Gnat presses himself against the car door, desperate to avoid contact with the mountain of flesh driving beside him. The air is thick and barely breathable. A nauseating mix of stale sweat, dirty socks, and cheap aftershave—applied in a desperate attempt to mask the unbearable stench—numbs his nose, while he watches from the corner of his eye, with growing unease, the enormous man next to him. It’s hard to fathom how he even manages to drive this tiny car. His enormous body is so disproportionately large that his right thigh almost completely envelops the gear shift, which is barely visible anymore.
“So, you’re friends with Maxime Kwintens?” The moist voice bubbles out of the small mouth set in the rather oversized head. Gnat doesn’t reply. When he first learned this man knew Max, he assumed they were friends. But now he’s come to the only logical conclusion: this man is no friend at all. He’s everything Max despises.
"Lost your tongue, aye? You can play dumb, but we both know you're way too undisciplined to keep that up." From the corner of his eye, while pretending to look out the side window, Gnat sees the man give him a jovial wink—or at least, he thinks that's what the slow ripple in his face must mean. "Or should I tell you a bit more about your father to pass the time?" Gnat’s head snaps to the left. "He made me a pretty penny in his heyday. Pure gold. Sales doubled every time we put him on the front page. Too bad it had to end like it did, but then again, that story also broke records. I've got a lot to be grateful for."
That does it. “Keep my father out of this.” It’s hardly more than a hiss, but it’s enough.
“Ah, you can talk. Good. Very good. You’ve got nothing to fear, kiddo. If you cooperate, I’ll leave your father out of it.” Gnat bites his lip, determined not to be provoked again, as he racks his brain for a way to escape this speeding mousetrap.
Unperturbed by the death-defying speed at which the small car races onto a narrow country road just outside the city limits, he continues talking casually. "Now that we’re going to be best friends, it seems only prudent to introduce myself properly. My name is York—York Longshot—world-renowned reporter, king of filth, emperor of smudge.” A small, smug smile ripples over his face before he continues. "Still, despite my, if I may say so myself, impressive credentials, I find myself in a rather embarrassing situation. The young wolves are circling, like sharks smelling blood. My reputation is fading. I need a scoop to reclaim my position, and for that, I need you. Or rather, your friend. I have to know her story." Gnat remains silent.
"Still searching for your tongue, huh? Well, let me lay it out for you: your girlfriend is at the center of a pyromaniac scandal. Nice little story, two hundred words, big headline, blurry photo—not exactly Pulitzer material, but a story that generates plenty of likes. Tonight, however, when I followed her to her school and saw the whole circus of uniforms, weapons, and dogs erupting, it hit me that I was doing something I hardly ever had done before: I was thinking too small. That burned-down farmhouse was just the tip of the iceberg. That Kwintens girl wasn’t acting alone—she’s part of a group and do you know what I think?” Gnat, looking as bored as possible, gazes out the window.
“I think tonight I’ve found the big scoop I needed–my one-way ticket back to the top of Smudge Mountain, but I’m afraid I need your help, Charly-boy. That Kwintens turned out to be more thick-headed than I expected. You on the other hand seem more eh... pragmatic. So, if you help me, I’ll help you."
Finally, Gnat has burned through his patience. "Help me? With what? What could you ever help me with?" Longshot smiles, triumphant.
"Oh, dear boy, don’t you see? I have connections with— WHAT THE F^&$^*K?!"
A large shadow streaks past their tiny car, moving at an incredible speed, nearly forcing them off the narrow road. No sound. No warning. No lights.
Longshot reacts much faster than Gnat expected from him. Lightning fast, he slams on the brakes, pulls the handbrake, and jerks the steering wheel sharply. Due to the immense speed and unevenly distributed weight, two wheels lift off the ground, causing the car to slide like a speed skater on a single skate toward the edge of the road. Inside, Gnat is thrown from his seat, landing in the soft heap of flesh beside him. Longshot doesn’t even seem to notice, bringing the car to a halt at the edge of a ditch.
"Yak," Gnat hisses in disgust as he frees himself from the journalist, producing a nauseating sucking sound, like a boot being pulled out of mud. The indentation his body leaves only fades slowly. Once again, Longshot doesn’t seem to notice. He’s focused on something in the darkness ahead of the car. Gnat follows his gaze but sees nothing.
"I really thought..." the journalist mutters. "Yes... there..." Gnat looks again, and this time he sees two brake lights flicker in the distance, only for a moment before disappearing.
“Well, well, this is getting more interesting by the minute,” Longshot mutters as he starts the car, turning off the headlights while driving slowly up to the point where they saw the lights disappear. But when they arrive there's literally nothing—no bend in the road, no entrance to a house or terrain, no crossing, no side road, nothing.
“Mwrgh,” he grumbles. “I could have sworn that...”
"Shall we check outside?" Gnat asks, sounding as casual as possible.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Charly-boy? No chance. We stay in the car. Even though all my journalistic alarm bells are going off, we'll have to leave it for now. First, we will deal with your girlfriend" He turns his body upright again, in a slow fluid movement like a big leather sack full of water, starts the engine and switches on the headlights.
Gnat stares out the side window, mourning the missed chance to escape, waiting resignedly for the car to pick up speed. But it doesn't. In fact, the engine shuts off once more. Surprised, he looks up at Longshot, who sits frozen in his seat, staring straight ahead through the front window at two men illuminated by the car’s headlights, their automatic weapons aimed directly at their foreheads. The same uniforms as the security teams earlier that night, Gnat thinks, but no dogs, thank god, no dogs.
