A black void is disrupted by rows of flickering white lines. The lines break into an array of colors, crackles and pops flood what was once silence. The static warps, twists, and fluctuates with the words of a dramatic and eager voice filled with youthful energy.

  “In a world where nothing is what it seems..."

  The pixels bleed into each other, colors inverting, and distortion rippling outward from the center. Ones and zeros flash across the screen, gradually taking shape to form a ghost stuck in a pixelated box. Letters form beneath it, glitching in and out of existence until they stabilize into a logo: GLITCH HUNTERS.

  The music swells into a haunting electronic theme with discordant notes as the background pulses.

  "Some see errors in the system... And we're here to find them,” continues the voice continues as the screen fractures into three panels.

  The left panel resolves first, revealing a female rabbit. Her cream-colored fur is bright in the dark room, and she has distinctive auburn markings around her eyes and ears. She sits in an artist's chair, digital tablet doodling a picture. Her shoulders curve inward slightly, her smile nervous but sincere as she peeks up at the camera. Her workspace is a controlled chaos of sketches, half-empty coffee cups, and small figurines of cryptids and urban legends.

  Text pixelates in: "MADISON ROSEWOOD - THE ARTIST"

  Next is the right panel. It flares to life, revealing the imposing figure of a steel-gray rabbit. His muscular frame fills the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression caught between boredom and resignation. Greg's space is only a workbench with precisely arranged tools and equipment.

  Text materializes: "GREG GREGORY GREGISON III - THE MUSCLE"

  Lastly, the center screen. It flashes into focus, revealing a brown rabbit with meticulously groomed fur stands against a backdrop of computer servers, his posture dramatic and rehearsed. His right paw jabs toward the camera, finger extended accusingly, his eyes wide with manufactures intensity. He wears a stylish jacket with too many pockets, each bulging with gadgets.

  Text glitches in beneath him: "ASHTON COVER - THE BELIEVER"

  The three panels collapse together, merging the team into a unified image. They stand before the Glitch Mobile: a modified van painted dark purple with racing stripes in red, yellow, blue, and green. Its polished body and black tinted windows shine under alternating shades of colored lights. The team poses dramatically: Ashton in front, pointing at something beyond the camera, Madison slightly behind holding her tablet against her chest, and Greg towering over both, arms crossed and expression bored.

  "Where reality breaks down, we break through," says the narrator.

  Static consumes the screen once more, building to a white noise crescendo before fading to black.

  *****

  The Glitch Mobile travels down the highway at sixty five miles per hour, matching perfectly with the posted speed limit. Its headlight shine on the dark asphalt, providing clarity with its white light. The antennas jiggle with the vibrations of travel, and the van’s engine purrs, freshly treated with an oil change, transmission fluid change, and air filter change.

  Inside, Ashton Cover's fingers drum on the steering wheel of the Glitch Mobile, matching the beats with the gutteral vocals of the nu-rock band, Breaking Park. His eyes dart between the road signs and the asphalt before him, and sometimes the ghost dangling from his rearview mirror. The rocking instrumentals and intense singing keeps him awake.

  Each bump in the road sets the equipment rattling in their mounts, but nothing falls.

  Next to Ashton is Greg. He is reclined in seat, socks and shoes pulled off and his naked feet propped on the vehicle's dash board. His steel-gray fur is rumpled and his eyes are half-closed as he scrolls through his phone, occasionally glancing at Ashton with barely concealed resignation.

  Sitting behind them is Madison. Her tablet is propped on her knees as her stylus moves in fluid strokes on the glowing surface, slowly but surely revealing a picture of a fiery man with no face and burning wings.

  The walls of the Glitch Mobile are lined with monitors of various shapes and sizes, and all of them are off, surrounding Madison with black screens that reflect her doodling.

  “I'm bored,” says Greg suddenly.

  Ashton cracks a smile, teeth showing in the dark.

  “Dude, you’re always bored,” he says, his voice matching the narrator.

