Chapter 11 — Gas
And thus begins Chapter Eleven.
Now, children.
There we were.
On a beach.
Shirtless.
Disoriented.
Hungry.
Sore.
And collectively possessing approximately zero memory of how we had arrived there.
The council nods.
Axe looked around.
Then
did something intelligent.
The council gasps.
“Maps.”
Children.
Of course.
Maps.
The tiny glowing rectangle in my pocket contained geography.
A revolutionary concept.
Present Nuo might reject maps on philosophical grounds.
University Nuo?
Children.
University Nuo had just woken up half naked somewhere far away from civilization.
Philosophy could wait.
We opened the map.
Found ourselves.
Found the resort.
And
the council leans forward.
Fifteen kilometres.
Silence.
Fifteen.
Kilometres.
The council erupts.
WHAT?
Exactly.
Children.
Excuse me?
How?
Why?
When?
By what mechanism had two idiots left an underground rave
and travelled fifteen kilometres
before losing consciousness on a beach?
The Archive offers
nothing.
The council flips through the missing footage again.
Rave.
Darkness.
Dog.
Fifteen kilometres.
Beautiful.
No explanation.
We stared at the map.
Then at each other.
Then probably back at the map,
just in case GPS had developed a sense of humour.
No.
Fifteen kilometres.
Confirmed.
The council sighs.
Fine.
New problem.
Return.
We checked money.
Children.
No disaster.
Enough to get back.
Enough to acquire shirts.
Enough for whatever other minor emergency appeared.
And Axe?
Still rich.
The council nods.
Financial apocalypse postponed.
So we started walking toward the road.
The plan was forming.
Find somewhere selling clothes.
Acquire dignity.
Find transport.
Return to resort.
Cloud.
Food.
Sleep.
Easy.
Then
we saw it.
The council freezes.
Children.
By the side of the road.
Sitting there.
Waiting.
Carlos.
The council erupts.
CARLOS?!
My glorious chariot of metal.
My faithful little machine.
Just
there.
Parked.
Like this was perfectly normal.
I stopped.
Axe stopped.
We stared.
The council begins another investigation.
How did Carlos get fifteen kilometres away from the resort?
No idea.
Did we drive?
Probably.
Who drove?
Children.
Excellent question.
Why did we drive here?
Even better question.
Where were we trying to go?
The Archive laughs in our faces.
And then
another detail.
Key.
Still in the ignition.
The council goes silent.
Children.
At this point,
there was no longer any doubt.
Last night contained an entire lost episode.
Potentially several.
We had not merely wandered down a beach.
Carlos had apparently participated.
The council looks toward the car.
Poor Carlos.
Truly.
That vehicle carried burdens no machine should.
Still
problem solved.
We had transport.
No need for an auto.
No bus.
No fifteen kilometre walk while half dressed.
Carlos would take us home.
Children.
Beautiful.
I got in.
Axe got in.
I turned the key.
Carlos coughed.
The council becomes worried.
Again.
Nothing.
Again.
A sad mechanical protest.
Then
silence.
The council checks.
Fuel?
Empty.
Of course.
Children.
Of course.
Because the universe had looked at our morning and decided:
Not enough.
The tank was dry.
Whether we had driven until it emptied,
left the engine running,
or somehow offended the petroleum gods
unknown.
But Carlos was awake only spiritually.
The council sighs.
Fine.
New solution.
Fuel.
Find petrol pump.
Simple.
Maps again.
The council peers at the screen.
More than five kilometres away.
Children.
No.
We were somewhere on the outskirts.
Not exactly surrounded by convenient infrastructure.
No petrol station around the corner.
No helpful little pump fifty metres away.
And another problem had appeared.
Carlos.
We couldn’t simply abandon him.
The council nods solemnly.
You do not leave the chariot behind.
Public transport back to Malpe?
Possible for us.
Not for Carlos.
And children
Carlos comes home.
This was law.
So there we stood.
Two shirtless idiots.
One dead car.
One distant petrol station.
And desperation beginning to generate ideas.
The council becomes deeply suspicious.
Now.
I am not proud of the next part.
Let history preserve that first.
