"C'mon, follow me, guys!" ZE210 chirped, skipping ahead through the massive office space. He waved at every person they passed. "Hey, G3! Wassup, MT! Missed y'all!"
No one responded.
Rows of workers stayed locked to their desks, eyes glued to glowing screens, fingers tapping relentlessly. The room buzzed with quiet urgency.
"Welcome back, Mascot," someone mumbled without turning.
ZE210 slowed his stride but kept the smile plastered on his face. "Aw, come on, guys! At least look up! We've got visitors!" He gestured dramatically toward the group behind him, but the room remained indifferent.
Doug leaned toward Micheal, whispering, "What is this place?"
Micheal shook his head, too busy scanning the glowing crystals embedded in the walls. Tucker stood still, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Madison looked slightly unnerved. Shirley had already wandered a few steps away, staring at a floating screen with wide eyes.
Seconds dragged. ZE210's grin faltered. Just a little.
He took a breath. Then bellowed, "YOU GUYS! LOOK AT HIM!"—he pointed hard at Shirley—"HE FOUGHT CAEL AND IS STILL IN ONE PIECE!"
And that did it. Every head in the room turned at once.
Chairs scraped back. Papers were dropped. A wave of footsteps approached fast.
A young woman with round glasses shoved a clipboard into ZE210's hands. "Is it true?"
"Could he be lying?" someone asked skeptically.
"No chance," another replied without hesitation. "Mascot doesn't lie."
Suddenly, Shirley was surrounded—half the crowd jotting notes, half just staring like he was some kind of miracle.
ZE210 took a step back, watching the scene unfold.
His smile came back—but this one didn't reach his eyes.
Are you okay?" someone from the crowd asked breathlessly.
"He must be divinely gifted," murmured another.
"What if touching him gives us power?" a man blurted, eyes wide with manic wonder.
Shirley raised his hands in alarm. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—slow down!" he said, backing up.
Too late.
The crowd surged forward, hands grabbing at his arms, tugging at his shirt, ruffling his hair. Some touched his face like he was a relic. Others just stared, stunned, as if waiting for a miracle to happen on the spot.
"Hey—! Personal space!" Shirley yelped, spinning in place.
ZE210 rushed in, trying to push people back. "Okay—okay, that's enough! Give him room!"
A man shoved ZE210 hard, knocking him off balance. "Back off, Mascot. You're not needed. Leave."
ZE210 froze.
Madison stepped forward, glaring. "Hey! You can't talk to him like that—he's a kid!"
No one answered. No one even looked her way.
ZE210 slowly turned away, shoulders stiff. "It's fine, m'lady," he said quietly. "This is normal."
He gave her a weak smile that didn't match his eyes—and kept walking.
Then, from the depths of the office, a man emerged.
He moved with quiet authority, dressed in a sharp black suit, black fedora, and matching black sunglasses. His goatee was neatly trimmed, his posture perfectly straight. Everything about him was controlled—deliberate. His voice, when he spoke, carried effortlessly through the room.
"Get off him."
Instant silence.
The crowd recoiled immediately, peeling away from Shirley like a tide pulling back. In seconds, they'd formed a perfect corridor down the middle of the room, eyes lowered.
Shirley caught his breath and adjusted his shirt. "Uh… thanks, I guess. But… who are you?"
The man offered the faintest grin, saying nothing. He turned his back and walked toward a massive screen mounted on the far wall. Without looking at anyone, he spoke a command in a smooth, even tone:
"Location: Angel statue. Café. Bicycles. Open feed."
The screen flickered to life. It displayed a quiet street, dimly lit—exactly where Shirley had fought Cael. The man tapped a button, and the footage began to rewind.
Then play. The entire room watched, captivated, as the battle between Shirley and Cael unfolded onscreen—every blast, every impossible movement playing out in crisp, recorded detail.
Gasps echoed through the office.
Everyone stared in awe.
Everyone… except ZE210.
The man pressed a button on the nearby desk. The footage froze—Cael mid-air, Shirley mid-dodge, the moment locked in time.
He slowly removed his fedora, revealing short, tightly curled hair beneath. His voice was steady, composed. "My name is Sage."
He stepped forward, eyes sweeping the group.
"I'm the current head of The Resistance," he continued. "Our mission is to rewrite the future of Choreees and bring CORE to his knees. And according to Mascot here…"—he nodded toward ZE210, who flinched slightly—"you fought Cael… and survived."
Sage lowered his glasses just enough to reveal piercing brown eyes.
"You'd be a powerful asset to us."
The staff murmured in agreement, subtle nods rippling through the room like they were silently voting.
Sage smiled faintly, locking eyes with Shirley. "Well?"
Shirley blinked. "Uh… what?"
Shirley shifted uncomfortably. The rest of the group glanced at each other, uneasy.
"I'm just helping a friend," Shirley said, shaking his head. "I'm not trying to join a company or whatever this is. No offense. But we're good."
He turned, motioning for the others to follow. "C'mon. Let's go."
Sage's smile faded. His voice, calm as ever, cut through the moment.
"No, you don't seem to understand."
Shirley stopped mid-step.
"I wasn't asking," Sage said. "I was telling you."
"Well, I'm not staying! Cya," Shirley said, throwing a quick wave over his shoulder.
The group hesitated for a beat, then began to follow him—one by one.
But just as Shirley reached the edge of the room, a flash of silver streaked through the air.
Sage had drawn a blade, its hilt wrapped in old bandages, and surged forward in a blur. In one clean motion, he aimed for Shirley's neck—silent, swift, deadly.
CLANG.
Tucker intercepted the slash, arms crossed in front of Shirley. The blade nicked him, leaving two shallow cuts that dripped red down his forearms.
"Thanks," Shirley muttered, eyes wide.
Tucker gave a quick nod and brought one arm to his mouth, licking the blood clean with a smirk. "I was starting to get bored anyway."
Madison groaned and marched over to them, frustration etched across her face. Doug followed, grumbling. Micheal stayed quiet but alert.
ZE210 stayed frozen.
Sage took a casual step back, lowering the blade. "You're fast," he said, glancing at Tucker. "Surprising. Thought a guy with more white hair than me would've slowed down by now."
Tucker flicked his tongue off his teeth. "Genetics, old man. I'm twelve."
Shirley raised both hands, trying to de-escalate. "We don't wanna fight. If we're not welcome here, fine. We'll leave."
The group turned to walk again.
Then Shirley paused.
"Yo, Z."
ZE210 flinched like he'd been struck. His eyes went wide.
"He… has a nickname for me?" he whispered to himself, heart pounding.
Shirley looked over his shoulder. "C'mon. Let's go."
ZE210 took a step forward—but before he could take a second, Sage appeared behind him, blade cold against his throat.
The room tensed instantly. "Oh no, Mascot," Sage said, voice smooth and low. "You're not going anywhere. You're our mascot. For life. Remember?"
ZE210's breathing turned shaky. Sweat rolled down his temple. He didn't dare move.
"Mascot?" Shirley asked, his voice sharper now. He turned fully to face them. "Why do they call you that?"
He took a step toward them, his expression changing to hardened. "C'mon, Z. Let's go."
NARRATOR
And now, the broken Mascot stands at a crossroad.
Will he follow the light… or fall into darkness?
His choice will change the course of the story!