There was a trio of energetic flies buzzing about the Waffle House that none of the employees or customers seemed especially in a hurry to kill. The flies, never getting too close to anyone and only feasting on plates recent customers had left behind, feasted without worry as the handful of people inside ate their greasy meals, drank their poorly brewed coffee, and played on their phones at tables that were never ‘fully’ clean.

Yes, Waffle Houses were exactly as they were a decade earlier, and Morgan loved every bit of it.

“Never seen someone this happy to eat at a Waffle House before,” George, the fisherman who had bought him the meal, said.

Betraying the appetite his portly figure would suggest he possessed, George satiated himself with one cup of coffee.

“Thanks for the meal,” Morgan said, sipping some of his own coffee.

“It’s no problem. That workout of yours at the beach must’ve worn you out something fierce. You training for a Triathlon or something?”

“Not exactly. I actually finished a pretty extreme event not too long ago,” Morgan said before taking a bite out of some bacon.

“It must have been crazy if you got the physique you do and you’re still training like this in the middle of the night. I mean, marathon swimming after sundown? That’s actually insane, son. Hell, you even lost your swim trunks.”

The small lie Morgan had told George was fanciful, but still more believable than the reality he would have had to convey. A fitness nut out night swimming in the ocean was bizarre, but at least there was some plausibility to it compared to ‘Chosen One who just returned from slaying a dragon king’.

“But Jesus, you got to be more careful, Morgan. All that training’s making you delusional. You’re wrapping flags around your waist and talking in tongues afterward.”

“Ah. Yea, about that. When I get real hazy upstairs, I start slurring random Korean into my English. It’s a weird habit I picked up from my grandparents.”

“Korean? I have a niece who won’t stop listening to Korean music and none of it ever sounded like the stuff you were saying…”

“It’s because of the weird accent my grandparents had. They came from a really rural part of South Korea. If you’re not from that region or grew up around somebody who was, you won’t understand a thing they’re saying even if you’re fluent in the language.”

Morgan wasn’t a liar by trade or even a big fan of it, but he could craft a yarn or two if the situation called for it. Years of brushing shoulders and even making close friends with several silver-tongued rogues, bards, and statesmen rubbed off on one after a while. It also helped that George and Morgan seemed to have natural chemistry with each other. Both were pretty easygoing, quick to adapt to ludicrous scenarios, and had an easy time opening up to strangers. Morgan was even wearing a pair of pants, some flip-flops, and an old Nirvana t-shirt George kept in his truck, and the fisherman reassured him he could keep them if he wanted.

“Doesn’t this shirt have history though?” Morgan asked while an employee said while refilling both of their mugs with fresh coffee.

“Meh. To be honest, I never liked Nirvana. Kurt Cobain was always a little too ‘whiny’ for me. I just keep the shirt in case the one I’m wearing gets dirty while I’m fishing.”

“Heh. Thanks for the clothes then.”

The two were similar enough in height, but when it came to weight, there was a hefty amount of variance. Morgan needed to hold his new pants up when he stood, and his Nirvana shirt had a few too many Xs on its tag. Apparently, even in his youth, George Atchison had always been a portly fellow. Still, he appreciated the gift. In fact, he appreciated just about everything concerning his situation. He was able to, for the first time in forever, enjoy eating at a food establishment without worrying about the food being poisoned. It was Waffle House sure, but whatever ‘poison’ that was present was incidental and gave the food more flavor anyway. He was also able to eat with his guard completely down – a pleasant change of pace. Even while enjoying a meal in the company of his friends, an assassin could strike from the shadows at any moment. Or a wizard, disguising himself as one of the hero’s comrades could suddenly try and set all of them ablaze.

There were no hidden cutthroats or spellcasters here in Tacoma. Just bothersome flies that were impatiently waiting for Morgan to let his guard down long enough to get their share of his meal. When George got up to go to the restroom, Morgan made sure nobody around was looking before taking matters into his own hands. He quickly jabbed at the flies just as they were all buzzing past him within striking range. He struck them in such quick succession of each other that their deaths seemed simultaneous. They hit the floor, all freshly bisected. Strangely enough, it was only after the flies were gone did an employee ask the others if they had any fly traps.

