Chapter 2: Chapter 2
They left Jack’s house in Mira’s VW Bug, the old wagon groaning as she pulled onto the highway, the scent of Golf’s reptilian musk clinging to the back seat like a living fog. Mira drove with her left hand resting on the wheel, the other absently scratching the velociraptor’s throat, his tiny claws kneading the fabric of her hoodie as though kneading dough. The creature’s breath was warm and faintly metallic, like old coins left in the sun, and every so often, his forked tongue would flick out to taste the air, sampling the world the way Mira used to sample starlight through a telescope.
She could feel the faint vibration of his heartbeat against her palm, steady and ancient, like the pulse of some buried world.
The drive north out of Duluth was long and quiet, the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty. The Bug’s engine hummed steadily, a sound Mira usually found soothing, but tonight it felt like a countdown. In the rearview mirror, Tim sat wedged between the velociraptor and Franklin, eyes pressed to the window, watching the dark shapes of pine trees blur past like ink bleeding through paper. He had a tendency to get motion sick, but he’d refused to take the front seat—too afraid he’d miss something important.
Fatally undermining the seriousness of the situation was the radio, which played a steady diet of goofy music. "Stayin Alive", "Macarena", "Cotton eye Joe", "Dead Man's Party", "Private Idaho", "Who Let the Dogs Out?", "Jocko Homo", "Barbie Girl", among others.
Golf occasionally tilted his head at the music, his dinosaur brain unable to process the transitions between disco and death metal, but somehow managing to enjoy all of it equally. Tim’s fingers tapped out the rhythm along the car door, his flamingo shirt fluttering every time he moved.
Franklin sat in the middle of the backseat, arms crossed, his wire-rim glasses reflecting the dim interior light. His mustache twitched as he hummed along to "Dead Man’s Party" under his breath like a man reciting lines from an obscure film script. Every so often, he’d glance at Mira’s hands on the wheel and nod approvingly. "You’re a good driver," he announced suddenly.
Mira snorted.
“High praise from a man who once got lost trying to find a bathroom in a mall.”
Franklin adjusted his glasses with a smirk. “That’s not my fault. The mall was under construction. The signs were misleading.”
Tim, ever the peacemaker, leaned forward slightly. “I like the music actually. It’s… weirdly appropriate. If we’re going to a haunted jet, shouldn’t we have a soundtrack full of ghosts?”
Tasha, occupying the passenger seat with her arms crossed and legs stretched out, let out a low chuckle. “Dude, that jet’s haunted by a pilot who crashed in the seventies. We’re not looking for Casper the Friendly Ghost."
"American Servicemen, they swore an oath to protect the American citizenry. They shouldn't want to hurt us." Franklin said.
"They're not some vengeful spirits. They're soldiers. They took an oath to defend the innocent. If they're haunting that jet, it's not because they're evil. It's because they can't rest."
Tim's eyes widened behind his glasses. "So we're not walking into a supernatural death trap?"
"Not necessarily," Franklin said, his tone light but his gaze serious. "But let's not assume it's a walk in the park- Oh, were here." Mira slowed as a weathered green road sign appeared ahead: *Proctor – Population: 3,082*.
She pulled off the highway onto a cracked asphalt road that sloped downward before flattening into a gravel lot. The lot was empty except for a single rusted-out pickup with a missing wheel, its bed filled with beer cans and fishing gear. Beyond the lot, silhouetted against the moonlight, stood the F-101 Jet on a Stick—its sharp nose tilted skyward like an accusing finger, its wings slightly askew, as though frozen mid-flutter. The metal looked dull and corroded, its red and white paint long since peeled away, leaving only ghostly patches of primer.
"That's not a Sabre, that's a Voodoo!" Tim said.
He adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, peering out the windshield. "The F-101 Voodoo. A fighter interceptor."
"YES TIM, WE'RE ALL VERY AWARE OF AMERICA'S HISTORY OF FIGHTER JET PRODUCTION!" Tasha snapped, her voice cracking like a thunderclap. The sound made Golf's tiny spine go rigid; he let out a chirp of alarm and scrambled up Mira's back into the safety of her wild, red hair. The velociraptor's claws tickled her scalp as his weight shifted, sending a few errant curls tumbling across her face like a curtain of fire.
Mira blinked the hair out of her eyes and killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the creak of the Subaru settling into stillness.
Mira exhaled through her nose, her fingers still tangled in Golf’s quivering body. The velociraptor’s tiny heart hammered against her palm, a staccato rhythm that matched the tension coiling in her own chest.