  “I’m always bored because this job sucks. There's never anything good. Everything is easy to debunk. And why are we going out here when we could be at Red City or Joy City? Bliss Town is garbage. Literally got ‘Most Disappointing Outcome’ in the national paper,” says Greg.

  Greg thumps his foot against the dash for emphasis, shaking all the empty soda cans jammed under the windshield.

  “Well, for your information, Greg, we're going to Bliss Town because it is our job to search for anomalies and Verve01209, our biggest subscriber in case you forgot, specifically funneled us ten grand to do some exploration. Extra specifically for the Hobo Warrior Bunny and Bazooka Bunny.”

  Greg scoffs. “Oh, okay. That guy again. Sure. How many times are we going to go on side quests for that guy?”

  “For as long as they'll keep paying us more than any other subscriber by a significant margin.”

  The two fall silent after that, and a few minutes later, the Glitch Mobile passes a weathered "Welcome to Bliss Town" sign.

  “Ah, look at that. We're now in Bliss Town!” says Ashton, grinning from ear to ear.

  Madison gets out of her seat to look out the window, and Greg pulls his feet off the dashboard, frowning. Madison's expression is more of unease while Ashton holds his broad smile.

  “This place already, sucks” says Greg.

  By sight alone, Greg is right. Bliss Town is littered with abandoned apartment complexes, worn down office buildings, skeletons of shopping plazas standing in empty parking lots, and random growth peeking through sidewalks and asphalt. But where there is desolation, there are random pockets of life. The biggest cluster can be seen in the distance, but the closest one is Stella's Strip House. The dark colored structure lit with neon signs draws all their eyes to it, and the thumping music bangs weakly against their windows. Any closer and they would feel the bass.

  “I'm going there,” says Greg.

  Madison rolls her eyes, and Ashton pats Greg's arm.

  “Easy boy. We have work to do,” says Ashton.

  The group goes deeper into Bliss Town, passing graffiti tagged bus stops and walls, flickering lights, and random glowing neon signs.

  As they drive, the three see a billboard for Stella's Strip House, but the eyes of the dancer have been crossed out with X’s and crudely painted butterflies surround their head. “Come See With Me” is sprayed below at an odd angle, the letters jumbled tightly together.

  They drive for a few more minutes until the come across a brightly lit truck stop called “Tucky’s Truck Stop”. The mascot is an opossum with a wide, open-mouthed smile, wearing a red hat.

  The awning is illuminated by brutal white LED lights placed in even rows, oversaturating everything and turning the cracked parking lot into an oil stained concrete stage. Rows of fuel pumps are set up in perfect symmetry, and each pump has a cubby full of applications for Tucky Truck Stop membership cards.

  Bordering the awning is a convenience store with large windows, decorated with glass paint depicting the opossum mascot carrying groceries or filling gas tanks or being friendly in general.

  Sitting at the front door, on a chair with a perfect view of every pump, is a stony opossum, male, wearing a ballistic vest and cradling a blunderbuss. He watches Ashton's group parking their van next to a pump, and when they get out, Ashton smiles and waves at him. The guard blinks, his expression remaining stoic.

  As the group stretches their legs, faint music plays over the speakers, the tune crackling and words warbling, but not to the point where they can't hear the energetic mix of guitar, bass and drums. This leaves Ashton feeling a collision of happiness and nostalgia induced sickness. The person singing has youthful hope in his tone, but Madison and Greg pay no mind to the words while Ashton looks at the nearest speaker, taking in the music.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “You just take your time~!

  Little guy, you're in the middle of the ride~

  Everything, everything's gonna be just fine~

  Everything, everything's gonna be alright, alright~!”

  “Heh. I love this song,” says Ashton, looking at the guard and pointing up.

  The guard shrugs.

  Ashton clicks his tongue and keeps walking. “Alrighty then…”

  The group steps through the sliding glass doors, their presence being marked by a smooth whoosh and pleasant ding. Cold air engulfs them, and a strong mix of bleach and citrus floor cleaner lingers in the air.