After George paid the tab, he and Morgan left the slightly dirty but still serviceable restaurant.

“So, where are headed going next?” the fisherman asked out in the parking lot.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m asking where am I dropping you off at. You didn’t have a car or bike at the beach, so wherever you live must be in walking distance. …right?”

The hero peered off in the dark, looking for another excuse to give. He had, however, grown tired enough of concocting stories to come clean for once.

“I don’t actually have a place.”

George looked shocked. “You saying you’re homeless? Really? So all you owned were those pair of trunks you lost in the ocean? Just how the hell did you end up in a situation like that?”

“It’s a long story. Insanely long. Like – I could start repeating it to you right here in this parking lot verbatim, and the sun would be up by the time I was mostly finished – long.”

“Jesus… It’s not drugs, right?”

Morgan made a face. “No, it’s not! Why’s that even your first assumption?”

“Well, you’re up in the middle of the night swimming in the ocean and you look like you missed a few haircuts. That ain’t normal behavior, son. It’s not a strong assumption, but you can see why it might cross my mind, can’t you?”

The hero sighed. Honestly, he really couldn’t blame George too much. As it stood, he was an extremely suspicious guy. He just happened to run into an extremely lackadaisical man who didn’t bother with prying and tended to take things at face value. If he was in George’s shoes, he probably wouldn’t be giving a guy like Morgan so much leeway without any further investigation into his character.

“You’ve really got nowhere else to go? No relatives or close friends that might take you in,” George asked.

“Not here in Tacoma. Up in Seattle, I have someone, but… he and I haven’t talked in a long time. I’m not even sure if he still has the same address or phone number.”

George breathed heavily through his nose.

“Alright. Get in,” he finally said, gesturing to his truck.

“Huh? But I’ve got nowhere for you to take me.”

“I know. That’s why you’re coming back home with me. You can stay over at my house for the night. I have a spare bedroom for you.”

Morgan cocked a brow at the fisherman’s offer.

“George, you have a wife. Isn’t she gonna, y’know, be pissed off that you’re bringing some strange dude who swims in the ocean at night back to her home?”

“It’ll be fine,” he said urging again for Morgan to get in.

As he did, the hero urged the fisherman to consider if his wife would really want him to return home at night with a homeless 20-something.

“She barely wants me there anymore,” he said while they pulled out of the parking lot. “Look, don’t worry about it. My Linda’s the type of lady who goes with the flow. Always has been. Trust me.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

“Are you out of your damn mind, George?!”

Morgan sat in the truck’s passenger’s seat, listening in silence to George’s ostensibly futile attempt of cajoling his wife Linda inside their home. She did not seem quite the “go with the flow” type of lady her husband had tried portraying her as.

Most of the time the hero couldn’t hear their interaction, but occasionally George would say something Morgan assumed was exceptionally ludicrous because his wife would promptly snap at him so sharply it could be heard from outside. He honestly felt a bit bad for her. Morgan liked George but he definitely seemed the type of guy to test your nerves from time to time; never intentionally, but testing them all the same. A lifelong union with him was likely equal parts entertaining as it was stress-inducing.

After an awkward waiting period, Morgan noticed that no further mumbling or great shrieks came from indoors. He watched the front door peevishly. It finally opened and a middle-aged woman with very intense blue eyes stood in its frame and glared at him. Morgan waved at her gingerly. Her glare intensified and she shut the door back. After another minute of silence, it was reopened this time by the husband instead of the wife.

With a triumphant grin, George gestured for his new guest to come on in. Morgan hurriedly did so. When he shut the door behind him, the pair of intense blue eyes were gazing at him again from the kitchen.

"You can stay one night. One,” she said. “After that, you can either sleep in George’s truck or find a bridge you think is cozy. And I hope you’re fed because I don’t cook for strangers.”