They left the car and approached the jet on a pole. Creepy as it might have been in the dark, it wasn't unusual. They felt no spirit or any strange energy. It appeared to be a normal memorial.
A rusted hulk of metal mounted on a concrete pedestal, its wings angled as though caught mid-flight. The plaque at its base bore two names, dates, and the words *"In honor of fallen heroes."*
But there was something wrong with the jet.
Not the kind of wrong that made the air hum with supernatural dread, not yet—not like in the movies where shadows writhe independent of the light. No, this wrong was quieter. More human.
Tasha was the first to notice.
She crouched beside the pedestal, her shadow stretching long across the gravel, her tattooed arms flexing as she brushed aside a tangle of wild grass growing around the base.
A piece of it had broken off and had fallen. Underneath the broken piece was a smashed machine. It looked like a drone, it's fans broken.
But it wasn't just any drone.
"Guys," Tasha called out, her voice low but urgent. Her finger traced the edge of the device, the shattered plastic glinting under the moonlight. "This isn’t a memorial plaque that got knocked over. Someone pried it off."
Franklin crouched beside her, his wire-rim glasses catching the dim light as he squinted at the device. His mustache twitched. "That’s not a drone. That’s a surveillance bot. Military-grade, if I had to guess."
Mira’s stomach twisted. Surveillance bots weren’t a thing civilians encountered unless someone really, *really* didn’t want to be seen.
"One of Jack's?" Mira Asked.
"No, Jack couldn't afford one of these." Tim replied.
His voice was soft, hesitant. "This one's got a logo on it I’ve never seen before. It’s not one of Jack’s. He’d never use something this... corporate."
Franklin leaned closer, his breath fogging the lenses of his glasses. The bot’s casing was cracked open, wires splayed like entrails. "The build quality’s too clean. Military surplus, maybe even black budget."
Mira’s fingers tightened around Golf’s quivering form. The velociraptor let out a tiny, questioning chirp—he could sense her tension, the sudden shift in her breathing.
Tasha stood abruptly, her boots crunching on the gravel. "Someone else has been here.
Recently." Tasha said, her voice low and rough like gravel underfoot. She stood, brushing dust from her knees, her gaze sweeping the perimeter of the lot. The moonlight cast long shadows from the skeletal trees lining the junkyard’s edge, and something about the way the light pooled unevenly made her skin prickle. "This hunk of junk’s been moved. Look—scratches on the pedestal where it was dragged. And these footprints." She pointed to a series of deep, boot-shaped impressions in the damp earth beside the memorial. "Not sneakers. Boots. Military or tactical."
Franklin adjusted his glasses, peering down at the prints. His mustache twitched thoughtfully.
“Could be Air Force. Or local reservists practicing stealth drills. Could just as easily be a couple of kids messing around with night vision goggles and too much YouTube.”
Tim crouched beside the surveillance bot, his reflection wobbling in the cracked casing. He reached out with a trembling finger, hesitating just before the plastic. “Do you think the ghost did this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Mira exhaled sharply through her nose. “Ghosts don’t pry plaques off monuments, Tim.
Ghosts don’t leave boot prints,” Mira reminded him, though her grip on Golf loosened enough that the velociraptor was able to slither down her arm and onto the ground, where he immediately began sniffing at the broken surveillance bot with focused, dinosaur intensity.
Tasha’s eyes narrowed as she followed the boot prints with her gaze. They led away from the jet and toward a cluster of junked vehicles half-buried in dead grass at the edge of the lot.
Golf then took off to the Junked Vehicles and dug at something. Poorly buried by loose scrap, was Jack's Crosstrek.
Its windows had all been shattered in like a spiderweb and the ground around it looked like a tracked vehicle had pulled it from its graveyard. The caked mud on the tires suggested it had been moved recently, the ruts still damp with recent rain.
Mira’s breath hitched.
She knelt beside the vehicle, her knee pressing into the damp earth. Golf’s tiny claws skittered over the ground beside her, sniffing at the fresh dirt like a bloodhound. His tail flicked with excitement, and Mira had a terrible suspicion he’d found something important.
Franklin crouched beside her, his glasses reflecting the dim moonlight as he examined the damage. “This wasn’t a prank,” he muttered. "Who ever last saw Jack, took pains to make sure no one could find his car." Mira muttered.
Tasha spat on the ground, her dragon tattoo rippling as she squatted beside the Crosstrek. She ran her fingers along the shattered driver’s-side window, the web of cracks crunching under her touch.
"Jesus, Tim," she said, voice rough with irritation. "Did you pack the emergency kit Jack always talked about?"