  The store has rows of novelty snacks, batteries, drinks of various strengths, alcohol, tobacco, and an assortment of gift shop items ranging from the mascot, Tucky the Possum, to odd toys and generic clothes. Everything is lined up in perfect order, and the nu-rock music is much clearer now.

  Greg grabs an industrial-sized soda cup and fills it with a caffeine bomb at a drink dispenser. Madison wanders toward a rack of plushies and candies, grabbing a plushie of Tucky.

  Behind the counter sits Mariana Cross, her cheek resting on her fist and her bored, gray-blue eyes focused on a pen she's trying to balance on its tip.

  “Evening, oh guardian of the midnight snacks!” blurts Ashton, voice bright and his antics careless as he drops an assortment of snacks on the counter.

  Mariana’s eyes flick to him, and with a lazy shift of her fingers, the pen twirls between her digits and lands in a nearby coffee mug.

  Greg and Madison show up a few seconds later, each with drinks and snacks, and Madison carrying the plushie.

  Mariana scans the items quickly and drops them in the bags with minimal motions. The Glitch Hunters watch her, entranced by her mix of boredom and speed.

  “You've been doing this a while, haven't you?” says Ashton.

  “Too long to count,” says Mariana.

  “You've been in Bliss Town long?”

  “Too long to count.”

  Mariana then scans the Tucky plushie with her scanner gun while Madison is still holding it, and then she resumes scanning the other products. Greg raises a brow, Madison averts her eyes to play with the plushie, and Ashton clicks his tongue and drums on the counter.

  “Alright, so you're a longtime resident. Can you tell me about anything weird going on here?” says Ashton.

  “No,” says Mariana flatly.

  Silence.

  The scanner gun thuds on the counter and Mariana finishes packing the groceries. As she does this, Greg snatches one of the soda cans and cracks it open. Madison rubs the Tucky plushie between her palms, her fingers messing with the long limbs. Then there's Ashton, unfazed, smile holding as he leans crooked, one elbow on the counter, the other on his hip.

  “Nobody’s reported any… spatial anomalies? No spooky ghosts? No… time dilation bubbles that appear around a hobo with a stick?”

  Mariana locks eyes with Ashton, her fingers pressed together like a claw, aimed above the receipt printer. The receipt rolls out, she tears it from the device, and holds it to Ashton.

  “No. Enjoy your stay at Bliss Town,” says Mariana.

  “Thanks!” says Ashton, taking the receipt. “Let's go, gang!”

  The group goes outside, Ashton waves farewell to the guard, who merely grunts, and when they are by the van, he sighs heavily and unlocks the door.

  “That clerk is hiding something. I can feel it,” says Ashton.

  “She’s not hiding anything. She’s just bored out of her skull and wants to go somewhere else, but is too poor to do it,” says Greg.

  “Harsh.”

  “Truth.”

  Madison hops in the van, still playing with the Tucky plushie. “Is there a hotel nearby? I kinda want to sleep.”

  “Yeah, the Four Blocks Hotel Complex is not too far from here. I already booked a reservation.” says Ashton.

  Greg and Madison stare at Ashton, both in varying degrees of drowsy confusion.

  “You did?” asks Madison, fiddling with her new Tucky plushie. “Why didn’t you say you booked the rooms ahead of time?”

  “Because it’s more dramatic if I drop it like a plot twist,” says Ashton, snapping his fingers and pointing at the back of Madison’s head. “Boom! Efficiency and showmanship. Both critical traits of a paranormal investigator, by the way.”

  Greg grunts and climbs into the van, his paws clutching his drink just enough to not spill it. Ashton smoothly slides behind the wheel, keys jangling as he cranks the engine and eases the Glitch Mobile out of the truck stop. He honks and waves at the possum guard, but the guard merely watches them leave with a thousand-mile stare and a hand on his blunderbuss.

