Darian had fought gods, demons, and eldritch horrors. He had stared into the abyss and made it flinch. He once talked down an ancient dragon by out-drinking it, survived an entire week trapped in an interdimensional war zone, and had personally suplexed a minor god into a volcano. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of a supermarket aisle, utterly lost. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of a supermarket aisle, utterly lost.
It had all started with a simple mission: buy groceries. Arias, being the helpful brother he was, had refused to come along, claiming that Darian needed to learn how to function in "normal human society."
"You can fight a demigod with your bare hands, but you can’t handle a grocery store? You’ll be fine," Arias had said, shoving a crumpled shopping list into Darian’s hand before vanishing.
Darian squinted at the list. Half of it was written in Arias’ barely legible scrawl. The other half was just… concerning.
- Milk (not cursed this time)
- Bread (the good kind, you know the one)
- Cheese (probably expensive but worth it)
- Something green (so we don’t die)
- Coffee (or we will die)
- Mystery item (trust your instincts)
Darian sighed and resigned himself to his fate. How hard could it be?
The produce section was his first challenge. There were too many options.
How many different kinds of apples did a single store need? And why were some of them waxed to an unnatural shine? After several minutes of internal debate, he grabbed the first vaguely green vegetable he saw—something leafy, possibly edible—and hoped it counted as "something healthy."
The dairy aisle was worse. As he reached for a carton of milk, a frazzled mother snatched it first, giving him a look that promised war. Darian, despite his many combat instincts, decided that this was not a battle worth fighting.
Instead, he grabbed a different brand, only to realize too late that it had some sort of organic oat-based nonsense written on the label. He groaned but refused to go back and correct his mistake, lest he be dragged into another round of grocery purgatory.
Then there was the bread. The good kind, you know the one. Darian narrowed his eyes. That was all Arias had written. What did that mean? He vaguely recalled an argument from last month where Arias had gone on a rant about how inferior store-bought sandwich bread was compared to a ‘proper artisan loaf that speaks to your soul.’ Had he meant that? Or was he talking about the time he had declared that ‘anything with extra seeds is just showing off’? Darian sighed and grabbed the most expensive loaf he could find, hoping it counted. That was all Arias had written. What did that mean? Darian stared at the overwhelming selection—whole wheat, sourdough, brioche, something called "ancient grains"—before ultimately picking the most expensive loaf, figuring that was probably what Arias meant.
Things only spiraled further when he reached the coffee section. The sheer variety was overwhelming. Espresso, dark roast, light roast, single origin, artisanal, fair trade, cursed (probably)— his eyes glazed over as he tried to make sense of it. At one point, an elderly woman elbowed him out of the way to grab a bag with surprising force. Defeated, Darian closed his eyes and grabbed the nearest bag, hoping for the best.
By the time he reached the checkout line, Darian was questioning everything. He had never encountered a system as unnecessarily complex as modern shopping.
And then came self-checkout.
It should have been simple. Scan the items, pay, and leave. But fate had other plans. The machine immediately beeped in angry protest.
"Unexpected item in the bagging area."
Darian stared at the screen. Nothing was unexpected. Everything was exactly where he had put it. He removed the item. The machine beeped louder. He put it back. The machine beeped in defiance.
He growled under his breath. He had stared down demons with more mercy than this infernal machine. He once defeated a demon warlord with nothing but a glare and a single well-placed punch. The demon's minions had surrendered before he even raised his fist. And yet, here he was, utterly defeated by a soulless contraption that had decided scanning a head of lettuce was beyond his comprehension.
A cashier eventually took pity on him and walked over. "Need help?"
Darian exhaled through his nose. "Yes."
It took the poor employee five minutes to explain how to scan vegetables. Darian nodded solemnly, as if absorbing ancient wisdom. When the cashier left, he attempted to finish his purchase only for the machine to flash CARD DECLINED. He sighed, reached into his coat, and pulled out a solid gold coin. "Will this do?"
The cashier, now thoroughly confused, just took over the transaction manually.
With his dignity in tatters and groceries finally bagged, he strode out of the store, vowing never to return.
Arias, waiting outside with an iced coffee, smirked. "So? How’d it go?"
Darian dumped the groceries into the backseat and got into the car without a word.
Arias peeked into the bags. "You bought oat milk?"
Darian started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, gripping the wheel with slightly more force than necessary. "We’re never speaking of this again." He cast a slow, withering glance at Arias through the rearview mirror, the kind of look that usually preceded someone getting set on fire. Arias, of course, just sipped his coffee and grinned.
Arias, flipping through the groceries, snorted. "Wait, where’s the mystery item?" He dug deeper into the bags, then pulled out a single rubber chicken. "...Darian, why?"
Darian didn’t answer. He just drove, eyes fixed on the road, pretending not to hear Arias’ laughter. After a long silence, he muttered under his breath, "This is divine punishment for something. I know it is."