Tim popped the Subaru's trunk and pulled out a survival kit that Jack always had in his car. Great Lake winters could be dangerous.
A fact they were keenly reminded of as they stood outside the abandoned jet, their breath forming ghostly clouds in the crisp night air. Mira pulled her hood tighter around her face, the Subaru’s headlights cutting through the dark and casting long shadows across the junkyard. Golf squirmed in her arms, his tiny claws kneading her hoodie with increasing urgency.
Tasha hefted the emergency kit onto the hood of Jack’s Crosstrek, her tattooed arms flexing as she unzipped it. Inside sat a black duffel bag labeled *DO NOT OPEN (Seriously, Tim.)* in Jack’s slanted handwriting. Tasha smirked, tossing the kit to Franklin.
"Oh, Guys." Mira said, from the other side of the crosstrek. there were tracks hurrying around the area, as well as tread marks. there were tire marks belonging to a Cadillac Escalade etched into the mud.
Between them, a single, deep boot print— size thirteen at least— stood out clearly in the damp earth. Whoever had driven the Escalade had gotten out here.
“This isn’t some reservation maneuver.” Tasha murmured.
She knelt again, running her fingers along the edge of the boot print. “This tread pattern—it’s not standard issue. It’s got that raised arrowhead tread, you know, the ones they sell at, like, Galls or military surplus stores. Could be some rich kid playing soldier.”
Franklin leaned over her shoulder, adjusting his glasses. “Or a contractor. Someone who knows how to move quietly. Who also likes Escalades.”
Mira’s stomach twisted.
That tread pattern wasn’t just tactical—it was *expensive*. The kind of tread you bought in bulk, kept in a vault, and only pulled out when you absolutely needed to be *everywhere* and *nowhere* at the same time.
“This isn’t a prank,” Franklin repeated, his voice flat now. His mustache twitched, a habit he’d picked up whenever he was about to say something deliberately unhinged. “This is a setup. Someone moved the memorial. Someone followed Jack here. And someone just walked us right into whatever they left behind.”
Tim gulped, clutching Golf to his chest like a security blanket.
"Jack must have been jumped, then thrown into the Caddy." Tasha said, returning to the middle of the group, her boots kicking little pebbles off the edge of the concrete slab where the jet's pedestal stood.
"The tracks lead to the highway then disappear." Franklin observed
. He looked up from the boot print, his wire-rim glasses reflecting the cold moonlight. “Someone didn’t want to risk leaving a trail in the dirt. They parked on pavement, then came out here on foot. That suggests they didn’t expect to need vehicles again. At least not out here.”
Mira shifted Golf to her other arm, his tiny claws kneading her sleeve. The velociraptor’s forked tongue flicked out again, tasting the night air, catching the scent of gasoline, oil, and something faintly metallic. “You’re saying this wasn’t a grab-and-go?” she asked, her voice tight. “This was premeditated.
Someone came here planning to take something—or someone.” Mira’s eyes narrowed as she studied the tire tracks leading toward the highway. “Or to leave something behind.”
Franklin adjusted his glasses, his mustache twitching with thought. “Right. Because if they’d just wanted to snatch Jack, they wouldn’t have bothered moving the memorial. They would’ve dug him out, thrown him in the Caddy, and driven off.”
Tasha crossed her arms, her dragon tattoos shifting with the motion. “So where are the other tracks? Tracks going *away* from the jet? Someone had to be here before Jack got taken, right? Unless…” She trailed off, her gaze flicking to the surveillance bot again.
"I think i know what happened. Someone wealthy lured Jack out here, claiming to have seen something ghostly with the Voodoo, then jumped him, and took him." Tim said.
He adjusted his glasses, unconsciously mimicking Golf’s head-tilt motion while considering the implications. “So, someone with money and connections set this trap. Not just some random ghost hunter, but someone who knew Jack would bite. Who knew *we’d* bite, too.”
Franklin, crouched beside the surveillance bot, finally pried open the cracked casing fully. Inside, nestled among twists of copper wire, was a small data chip—black, plastic, and unassuming. He flicked it between his fingers like a coin.
"But why? Why would someone kidnap Jack, especially if they already had wealth. Jack's comfortable, but not rich." Mira said, her voice tight with concern as she tried to rationalize the events. "He could afford rent and D&D books, but not a fortune. Why take him at all?"
Franklin held up the data chip between his fingers, letting it catch the faint moonlight. "Maybe Jack wasn’t the target. Maybe he was just the bait. The real target could be something they believe is hidden here."
Tasha's eyes narrowed as she studied the surveillance bot, her scarred eyebrow furrowing. "Hidden here? Like what? A buried time capsule? Government secrets?"