  The gas station’s LED awning shrinks as Ashton drives the Glitch Mobile away. Ashton steers the Glitch Mobile through the dead streets of Bliss Town. Streetlights blink and die overhead, flickering on the van’s purple paint like muted strobes.

  The city is a collection of empty lots, worn leasing signs, and lone survivors flashing neon lights. On a wall, there’s another butterfly painted next to a broken mailbox. Two blocks further: a mural of a winged DNA strand hovering over a decaying faceless Angel. Ashton snaps a picture through the window with one hand while the other holds the steering wheel.

  When they reach the Four Blocks Hotel Complex, they see a blocky mess of concrete and faded colors. Square windows are dark, and bright lights shine above the entrances, whether they be guest or maintenance.

  Ashton whistles. “I love the ambience.”

  Greg’s face twitches. “This looks like a place where a serial killer picks people off one by one.”

  Madison hugs the Tucky plushie tighter. “It’s… I mean, it’s better than sleeping in the van.”

  Ashton swings the van into the parking area, narrowly missing a busted shopping cart. The Glitch Mobile’s headlights carve three rabbit-shaped shadows onto the peeling sign up front: “FOUR BLOCKS HOTEL COMPLEX. TOP RATED IN BLISS TOWN! BREAKFAST-GYM-POOL-INTERNET-ARMED SECURITY WITH A LICENSE TO KILL SO DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID TO GET SHOT.”

  The three stare at the sign, with Greg sneering, Madison pale, and Ashton’s lips pulled to a tight line. A few seconds pass, he smacks his lips and the steering wheel and looks at his partners.

  “Well, you heard the sign. Be on your best behavior and no one gets shot,” says Ashton.

  “Is that even legal?” asks Madison.

  “Who cares? Let’s just get the room and go to sleep,” says Greg.

  “Good call, Greg!” says Ashton. “After we have a good night’s sleep, we’ll be able to plot our day and have a fulfilling adventure!”

  “Shut the frick up!” snaps Greg. He shoves the door open and storms out. “God, you’re an annoying little shit!”

  Greg slams the door shut and storms off, leaving Ashton and Madison to watch him from their seats.

  “Someone’s a grumpy muffin,” says Ashton.

  Madison nods and exits the van, and Ashton follows her lead, rapidly clicking the lock button on his key, leading to the van’s lights to flash a lot.

  When they enter the check-in lobby, disinfectant and lingering cigarette smoke seeps into their noses. The lobby’s carpet is a technicolor stain map, and the dying LED fish tank burbles in the corner with two fake, motorized goldish circling a plastic skull, over and over.

  The hotel counter is shielded by thick plexiglass, and behind the counter is Mariana Cross, wearing the same bored expression as before, but with a crooked name tag and a pen twirling between her fingers as she reads a comic book.

  “Okay, what the hell,” says Greg.

  Mariana glances at them out of the corner of her eye, closes her comic book, and pulls out a bundle of three key cards. “Reservation for Glitch Hunters. One room. Two bed. Third floor. Room 2-333. Enjoy your stay.”

  “Hey, wait a minute.” Greg presses his palms on the counter, his nose nearly touching the plexiglass. “Did you just teleport here? We saw you at the truck stop. It’s way across town.”

  Mariana reclines in her seat and flips the page in her comic. “I get around.”

  “That’s not possible,” says Ashton, his tone halfway between delighted and disturbed. “There’s no way you got here before us.”

  Mariana finally looks up, gray-blue eyes hollow with boredom. “I’m efficient. Enjoy your stay at the hotel and welcome to Bliss Town.”

  For two long seconds no one moves or says anything.

  Greg squints critically at Mariana. Ashton’s lips twitch, struggling between a smirk and outright laughter. Madison stares at Mariana with wide, tired eyes, her reflection faint in the plexiglass, arms tight around her mascot plush. The pen twirls in Mariana’s fingers, slow and effortless as she casually reads her comic.

