The alley behind the Zon did not smell quite as bad as Daria had anticipated. Perhaps the cheap dead cigarettes covered the urine, or perhaps the beer had diluted the latter to the point that it was mostly water. She muttered to herself: "It'll be fun, Jane said. You'll get quality time with Trent, Jane said." The guitar case she carried in one hand made her look just mis-proportioned enough to be comical, and the nest of assorted power and audio cables over her other shoulder kept threatening to slide off onto the pavement, at which point she wondered if even Mystik Spiral would want them. But she had offered to help the band stow their gear in the Tank, and she was a creature of her word.
"Thanks, Daria," said Trent, as he slid the van's side door open. He took the guitar case from her and nestled it among the detritus that held it in place. The remainder of Mystik Spiral were still inside, and Daria could hear an argument about song lyrics and a drum solo escalating in volume through the back door of the Zon. "Hey," Trent said. "Would you like to go out for burgers?"
"Hmmrrp?" replied Daria.
"I promised Janey that I'd bring home something to eat, and I think Cluster Burger is about the only thing open. Can't go to Waffle Hovel — it's a long story, don't ask me why."
"Um, sure," Daris said. "Do we have to drive the rest of the band home, or—"
The first interruption was the siren. Then, the flashing red and blue lights, spilling around the far corner of the building, where another alleyway intersected theirs. Then came the clanging thud of an object about the size and rigidity of a human body hitting a dumpster, and a low moan of pain.
For just an instant, Daria was rooted to the spot where she stood. A heartbeat later came the instinct: Run towards the story.
A jumble of concurrent motions: Daria taking two steps towards the lights, Trent reaching out an arm to stop her, a wiry figure slouching out from behind the dumpster clutching its midsection with one arm and dragging a gym bag with the other.
The new arrival dropped his bag and held up his free hand, palm open. "I come in peace," he wheezed, as though pain were drowning out an attempt to laugh. "You're with that band, right? Look, I don't have much time — don't worry — I'm not here to hurt anybody — well, only them." He sucked in his breath. Now Daria could see the blood seeping out between the fingers that he kept pressed to his side.
"Hey, I know you," Trent said. "You're the pizza delivery guy."
"Artie," the gangly, wounded teenager said.
Daria started to approach him, a random memory jabbing sideways into her brain — Rikki-Tikki-Tavi explaining the right stride with which to approach a cobra — and then displaced by another. "Didn't I see you on Sick, Sad World?"
"UFO convention," Artie agreed with a gasp. "Smokescreen. Purloined letter. Whatever you want to call it — argh. Listen, I'm done for. Just take the bag." He pushed it towards her with his foot. His sneaker was stained bright red ... with a splash of something ... green ... "I'll go the other way, lead them into the warehouse district. Shitty place for it to end ... not that anywhere in Lawndale would be much — urghhk. Take the bag. They look like us. They have friends who are us. Don't wear the glasses too long. And whatever you do, don't give up." He gathered all his strength in one deep lungful, and with surprising speed, stumbled around the corner and vanished.
* * *
Jane and Trent watched as Daria sorted the contents of Artie's bag onto the floor of Jane's bedroom. "Protein bars. First-aid kit. Change of clothes. Eww."
Jane observed, "There's money in this sock." She undid the rubber band around the roll of bills and began counting them out onto the floor.
"Walkie-talkie that definitely has an army-surplus vibe going on. And the rest is ... sunglasses?" They didn't look like designer frames, like anything that would be worth stealing, even in bulk. Could have come from any Drugs 'n Things.
"He told us not to look through them too long," Trent recalled.
"I guess that means —" Jane snatched a pair from the pile and slid them over her face. "Whoa." She lifted them to her forehead, looked around and lowered them again. "These aren't ... normal. They don't just turn down the light, they make the world go ... monochrome. And ..." She looked down at the other contents of Artie's grab-bag, and stumbled backward. "Jesus fucking Christ!"
Daria and Trent stood on either side of her, holding her steady on her wobbly feet. "Daria," Jane said, turning to her only friend. "Put the glasses on, and look at the money. Just ..."
Daria took the sunglasses from Jane's trembling hand. She wondered for a moment how garish they must look, covering part but not all of her own clear lenses. Then her vision was filtered to grayscale, and she peered downward at what should have been green legal tender.
THIS IS YOUR GOD.
* * *
The next morning, at breakfast, Quinn was reading the latest issue of Waif while eating her low-cal strawberry yogurt. Daria took a peek through the sunglasses.
CONSUME, read the front cover. DON'T THINK, read the back.
"Yeah, that's a bit on the nose," Daria muttered to herself.