“Where are we, again?” I ask.

Francis motions to the window outside, where rows and rows of potatoes grow endlessly. “Idaho. The land of absolutely nothing. That’s why the U.S. military could put a secret base here. Nobody would ever think to look.”

“Is there truly nothing here in Idaho?”

“Nope.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not even a single city. This place is basically the demilitarized zone between Washington and Montana. Not a single person lives here.”

“Is that what the war has caused?” I ask.

“No, it’s always been like this,” Francis tells me.

“What a scary place indeed.”

We are on the path back to San Francisco, back to the place where it all began again. We can regroup there and figure out our next plan of action... Even if there is significantly more chaos than either of us would currently like to discuss.

Instead, the car radio does most of that discussing for us.

“The liberation war’s going real smooth, I hear,” says the talk radio host. He sounds like a man about fifty-three, balding, sells herbal supplements. I have been on Earth long enough to know the type. “Our brave men and women and nonbinaries are out there on the battlefield bringing freedom and democracy to all parts of the world.”

“Yeah, I heard that too,” says the other man speaking, today’s guest for the show who sounds mostly like a military officer attempting to sound like a casual civilian. But I hear the timber in his voice that reveals the truth as he says, “We brought Saigon back last week, and the Siege of Rome is going at a buttery smooth 60 FPS, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Like hell I do, but you’ve got a way with words.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“So, what’s the name of this war, really?” The host asks.

“Well, I wouldn’t even call it a war, myself,” the shill says. “War implies we’re really fighting some equal group. Maybe a special operation?”

“Sounds like a good name to me.”

“But America’s not in it for the territory or whatever, you know? We’re trying to unite the world into a coalition that can bring an end to the scourge of terror on Mystix. That’s what I’m thinking, at least. Just my opinion.”

“God bless the U.S.A.”

“Hell yeah.”

Francis stares blankly out at the flat potato-filled expanse of Idaho. I’m not sure if he’s even listening to it.

“Should we be concerned about this radio program?” I ask.

Instead of answering, he reaches out his hand and turns the radio off completely.

“Let’s just talk about something different, okay?” Francis tries to stammer something out, but does not seem to succeed at saying what he wants.

“Are you alright, my dear friend?”

“No, not really. You can—I mean, we’re empathetically linked and everything. You probably already understand.”

“Of course. You’re upset about a great many things, but of what in particular troubles you most I am not aware.”

“Pretty much everything, bro. The war, the country, your homeland... It feels like the entire world is falling apart, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Except you did something wonderful by helping me out.”

Francis gives a sarcastic chortle. “I did that because I love you. Not because I think you’re going to save everybody and defeat the bad guys.”

“I had not made any specific plans yet, but I am sure I could defeat anyone who stands in my path.”

He gestures down to my grown-out belly. “How far’s your [Strength] stat fallen by now?”

“...I am sure I could defeat anyone who stands in my path, with some added refresher training.”

“Better put.”

“Although, I must tell you that my [Strength] and [Power] stats have never shrunken. They have in fact risen considerably since the last time we met. I once wrestled a bear in front of you, but I believe now I could wrestle that bear with both hands tied behind my back.”

“Can you really wrestle at all without your arms?” Francis asks.

“I don’t have any idea, but I will certainly try.”

“Uh, please don’t.”

An awkward pause pervades the car for a few minutes. Neither of us know what to say, and we both spend some time trying just to think of topics to say.

With no radio on, it is unnervingly quiet. With the potato farms endlessly stretching on as we drive back towards California, it’s almost as if the entire world has frozen into a strange peace.

That peace does not last, however, because we reach the edge of Idaho and encounter the highway border crossing.

“Ah, damn it, these guys,” Francis says. “Border guards are stationed on basically every road in every state now.”

“That sounds like an extremely dangerous predicament for us to be in considering we just escaped a maximum security military facility.”

He waves his hands. “Nah, it’s not dangerous, just annoying,” he says. “Remember, all the guys who can hurt us are all systemed up and fighting in Mystix. The ones left behind are the ones doing pointless border crossings because the country has suddenly devolved into a military junta for some reason.”

“It may have been the case for a while before, and we simply never noticed.”

“What, are you a Twitter thread writer now?”

“I wish I understood your references, Francis. And yet I am charmed by them all the same.”

“Okay, the guy’s almost here, so shut up.”

A large man taps on Francis’s window. He rolls it down and leans forward, saying, “Yes, sir?”

The guard leans in closer and both of us realize instantly who it is—Buddy!

It may not be easy to remember Buddy, since it has been so very long since we first encountered him. But he was my very first real foe on Earth, a reckless driver and gas-guzzling buffoon of the classic American variety. Once an intimidating display of force... Now a border crossing guard with a dreary gray look to him.

“IDs, please,” he drones, barely even looking at either of us. Somehow, he does not seem to even recognize us, despite what should be extremely obvious with my hair color.

“Uh, I left mine at home, sorry,” Frnacis says.

“You left your... Driver’s license... At home?” Buddy’s look gets more suspicious, but not enough for him to press his radio or to take a good, serious gaze into the car.

“Yep, I left it at home,” Francis says as he ruffles through his jacket pocket. He takes out a crisp, fresh $20 bill and dangles it out the window, all without actually making eye contact with Buddy.

The guard considers it for a moment, then snatches the $20 bill away and nods. “Okay, thank you for showing me your IDs. Be on your way. I hope you enjoyed Idaho.”

“Didn’t.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Buddy mutters.

We speed past the border crossing as quickly as possible, before anything can go awry.

“I’ve probably spent $200 on these stupid checkpoints the past day,” Francis says. “I know if I actually give them my ID, it’ll ping something in the computer systems and it’ll probably be related to you, assuming the government was smart enough to actually connect the two of us before they kidnapped you.”

“I would not overestimate the competency of the U.S. government.”

“True, true,” Francis says. “But I didn’t want to take the risk. So, bribes it is. And Buddy was even cheaper than the guy who I paid when I crossed into Idaho in the first place! Kind of figures that guy would end up in a place like that. Men like him are always gonna burn out.”

“Burning out is never fun.”

“Yeah, I hate burnout so much,” Francis says. “Once, I stopped streaming for almost 2 whole days. I was just DONE with that stuff.”

“That is quite tragic. What did you do in the meantime?”

Francis flexes the arm that isn’t holding the wheel of the car. “Gains, bro. Gains to the moon.”

“You are a very strong man now. But you will never be as strong as me.”

“Is that a challenge? You wanna arm wrestle?”

“Again, I could most likely defeat you with both my hands tied behind my back.”

“I said ARM wrestle...”

“Nevertheless.”

He shakes his head and turns the radio back on—this time to some jamming music from a man by the name of Dean Friedman or some such person.

We will be back in San Fransisco soon, and we will be in a much more dire situation when we do. For now, though, at least we can enjoy the moment together.