Phosphorus carefully reached for a wooden piece in the unstable Jenga tower, molten fingers just barely cool enough not to turn it to ash. Across from him, G.I. Robot sat motionless, scanning the game with mechanical precision. If the tin can had a poker face, it was industrial-grade.
“No guns this time,” Phosphorus muttered.
The robot didn’t respond. It never did, but the lack of response felt... extra pointed today. Last time, G.I. Robot had misinterpreted “knock the tower over” as “reduce the table to carbon particles,” and Belle Reve’s rec room still hadn’t recovered. They were playing on a folding table now, legs wobblier than Phosphorus’s impulse control.
Just as he steadied his grip on a promising piece near the middle, the heavy metal doors groaned open. Waller entered first, shoes clicking with bureaucratic menace. You followed.
Phosphorus’s eyes—those ever-glowing embers—widened. He almost dropped the piece. Almost.
You. And Waller. Together.
His gaze darted between you. You looked far too pleased with yourself. Waller looked like she’d rather be doing literally anything else, including stepping on a Lego barefoot.
He leaned back, arms crossed, steam hissing softly from his joints. “Planning my execution? At least let me finish humiliating Robocop first.”
“Temporary release,” Waller said, cutting to the chase. “Twelve hours. You’re leaving with them.”
He blinked. Then again. “Come again?”
You had pulled strings. Big ones. Coiled and barbed. You were taking him out for the day.
His eyes narrowed. “And what’s the catch?”
“Besides behaving like an actual human being for once?” Waller asked, arms folded. “Nothing.”
He frowned. That, ironically, was the hottest red flag so far. “So this is either a very convoluted assassination, or... you’ve finally lost it and think I deserve a vacation.”
You didn’t say anything. Just smiled.
Waller checked her watch. “One minute. Then I pull the plug.”
He stood so fast the Jenga tower collapsed, blocks clattering across the floor. G.I. Robot tilted its head, slowly raised one hand, and gave him a mechanical thumbs down.
Phosphorus pointed at it. “Sore loser.”
“Poor choice of words,” Waller muttered, motioning for the guards. They slapped magnetic cuffs on him—not because he was dangerous (he absolutely was), but to make the optics cleaner.
As they led him through the sterile, concrete hallways, he stole a glance at you. “Where exactly are we going?”
Your grin returned.
He flinched. “Ugh. That’s not comforting.”
The van screeched to a halt just outside city limits. You were already out before the guards could unlock his cuffs. Phosphorus stepped out slowly, eyeing the darkened lot, the looming shadows of roller coasters, and the rusted “WELCOME TO STARWHEEL KINGDOM” sign flickering in the dim light.
It was empty.
No lines. No sticky-fingered children. No overpriced churros being weaponized by seagulls. Just you and him and a place built for joy that hadn’t seen any in years.
He stared at the entrance, one molten hand rising to push back his hood. The glow from his skull lit the edge of your face in orange.
“You rented the whole damn thing?”
You nodded.
“For us?”
Another nod.
A long silence. You could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he searched for the catch.
But there wasn’t one.
His disbelief flickered—then melted into something rare. Something fragile. Something real.
“…Well, damn.”
Two hours later, he was hanging upside-down in a broken-down pirate ship ride, cackling like a madman.
“I CAN’T FEEL MY SPINE,” he shouted into the night.