George snorted. “So, am I a stranger then too?”

"Christ, I wish. Alzheimer’s can’t get here quick enough.”

The portly fisherman burst out laughing as his annoyed wife rolled her eyes and headed off to their bedroom. He was still wheezing as he guided the bemused youth behind him to the guest room.

“It’s yours for the night. If you need anything just ask me,” he said. “I’ll be watching TV for a bit while the wife simmers off.”

George was still snickering a bit as he left Morgan in the room. The hero just shook his head smiling as he shut the door behind him.

“Looks like I got a place to sleep somehow,” he said, glazing his eyes over his temporary dwelling.

It was a testament to the trust George had apparently put in him that he would let him stay here with confidence that he would leave its contents alone.

“Let’s try not to mess with anything while we’re here,” Morgan said, switching off the lights.

Slipping off his flip-flops, he got into the queen-size bed and shut his eyes. After about seven minutes, he reopened them.

“Damn. I’m not tired.”

He wasn’t remotely close to tired. It was odd. He had just fought the greatest battle of his life and had his body torn apart from the inside out by the power of a Philosopher’s Stone only a mere few hours ago. Yet, not only did his body feel fine, he was bubbling with energy and felt extremely fresh like he had just woken up from the best nap of his life.

“Was it all the syrup from the waffles I ate? Maybe I’m just on a sugar high.”

Unable to drift off into slumber, the Chosen One sat himself up and gazed into the darkness. Too impatient to wait for his eyes to adjust, he made a gesture around his eyes with his finger while mumbling something under his breath. He then snapped his fingers, casting a spell that gave him a few minutes’ worth of night vision. He glazed his nocturnalized eyes about his surroundings until he spotted what he believed was the remote to the television perched on a table in the corner. He stretched out his hand towards it and concentrated until his hand began to give off a feeble gleam. Several butterflies that looked to be composed of pure light were born from this gleam. They fluttered over to the remote, levitated it between them, and brought it to him. It was a highly unnecessary use of his abilities, but what point was developing some talents if one couldn’t make frivolous use of them from time to time?

“Alright, let’s watch some TV,” the Chosen One eagerly said for the first time in a decade.

The channel the television was already on when he clicked ‘power’ was the local news – not what he was planning to watch, but the hero had been away from Earth for enough time that something like small local news could capture his attention for a while. Nothing the news mentioned was all that interesting until Morgan heard the words “Puget Sound Killer”.

“Wait, what?” he asked bewildered and turning up the volume slightly.

“…and investigators have recently found enough evidence that convincingly links the infamous ‘Puget Sound Killer’, whose gained notoriety for their initial killings in the Seattle metro area, to other murders in the surrounding states of Oregon, Montana, and possibly two in the Canadian province of British Columbia. Their exact body count is unknown but is projected to already be in the dozens. Police recommend people to avoid wandering too far from urban areas by themselves while the search for the killer continues.”

“Holy shit... Washington has guys like that walking around now?”

Crime in the state of Washington was never particularly low, but neither was it especially high either. Certainly, it wasn’t the type of environment he thought could breed such a prolific serial killer. How could somebody even rack up a body count like that in a region so large without getting caught by American or Canadian law enforcement? This person was literally crossing state lines to kill and still somehow evading the authorities.

Morgan pondered on the issue for a while before changing the channel. He wasn’t in the mood for that type of news. He was fresh back on Earth and didn’t want to be bombarded with its darker elements. Not so soon.

“Guess I’ll just watch a movie or something?”

He used the guide feature to find a channel that played movies. The first one he found played exclusively older films, with the current lineout being: Bad Boys II, Rush Hour 2, and Mission Impossible 2.

“…That’s a lot of 2s.”

While all were classic blockbusters, Morgan kept searching for a channel with some newer material. He had a decade of cinematic releases to catch up on. Much as his nostalgia would appreciate it, he wanted to see something he had missed. Eventually, he landed on a film that came out in 2019, just 3 years ago, called Miami Twice.