  Greg finally snorts. “Sure. You get around. Right. Whatever. I’m going to bed. The soda was probably laced with a drug, so now I’m seeing things.”

  He grabs the keycards, passes them out to the other two, and walks away. The other two follow him, their sneakers tapping against the thin, stained carpet as they go to the elevator. Ashton pushes the arrow, and they wait for a few seconds as the elevator hums behind its door.

  A few seconds later, there is a ding and mechanical shuddering. The sleek metal door opens, and the Glitch Hunters crowd inside. The doors take forever to close, giving them a grotesque view of the lobby’s stains and weirdly cheerful Bliss Town travel posters, and Mariana still reading her comic.

  Nobody speaks until the elevator clanks its way up. The numbers crawl.

  Then Madison speaks. “Maybe… there’s two of her?”

  Ashton glances at her. “Huh?”

  Madison rocks the Tucky plush between her hands. “The desk clerk. At the gas station and now here. Maybe she’s twins? Or it’s like a prank. Maybe we’re on a show?”

  Greg grunts. “Yeah, that’ll be something.”

  But Ashton’s gears are spinning. “Hang on, hang on. What if… Madison’s right. Twin sisters, working the same night, two different jobs. Both pretending to be named Mariana? That’s a great joke!”

  The elevator shudders and the doors screech in protest as they slowly open, revealing an empty stretch of hallway with yellow lights, red and white checkerboard carpet tile, and stripped yellow walls. They step out. Madison tucks next to Ashton, clutching her plush like a shield.

  As they walk, they scan the numbers on the wall. 2-328, 2-329, 2-330, all the way to 2-333. The key cards all work. Greg immediately takes the bed next to the AC unit, collapsing on it fully dressed and rolling onto his back. Madison takes the other bed and snuggles with her plushie and pillow. Meanwhile, Ashton sets up cameras around the room: peeking through the security peephole, planting one on the TV, slipping another in the potted plastic plant.

  “Twins. Classic. Or maybe she just teleported. Maybe she’s a quantum anomaly and we’re already in the middle of the case and don’t even know it…” says Ashton.

  “I think the twin theory is more likely. I saw that on a prank show once,” says Madison into her pillow.

  “No one cares about twins, prank shows, or teleporting clerks. I want sleep. If anything weird happens, let it wait until morning,” says Greg.

  “You’re such a party pooper, Greg,” says Ashton lightly. “But, alas, I shall respect your desires for sleep, oh fair, big child.”

  Greg rolls his eyes while Madison hugs her plushie and slides under the hotel blanket. Ashton, standing near her bed with his hands on his hips, looks ready to break into a new monologue, but instead he just stands there, swaying slightly, staring at nothing.

  Greg watches him from across the room, head turned on the pillow, eyes squinted in confusion. Madison peeks out from under her blanket, her ears rising with uncertainty. The silence stretches. Ashton doesn’t move.

  Then he stiffly falls on Madison's bed, by her feet, and snores like a broken chainsaw.

  Greg breaks into a half snort, half half laugh, and Madison’s eyes pop wide, then narrow with delight.

  “Someone was tired,” says Madison.

  Greg rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling tile, grinning tiredly.

  “Thank God he's finally asleep,” says Greg.

  Madison giggles, stuffing her face into the Tucky plushie’s soft polyester and squeezing it tight. Ashton’s snoring vibrates the bed in a steady, rhythmic rumble. She grins and shakes her head while reaching for the lamp switch.

  She clicks the light off. The hotel room falls into a weird, peaceful darkness, cut only by the red numbers of the cheap digital clock and the monstrous snoring from the foot of her bed.

  Greg is already half asleep, arms folded behind his head, breathing slow. Madison turns onto her side and tucks the plushie against her chest, letting herself relax.

  She inhales, lets out a slow sigh, and lets her eyelids drift shut. On the far end of the blankets, Ashton twitches, snorts, and releases a long, absurd grumble of gibberish into the darkness.

  Madison almost laughs, but sleep catches up to her before she gets the chance.