind her back, and from the corner of my eye, I could see she was considering the idea.


    “I’ll admit I’m a bit rusty on my Greek myths, but this could have something to do with the sacrifices and the Labyrinth.”


    Dad scratched at his chin, then pulled his shirt down in a Captain Picard sort of way. “It is autumn so maybe the Minotaur was feeling some sort of nostalgia for its historical roots. There are a few farmers in the area who do corn mazes, which is a possibility, but that also means the Minotaur was on the warpath to commit mass murder. I don’t think other Minotaurs will appreciate the accusation because our client assures me this was an isolated event. No other identified Minotaur had been exhibiting the same kind of behavior.”


    “Then maybe it was some kind of challenge. The monster equivalent of a dare. Or maybe was he looking for something?” Tony suggested.


    “That is a lead,” Dad agreed. I let out an exhale and zoomed in on the feed, but there were cues in his voice where I knew he had things on his mind that he wasn’t ready or sure how to verbalize.


    “A challenge or a dare,” Dad continued, “Honey, could we see the other images, please? It is possible, but did he have anything with him? Was he trying to hide something from us?”


    I paused my work and leaned back as Mom moved to a new set of images. I tensed and fidgeted in my seat at the awkward and unflattering photos of a man with a thick jaw and flared nostrils. These were expressions moments before he launched his first attack. Tony licked his lips, and I recalled the seconds he piled out of the car before his skin stretched and split and his clothing ripped before he gained a few feet in height. If he had had something in his hand, or if he had wanted to hide something. He must have hidden it, or it had been in his pocket which he shredded when he transformed.


    Dad crossed his arms over his chest, “It''s too hard to tell if he had anything in his hands. As far as I can see he was standing his ground.”


    I clicked my tongue in contemplation. “Tony’s idea about a challenge is the best theory we have. It''s possible he was scared, and we have an enemy lurking in the shadows. Equally like is that he was looking for something, feeling nostalgic for his roots and he may have ended up in a corn maze. Or he was looking for something, and he was worried that people might come and take it from him, what it was.”


    “If we know any good historians,” Dad said, “we should have them investigate the land for any burial sites or major historical events. The Minotaur myth has been around for centuries. Perhaps there is a historical clue to his actions.”


    “Good idea,” Mom said, “and-”


    She trailed off as nearly every light in the room turned red, and a siren began to beep.


    “A Red Alert?” Dad questioned with a look of alarm, “Tony, is there anything going on outside? Emma, check the feeds inside the house. I’ll prepare the lockdown.”


    We jumped into action, all anxious and alarmed. I checked every camera we had, and I watched all the doors upstairs and downstairs close and lock. I didn’t dare blink just in case something was seconds away from revealing itself. We didn’t have pets, but occasionally the neighbors did trigger alarms.


    “I’ve completed an initial sweep,” Tony said. “I don’t see anything.”


    “Me neither,” I said.


    The mood on the bridge immediately felt stiff, if not anxious, sprinkled with alarm. Why wouldn’t it have escalated so quickly? We had just spent the last forty-five minutes talking about moles, spies, and secret enemies. We had also been worried that someone knew about us.


    “The house is locked down.” Mom said.


    “No one has gained entry into the house,” I confirmed, “We’re alone.”


    “Good,” Dad said, “but we’re not out of the woods yet. Something set up the Red Alert, and I want to know what. Emma, help Tony with the feeds outside. Expand the search down the street if you have to.”


    “On it,” I said.


    I rubbed my hands together and set my control to continue to scan inside the house. I had to be sure nothing was able to breach our lockdown. We couldn’t venture out of the bridge, let alone the house without information. There is no such thing as a false alarm for a Monster assassin. We had our fair share of enemies without claws, muscles, and powers which weren’t special video effects to create a spectacle, but the real deal.


    “Tony,” Dad said.


    “There’s been minimal activity on the street,” Tony said. He had commandeered the view screen, but his attention was squarely on his console screen. This should have been a happy note, and then we could have stood down the Red Alert, but we couldn''t.


    “We need answers,” Dad said, “Honey, anything in the backyard?”


    “Negative,” Mom said.


    “I’ve set it for the same twenty-minute period,” Tony said.


    “I’ve got nothing,” I said, and I rose to my feet and moved back toward Dad for a better view, and Mom came down by Dad’s side. The only sound in the room was the beeps from Tony’s console as he opened multiple windows to present a variety of active camera angles. We had one over the door and one in each rose bush that ran along the edge of the front and back yard and stopped at the sidewalk.


    There was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a regular day.


    So why the Red Alert?


    “I don’t like this,” Dad said; the hesitation and uncertainty were lingering, which wasn’t good. We were safe on the bridge, but if we wanted to fight back, we needed to leave, and to leave meant we’d have to be ready to face an enemy unaware.