Arias, holding up the rubber chicken like a sacred artifact, grinned. "All hail our new household guardian! May it bless our kitchen with unholy squeaks."
Darian gripped the wheel tighter. This vacation was not worth it.
Darian vs. the Motorcycle Dealership
Darian had faced down eldritch horrors, fought gods, and survived millennia of absolute chaos. He had once wrestled a titan into submission, single-handedly held a collapsing dimension together with sheer willpower, and bested a demon lord in a game of wits. And yet, somehow, buying a motorcycle was proving to be an even greater battle.
His last bike? Obliterated by a rampaging monster. His new mission? Replace it. Simple. Or so he thought.
He had expected to walk in, point at the most durable, high-powered motorcycle on the floor, throw an unreasonable amount of money at them, and ride off into the sunset. Instead, he was experiencing what could only be described as bureaucratic hell on Earth.
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The moment Darian stepped into the dealership, he regretted everything. A swarm of overly enthusiastic salespeople descended like vultures on fresh prey, each one eager to be the lucky soul who made a commission off him.
“Hey there, my man! Looking for something fast and powerful?”
“Need an adrenaline rush? I got just the thing!”
“Let me show you our top-of-the-line model—comes with a built-in GPS and heated seats!”
Darian exhaled through his nose. He wasn’t here for heated seats. He was here for something that wouldn’t explode the next time a monster tried to eat him.
One salesman tried to usher him toward a gleaming red model. “This one’s got premium traction control and an anti-lock braking system.”
Darian raised an eyebrow. “Will it survive being thrown through a wall?”
The salesman’s grin faltered. “Uh… well, I don’t think that’s really—”
Darian pointed at another. “How about that one? Would it hold up against an interdimensional rift?”
Another salesman took a nervous step back. “Sir… what exactly do you plan to use this bike for?”
Darian crossed his arms. "Commuting."
There was a long, awkward silence. One of the salesmen let out a nervous chuckle, like he was waiting for the punchline. Another shuffled a step back, eyes darting to the exit like he was preparing for the possibility of imminent disaster. A third looked genuinely concerned, as if he had just realized he was trying to sell a motorcycle to a man who might, at any moment, challenge the laws of physics.
"Right," the first salesman finally said, forcing a grin. "Commuting. Got it."
“Sir, we usually require financing approval before test rides.”
Darian blinked. “I’m paying in full.”
The salesman hesitated, clearly unsure how to handle someone actually willing to buy a bike outright. “It’s, uh, dealership policy. Liability reasons.”
Darian crossed his arms. “I have fought actual demons. I think I can handle a test ride.”
“Company policy, sir.”
Darian’s patience thinned. He pulled a solid gold coin from his coat and set it on the counter. “Does this cover liability?”
The salesman blinked at the coin, then at Darian, then back at the coin. “...Let me talk to my manager.”
A suited man appeared, immediately radiating the power of corporate authority.
“Sir, I’m afraid we can’t accept... uh, gold as payment.”
Darian frowned. “It’s worth more than what you’re selling.”
“Yes, but our system doesn’t process gold. We take credit, financing, or verified wire transfers.”
Darian sighed, pulled out his black metal credit card, and tossed it onto the desk. “Fine.”
The manager inspected it like it might curse him. “This, uh… doesn’t have a name on it.”
Darian stared. “It works.”
“I… I need to verify the account.”
Darian tapped his fingers against the desk. “Try it.”
Five minutes later, after a long and awkward call to their financial department, the manager returned looking visibly shaken.
“Uh, sir, your… balance is… um. Approved.”
The salesman who had been shadowing them peered over the manager’s shoulder. “How rich is he?” he whispered.
The manager shook his head. “I don’t think our system could calculate it.”
The manager opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if struggling to comprehend the sheer magnitude of what he had just witnessed. His fingers twitched slightly, as though resisting the urge to wipe nonexistent sweat from his forehead. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he swallowed and gave the smallest of nods.
Darian grabbed his card back. "So can I buy my bike now?"
At last, Darian had selected his new motorcycle. A sleek, black beast of a machine, built for speed and durability. It was perfect.
Until they brought out the paperwork.
“So, we’ll need your ID, proof of address, and your social security number—”
Darian’s eye twitched. “I don’t have a social security number.”
“...What?”
“I don’t exist in your system.”
“But… you have a credit card?”
“It’s complicated.”
The salesman’s soul visibly left his body. “Uh… we also need a registered insurance policy before you can ride off.”
Darian resisted the urge to set something on fire. The air around him grew noticeably warmer, the edges of the contract on the desk curling slightly as if sensing the rising heat. He took a slow breath, exhaling sharply through his nose, forcing his power to settle—this was not the time for spontaneous combustion.
After a lot of back-and-forth (and one minor reality-warping threat), Darian finally left with his motorcycle. The dealership employees looked like they had seen death itself.
Arias, waiting outside, sipped his coffee. “So? How bad was it?”