Franklin adjusted his glasses, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Or something more... occult." He emphasized the word with a deliberate flourish.
"Something that Jack might have stumbled upon during his... extracurricular activities."
"Surely no one would be dumb enough to seriously think that Jack could turn them into a ghost." Tasha said, dismissing the idea with a sharp laugh. Her tattooed arms crossed over her chest as she paced the dirt, her boots kicking up small clouds of dust with every step.
"Rich people do astonishingly dumb shit all the time! They can throw a bit of money around and get away Scott free! Kidnapping a ghost hunter wouldn't be the most absurd thing I've heard the hyper wealthy have done." Mira replied.
She knelt down beside the surveillance bot, her fiery red curls tumbling forward as she examined the device. Golf’s tiny claws kneaded her shoulder, his dinosaur brain sensing the seriousness of the situation. The velociraptor’s forked tongue flicked out, testing the air like a scientist analyzing an unknown sample. Mira’s fingers traced the jagged edges of the bot’s cracked casing, her astrophysicist’s mind already piecing together the implications.
"Alright, so our DM has been kidnapped by the 1%. Let's just call the police and wait for the authorities to handle it." Tasha Said.
She pulled her phone from her pocket—only to stare at it in disbelief. "No service."
Franklin, still crouched beside the surveillance bot, snapped his fingers. "Well service is limited in the woods here. Let's go to Duluth, we'll get more bars near there." Tim suggested.
"Yeah, okay. But let's take that bot with us, we'll hand it to the police.
Mira said.
Franklin placed the bot in the duffel bag and zipped it closed.
They walked back to the Bug and started towards Duluth.
As they got closer to Minnesota's third biggest city, the phone started to get service again. As Tasha started to dial the non emergency number, their was a loud buzzing noise coming from the duffle bag.
Franklin started to unzip the bag when the bot sprang to murderous life.
Motors whined at high RPM, its remaining drone blade spinning like a circular saw, slicing the inside of the duffel. Wires sparked and the bot lurched free in a shower of embers, skittering toward the back of the VW like a cybernetic crab.
“ABORT ABORT IT’S NOT DEAD!” Tasha yelled, kicking the passenger seat forward to give herself room to draw her foam-sword-cane—just a walking stick with a hidden blade, but right now it looked like the Excalibur she needed.
The bot scuttled forward, its single remaining fan blade a silver blur, the smell of burnt circuitry filling the car.
Franklin yelped and hurled the emergency kit at it; the plastic edge of the medical box struck the bot squarely, sending it spinning into a seat-back. Mira slammed the brakes; Golf launched off her lap, chirping in alarm, and landed on the dashboard, tiny claws skittering across the speedometer before he hurled himself at the bot like a velociraptor tackle dummy. The creature latched onto the bot’s cracked casing with his needle teeth, thrashing his head side to side like a dog with a squeaky toy.
Wires tore loose, sparks flew, and the bot’s remaining blade screeched against the metal floor of the VW’s backseat, leaving a dark trail of melted plastic.
Franklin swung an extra duffel bag like a net, trapping the bot against the seat upholstery. The device whined, its single working motor straining, trying to spin free, but the bag held it fast.
Tasha jammed the foam-sword-cane hilt into the bag’s drawstring, cinching it tight. The bot’s motors stuttered, then died with a final, defeated whirr.
Panting, Tim fumbled for the window crank.
The glass descended with a groan, letting in a rush of icy night air that cleared the stench of burnt plastic and ozone. Golf, still clinging to the bot’s ruined casing, let out a final disgruntled *chirrrp* and leapt back onto Mira’s shoulders, where he immediately began grooming his snout with frantic dinosaur precision.
Mira exhaled through her nose, watching the rearview mirror as the bag in the backseat twitched once—twice—before going still. Franklin, still gripping the emergency kit like a shield, leaned forward and zipped the bag the rest of the way shut.
“Well,” he said, voice trembling but grinning like a lunatic.
"Something was controlling it. when it got the signal again, it turned back on." Tim explained.
His glasses fogged up. He quickly wiped them against his flamingo shirt. “The bot wasn’t acting on its own. Someone was controlling it remotely.”
Mira parked the VW Bug in the empty lot of the Duluth Police Department. The building was dark and quiet, its windows reflecting the glow of distant streetlights. She killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening. Golf let out a tiny chirp from her shoulder, his tiny claws kneading her hoodie nervously.
Franklin adjusted his glasses, peering at the duffel bag in the back seat. "Controlled how exactly? Infrared signal? Cell signal? Wi-Fi?" He snapped his fingers.