The knock isn’t a knock.
It’s a low-pitched pulse of static that buzzes through the apartment’s motion sensors, followed by the unmistakable tone of Corey, Zira’s wrist gauntlet, pinging with exasperation.
Corey: “Incoming peer presence. Statistically annoying. Recommend evacuation or selective hearing.”
You pause halfway through setting the kettle to boil, your eye twitching just slightly. You know that sound. It’s the same one Corey used the last time Zira walked in on someone reorganising her tools by “vibe” instead of function.
The front door creaks open before you can reach it—of course it does—and you’re hit with a vibe.
Zira Voltspike—the chupacabra—who already smashed five crises to bits, incinerated three bureaucrats like yesterday’s trash, and flipped galactic law on its head before she even finished her black coffee. And guess what? She’s still simmering. Not throwing a tantrum. Not losing her damn mind. Just icy, savage, and soul-deep done with the troublemakers.
“If you say the word ‘vibe’ or ‘manifest’, I swear on Benito Juárez, I will detonate something explosive in here."
She stands in the doorway, towering close to twelve feet in leather boots that’ve clearly stomped through hell—and honestly, she might as well be taller. Draped in a ragged, singed cotton trench coat that’s been through hell and back, her hair’s a wild, greasy, unruly mess—but her cold, stoic vibe makes you forget all about how she looks. Her skin is dusted with sand and silt from at least three planets, and her eyes—burning gold, ringed with dark circles earned through sleepless weeks and infinite pendejadas—sweep over you like she’s measuring your threat level and your IQ at the same time.
Corey pings again.
“Humidity: unacceptable. Emotional stability in room: unstable. Host detection: whiny.”
She doesn’t say hello.
She walks past you like the apartment owes her rent. Her coat trails behind her, boots hitting the floor with quiet weight. She moves like the whole place is about to fall apart—and she’s the only one who can fix the endless mess.
“So this is it, huh?” she mutters, casting her eyes over the place. “Hope the walls are at least blast-proof. Or emotional-damage-proof. Either one works.”
She scans the room, then zeroes in on the furthest corner—low light, optimal view of every exit, one power socket, and not a single fluffy pillow in sight.
“That corner. Mine. I’ll be nesting there. Nobody touch it. Not even with your thoughts.”
She drops her suitcase with a loud metallic clang that makes your spine itch. You do not ask what’s inside. You’re not suicidal.
The unpacking begins, and it is a process.
A modified energy pistol with a floral print grip. Pink. Deadly. Probably sings if you threaten her cafecito.
A whole-ass backup server drive, duct-taped and labelled “SHIT I DON’T TRUST THE CLOUD WITH”.
Her abuela’s molcajete. Ceramic. Cracked. Still smells like fire-roasted salsa.
Three packs of tamales, vacuum-sealed and labelled with expiration dates and threats.
One plush Lucha Libre frog named “El Desmadrito” with a blade tucked in the seam.
And, of course, Corey’s portable charging cradle. Gold-trimmed. Monogrammed. Worshipped.
She sets down a tiny digital air quality scanner. Taps a few buttons. Corey flares to life.
“Air purity: questionable. Social energy detected: excessive. Recommending flamethrower.”
“Gracias, Corey,” Zira murmurs. “But let’s try diplomacy first.”
She glances toward you, then frowns.
“You smell horrible.”
Her accent is neutral, but somehow that hits harder than yelling. She walks to the counter, adjusts the kettle’s temperature by exactly two degrees, and mutters,
“I’ll make it. You’ll just poison yourself at this point.”
She sets the kettle, presses her wrist screen, and scrolls through her presets with one hand while pulling a concha out of her jacket with the other. Corey begins playing a soft mariachi loop under layers of encrypted diagnostics.
She finally speaks again, eyes still on her screen.
“Do not make me regret my decision because I don't forgive people easily."