When the shorter and broader of the two men approaches his side window, Longshot, who has recovered remarkably quickly from the initial shock, takes a deep breath. Gnat senses that he's preparing for something—likely an elaborate, well-rehearsed monologue about the freedom of the press and the first amendment. Under different circumstances, it might even work. He must be well-practiced at wriggling out of precarious situations, armed with a press pass and a sharp tongue. But Gnat doubts it will help him now. These men don’t seem easily intimidated. These men have guns!
Gnat’s paranoid mind is working overtime. Men like these belong to powers that operate in the shadows, hidden from the ordinary citizen. They aren’t part of any government institution or democratically chosen body. This is the deep-state. An international industrial old boys' network with private armies. A network of right-wing extremists. Maybe it is even older… modern-day Templars or... The possibilities are endless.
The short man signals for Longshot to lower his window while the taller one continues to block the road, aiming his gun. The journalist struggles to wedge his arm between his body and the door, and when the windows on both sides finally come down, the fresh air streaming in helps Gnat think a bit more clearly.
When Longshot speaks, Gnat’s head snaps up. What the hell is he doing?
“Morning, soldier. What can I do you for? Lost your way?” The journalist’s voice is a volatile mix of servile deference and thinly veiled contempt, teetering dangerously close to outright insult. Gnat had thought himself daring and reckless, but now he’s completely overmatched. And what a time to do it. They’re completely at these men’s mercy. Yet the man at the window seems unshaken, unfazed by provocation.
“Please, if you would be so kind as to exit your vehicle, slowly. And you, young man, stay where you are.” Longshot takes a deep, labored breath.
“I have to think about that recruit. Let’s see. Here we are on a remote country road. You and your colleague are armed, and I don’t recognize your uniforms, so... no, actually, I’d rather stay in my car. Do you have any identification?" The man in uniform shows no sign of frustration or anger; he simply nods to his colleague, who raises his rifle, projecting a little red dot on Longshot’s forehead. The journalist’s expression remains one of pure boredom and indifference.
"So predictable," he sighs. "This will make a nice post on my blog tomorrow."
“That’s exactly what we want to talk about, Mr. Longshot.” For a moment, the journalist is caught off guard at hearing his name. The soldier in front of the car tightens his grip on the trigger.
"Okay, okay," Longshot mutters. “I’ll come out, but I have to warn you—it might take a while... car’s too small... company car... so sad…” Once again, he wedges his arm between his body and the car door, struggling to reach the lever. But when Gnat hears the muffled click of the door unlocking, everything happens in a blur of lightning-fast motion. The journalist's body, compressed for too long in the tiny car, seems to have built up so much pressure that the door swings open with surprising force. It hits the soldier hard in the chest, sending him arcing widely into the ditch beside the road.
Longshot’s body spills out of the car like jelly, barely contained by his suit. He shouts apologies. “I should have warned you. Sorry.” But even as he does so, Gnat notices his hand inching toward the key in the ignition—he’s planning to make a run for it.
Perhaps it will even work. The soldier in front of the car lowers his gun in surprise and steps forward to assist his colleague, placing a hand on the car’s hood. Gnat doesn’t hesitate; he channels all his frustration and anger into his right palm, pressing it against the car roof through the open window. The effect is immediate. The soldier freezes mid-step as the entire car lights up in the dark, sparks flying from him as violent tremors and convulsions take hold.
“Hit the gas!” Gnat hisses. For a moment, the journalist seems too stunned to react, but then he moves with lightning speed. He turns the key, shifts into gear, and slams the accelerator. The car tears free from the soldier. Through the rear window, Gnat sees him fall, sparks still flying. The first man, however, has scrambled back to his feet, searching the ground—his gun!
“Faster, faster!” he urges.
“Of course, you little thunder god. This car is more than it seems—I’ve spent a lot of time enhancing it.” Indeed, the next corner approaches with astonishing speed. Behind them, the first man raises his gun and as they round the corner on two shrieking tires, the first shot snaps by—a vicious stripe of sound. They made it. They’re out of sight now.
Safe or not, Longshot doesn’t slow down. With unrelenting speed, the unassuming car keeps soaring over the small country roads.
Inside, Gnat tries to process what happened, attempting to connect the recent events—Wilma Flintstone’s ambush, the soldiers' roadblock—but he just can’t. Every theory feels too unrealistic, even to him. The only conclusion he’s able to draw is that it all has something to do with their school and Max. But how?
He glances at the towering man beside him, who is also unusually quiet—which unsettles him more than he’s willing to admit. He must have noticed the fireworks on the hood; it wasn’t exactly subtle. Every so often, he catches a glimpse of the journalist’s face transforming into a faint smile, which unnerves him even further, as he can’t fathom what on earth could be amusing at a time like this.
The tiny car turns onto a narrow dirt road just outside a small village. It’s still dark, and there are no streetlights. They approach a half-decayed wooden gate, behind which they can make out the dark outlines of a small house and a much larger barn. Only as they get closer does Gnat notice the enormous amount of broken machinery scattered around the property.
As the headlights cutting through the darkness approach the gate, a dark form steps into their path. Gnat tenses, bracing for a confrontation—until he realizes it’s just an old woman. Yet, Longshot seems to accelerate rather than slow down, only braking at the very last moment when the woman shows no intention of moving aside, stopping barely a meter from her knees.
“Oh, it’s you,” the woman says, her tone dripping with disdain through the open window. “Well, I suppose you’ll do. Let me in. We’re breaking into a school tonight.”