The film’s plot summary said it was about Victor Batista, a young firebrand Miami cop who gets betrayed by his partners after being bribed by the very drug lord they were about to bust. He finds himself sent back in time several days before his death and now must navigate his way around his perilous fate while still taking down the drug lord who wants him dead.

“So, it’s like a fusion of Groundhog’s Day and Miami Vice? That sounds really cool actually.”

Morgan initially enjoyed the movie. He had tuned in just in time to catch a very well-choreographed action scene, but as things started slowing down and the camera began focusing clearly on the lead actor’s face, something triggered in the Chosen One made him pause the television. He stared at the close-up frame of the movie’s hero. He was being portrayed by Alexander Kanahele, whose name suggested Pacific Island heritage even though the character he was portraying was Latino. This wasn’t a novel thing. Scarface‘s Cuban protagonist was portrayed by a Sicilian, and several modern movies featuring American Indians have Latinos acting as natives. No, really what caught Morgan’s attention was how much Kanahele’s features gave him a sense of déjà vu as if the hero and the actor had met before.

This was obviously impossible, and yet the Chosen couldn’t shake the feeling no matter how long he continued to gaze upon Kanahele’s personage. Still perplexed, he changed the channel once more. It seemed he wasn’t as much in the mood for movies as he thought.

A deep sigh came from him as he continued flipping channels. “There has to be something to watch.”

Eventually, he came to a late-night talk show. Morgan didn’t recognize who the host was and was unsure if this was because the show had changed its host after a decade or if he had simply forgotten. These types of entertainers really did blend together when not watched religiously. Regardless he left the show on and watched the host bombard the audience with the usual talk show banter and standup. Some of the jokes landed, some didn’t, but the host kept pushing the show forward in smooth fashion regardless. There was no denying that he was a good showman.

“He’d make a good bard in Validar. Might’ve even made it into the College of Muses.”

As the host wrapped up the segment, he started to introduce the musical guest the show had booked for the night.

“Now this young lady probably doesn’t need an introduction,” he said. “Hell, you can’t go a whole month without seeing her name pop back up of the charts! But please folks, let’s give it up for Phoebe Nightingale!”

Morgan flinched at that name – Phoebe. Just the sound of it brought back bitter memories he really didn’t want back at the front of his mind. He tried to quickly push them back so he could just enjoy the performance, but all that fell apart when the singer herself appeared.

“No way…”

Even more so than Alexander Kanahele’s, Phoebe Nightingale’s face struck the hero with a powerful sense of déjà vu. And it didn’t end with her just face and name. Even the singer’s voice sounded near identical to the Phoebe von Thalia he knew. The Phoebe he had been trying for years to forget about. She was basically just a slightly older version of her.

Why? Why was there a woman on Earth who looked and sounded exactly like an older version of Phoebe von Thalia? Was she just a parallel universe clone of her? It was far from the best explanation, but considering the life Morgan had lived up until now, it was feasible enough. How else was he supposed to explain away this bizarre alignment of coincidences?

Shaking his head, Morgan decided he had had enough. He shut off the TV, put its remote down on a nearby nightstand, and lay back down whilst he tried to settle his thoughts. How was he seeing the things he was seeing?

“…Am I seeing the things right?”

Perhaps things weren’t actually as he thought they were. Perhaps Morgan was experiencing some form of PTSD and seeing things fom Validar that simply were not there. It made sense. He was after all, by any classification, a combat veteran and had been traumatized on more than a handful of occasions throughout his many adventures away from Earth.

“Shit, I’m not actually delusional am I? I mean, it’d make sense, but it would suck if I was stuck seeing and hearing stuff that wasn’t really there for the rest of my life.”

He groaned at the thought. He very badly wished he was tired and could just sleep it off. Instead, he had to settle for counting sheep in the dark.

It definitely wasn’t the first night home he was hoping for.