Darian strapped his helmet on. “I would rather fight a god.”
Arias grinned. “That bad, huh?”
Darian revved the engine. “We’re never speaking of this again.”
Arias leaned over slightly. “Did you at least get a warranty?”
Darian shot him a look and peeled out of the parking lot, tires screeching.
Arias, watching him go, took another sip of his coffee. He casually pulled out his phone and typed, "Does motorcycle insurance cover interdimensional damage?" into a search engine. "I’ll take that as a no."
Darian vs. the Cops
Darian had barely owned his new motorcycle for an hour before flashing blue and red lights appeared in his rearview mirror. He sighed, already regretting everything about this day.
He had dealt with bureaucratic hell at the dealership and fought off unnecessary paperwork. Then came the existential crisis of trying to explain his identity to a financial system that couldn’t comprehend his existence. And now? This. And now? This.
He slowed the bike to a stop on the side of the road, cutting the engine as the police cruiser pulled up behind him. Two officers stepped out—one older, clearly the senior of the two, and the other younger, looking like he had something to prove.
Darian kept his hands on the handlebars as the older cop approached, his gaze scanning over Darian’s all-black ensemble, combat boots, and the sleek, customized motorcycle that had no plates yet. "License and registration."
Darian arched an eyebrow. "I just bought the bike. Paperwork’s in my pocket."
The younger officer frowned, stepping closer with a scrutinizing look. "Step off the bike, sir."
Darian sighed but complied, moving with deliberate slowness so he didn’t startle them. The older officer remained impassive, but the younger one tensed, his hand drifting an inch closer to his holster. His eyes flicked from Darian’s jacket to the bike as if trying to decide whether this was about to turn into the most eventful traffic stop of his career. He pulled the paperwork from his jacket and handed it over. The older cop studied the registration while the younger one eyed Darian like he expected him to suddenly attack.
"You with a club?" the younger officer asked.
Darian blinked. "A club?"
"Biker gang."
Darian stared. "Do I look like I’m in a biker gang?"
The younger officer didn’t waver. "You tell me. Custom bike, all black, no plates yet. Could be stolen."
Darian pinched the bridge of his nose. "You think I stole this?"
"Wouldn’t be the first time someone boosted a bike and tried to play it cool."
The older cop, still reviewing the paperwork, cleared his throat. "Everything checks out. Paid in full, dealership verified the purchase."
The younger officer hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Could still be fake ID."
Darian exhaled sharply. "Are you serious?"
The older cop handed the paperwork back. "Sorry about that. Standard protocol. Nice bike."
The younger cop, clearly not ready to give up, took a step closer. "You got a record?"
Darian smirked. "You won’t find anything in your system."
The younger cop narrowed his eyes and stepped back to the cruiser, probably to run Darian’s name anyway. The older officer gave him a once-over. "You military?"
"Something like that."
The cop nodded as if that explained everything. "Well, keep it under the speed limit. New bike like that, easy to get carried away."
Darian gave a tight nod, already moving to mount the bike again when the younger officer returned, looking utterly baffled.
"Sir, there’s… there’s no record of you anywhere. No ID matches, no birth certificate, nothing."
Darian put on his helmet. "Told you."
The younger officer’s hand hovered near his belt, clearly uncomfortable. Darian had seen this exact hesitation before—usually from mercenaries who realized they were wildly outclassed but hadn’t quite figured out how to back down yet. He wasn’t sure if he found it amusing or just exhausting. "That’s not possible. Everyone has something on file. A parking ticket, a census record, a school registration—something."
The older cop let out a weary sigh. "Let it go, rookie."
"But—"
"Let it go."
Darian revved the engine. "Can I go now, or are we going to pretend I’m a ghost for another ten minutes?"
The younger cop’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
The older officer just shook his head. "Drive safe."
Darian took off down the road, shifting smoothly through the gears as the wind whipped past him. The tension from the stop lingered for a few moments, but then the familiar hum of the engine and the rush of air against his skin settled his nerves. He had fought worse things than bureaucratic suspicion, but there was something especially irritating about paperwork wielders trying to fit him into their rigid little world. He exhaled, pushing the thought away. At least now he could enjoy the ride—until the next headache found him. He made a mental note to never let Arias hear about this—or he’d never live it down.
Sure enough, his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket a few minutes later. He pulled over at a gas station and checked the message.
Arias: "Hey, so fun fact. Your little cop stop just hit the dispatch radio. Someone called in about a ‘phantom biker’ with no record. You’re officially a local legend now. Congrats!"
Darian groaned.
Arias: "Oh, and I took the liberty of forwarding the story to a journalist. You’re welcome."
Darian ran a hand down his face. He should’ve set that damn dealership on fire when he had the chance. Instead, he was now some kind of urban legend. Fantastic.
His phone buzzed again. Arias: "Thinking of getting you a ‘Ghost Rider’ leather jacket. Thoughts?"
Darian turned off his phone. He needed a drink.