    “What are the odds we’d have an alarm triggered the day after we fight a Minotaur? That puts the whole operation into question.”


    “I’ve double-checked the garden gnomes and the car’s rear and back camera. There is nothing.”


    “Could we have been followed home?” I asked.


    Mom was quick to reply. “The cars'' cameras didn’t detect any kind of light source along the road or in the fields during the fight. This is suspicious, but if we had someone spying on us, we would have seen them by now.”


    She was right, given the measures and steps we had to take daily to avoid suspicion and awkward encounters. Dad lowered the volume, but the bridge maintained the concerned red color, and we all knew the system didn’t lie. We had to pin down the threat and then proceed with a counterattack.


    “Keep the feed on a constant sweep,” Dad gripped the back of my chair. He looked so laser-focused that he probably could have lit a fire with his stare. “Let’s get a bird''s eye view from the flagpole.”


    “Which flagpole?” Tony asked. “We have one Miller’s on the corner, and then we have old Colonel Barett two houses down.”


    “The colonel’s,” Dad said, “he’s on the opposite side of the street. The Miller’s won’t tell us anything because traffic has been heavy for the past two hours.”


    “Alright, here’s what we see from the colonel’s,” Tony said.


    Tony shrank the dozen or so monitors he had running, giving the pole footage as the room''s central focus. Colonel Barett was an older gentleman, a human, and a lifetime aficionado of military history and war. He had fought for months and successfully got a city-sanctioned pole that overlooked almost the entire street. He often spent time at military sites or teaching history at the local university, so getting an angled frontal view of our house and a good chunk of the entire block hadn''t been too hard.


    Along with the rest, I scanned the footage for concerns and evidence of a threat. Our neighbors had been large hedges, and strategically, an enemy could lurk behind them. There was plenty of space, and I figured the distance between the hedge and their side yard was mostly obstructed. Plus, most houses on our street were empty at this time of day, and we didn’t know the size of our potential spy or maybe spies. There were small creatures that couldn’t easily be confused for wandering cats or stray dogs. I watched the hedges, but nothing screamed “hiding place”, and the foliage was thick enough. I doubted it would betray anything on the opposite side if their movements were subtle and controlled. Dad moved closer to the view screen, and Mom opted to move toward the back and take her place on the arch console.


    “Come out, come out wherever you are,” Dad said.


    That single phrase certainly verbalized the mood in the room. Tony set the footage, and we watched. A few cars slipped by, and three people ran past the driveway, one of whom had a dog on a lease.


    Or were there two dogs?


    “Hey Tony, rewind it a few minutes again,” I said. I had to see it again to make sure I was right.


    “How long?” Tony asked, his finger hovering over a digital dial to set the footage at any indicated time index.


    “Four minutes or so,” I confirmed.


    The cars and joggers began to move backward. I spotted a bird sitting on a powerline I hadn’t noticed before. I made sure my hair was out of my face and did my best impression of Dad. I got close to the screen; I knew the answer was right in front of me.


    “There!” I called. Tony immediately froze the video feed. I moved to my console, and Tony allowed me to mess with the feed. I adjusted the angle and zoomed in on a glitch that fuzzed right in front of our mailbox.


    “How much do you want to bet that fuzzy part isn’t pixelation or dust on the lens?”


    “It most definitely is not,” Dad confirmed, returning to the captain’s chair. I swiveled in my chair while Mom dialed in and cleared the footage of any pixelation and weather obstructions on the lenses. Tony secured the image and set a few filters, revealing two people; they had no recognizable features apart from black clothing and dark masks. They could have easily been two burglars from B-rate crime movies, which was a bit of a letdown, but in the Monster world, things aren’t what they seem.


    “What are they doing?” Tony asked.


    “As far as I can tell, they’re messing with the mailbox, but they haven’t opened it.” Mom said, “They’re also using some kind of cloaking enforcement.”


    “That’s ironic, given where we are,” Tony said.


    Dad straightened up. “They wouldn’t.”


    “Dad, what do you mean?” He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he turned his attention to his armrest screen. After a moment, he snapped his fingers and looked visibly annoyed.


    “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Dad exclaimed.


    “Darling?” Mom prodded.


    “It looks like you’ve got cousins in town.” Dad said, “And they’ve initiated a war game.”


    “A war game,” Mom said, exasperated, “Which one?”


    “Tony, zoom in closer on the mailbox.”


    “This had better not be a War Game,” he said, “I’m still mad at the last one.”


    “Annabel likes to cheat,” I added.


    Tony shot me a nod and switched the feed to live. The street was empty, but as he zoomed in and applied multiple filters, we all groaned when nearly two dozen circles were on the mailbox and the stock that held it up for the mailman.


    I was the first to speak up. “Well, this is certainly a way to ruin a weekend. I hate the curse of the stickers.”