University Nuo’s emergency planning department had,
for reasons I refuse to examine too closely,
equipped Carlos with certain things.
A fuel container.
A hose.
The council closes its eyes.
Children.
You know where this is heading.
Again:
this is history.
Not recommendation.
Present Nuo would strongly prefer the road assistance chapter.
University Nuo did not possess that update.
We needed enough fuel to get Carlos moving.
So Axe and I began walking.
Looking.
Scanning.
Children.
Suspicious as hell.
Two half dressed university students wandering through an unfamiliar neighbourhood
examining parked cars with far too much interest.
The council watches from a safe distance.
We looked at one.
No.
Another.
People nearby.
No.
Then
a car.
Secluded.
Nobody around.
The council goes quiet.
And desperate University Nuo made a decision.
We took a small amount of fuel.
No elegant justification will transform that into a sensible plan.
Children.
But
and this matters
we did not intend to leave the owner poorer.
Once we had enough to get Carlos moving,
I pulled out money.
Two thousand rupees.
The council pauses.
For that amount of fuel?
Far,
far more than it was worth.
Exactly.
Children.
This was not:
Haha, free petrol.
This was:
I am stranded,
I have done something questionable,
and I refuse to make some random stranger pay for my stupidity.
There was a gap in the window.
Enough.
We pushed the money inside.
Two thousand.
The council nods.
Payment.
Apology.
Emergency idiot tax.
All in one.
Was this the correct procedure?
Absolutely not.
Would the owner have preferred we simply did not interact with their car?
Almost certainly.
But the Archive does not rewrite old stupidity into virtue.
We did what we did.
And then tried to leave the stranger significantly overcompensated for it.
Children.
Borrowed under duress.
Paid at criminally generous rates.
The council considers the classification.
Morally chaotic.
Correct.
We hurried back to Carlos.
Fuel acquired.
Enough.
Into the tank.
Then
I sat behind the wheel.
Axe beside me.
The council leans forward.
Moment of truth.
Key.
Turn.
Carlos coughed.
My heart stopped.
Then
engine.
The council erupts.
LIFE.
Carlos roared awake.
Children.
Never has internal combustion sounded so holy.
I touched the steering wheel.
Probably thanked the machine.
Axe laughed.
Or sighed.
Or both.
And suddenly
we had movement.
Again.
The recurring cure.
Carlos pulled away.
Unknown outskirts behind us.
Malpe ahead.
The council settles.
Now picture us.
Morning.
Both missing shirts.
Bodies wrecked from a night we could barely remember.
Fifteen kilometres from where we were meant to be.
Still no explanation for how Carlos had joined us.
Probably smelling like rave,
sand,
weed,
and poor judgment.
And yet
moving home.
The council smiles.
I drove.
Axe sat beside me.
Road ahead.
And then
the old position.
My hand on the gear.
Her hand settling over mine.
The council grows quiet.
Simple.
Familiar.
Same as yesterday.
Before the resort.
Before the Jacuzzi.
Before Hat Guy.
Before Ribbon Girl.
Before the secret metal door.
Before the mystery pill.
Before neon swallowed the night.
My hand.
Her hand.
Carlos.
Road.
Children.
And I remember thinking
Yeah.
This is perfect.
The council pauses.
Perfect?
Look at you.
You’re half naked.
Lost.
Hungover.
You stole
borrowed
fuel from a stranger.
Your car ran dry.
You have no idea where your clothes are.
You have misplaced several hours of your anniversary.
And somehow
perfect?
Children.
Yes.
Because Axe was there.
Carlos was running.
We were safe.
We were going back.
And despite everything that had gone spectacularly wrong
I was having the time of my life.
The council grows quiet.
That may be the clearest memory of Malpe.
Not the resort.
Not the rave.
Not the Jacuzzi.
Not even waking on the beach.
That drive back.
The absurd aftermath.
The two of us looking like disaster had personally dressed us.
Her hand over mine.
And no anger.
No:
You ruined the anniversary.
No:
This was a mistake.
No:
We should have stayed home.
Just
us.
Still together.
Still moving.
Still finding the whole thing somehow funny.
The council nods.
Karkala had shown me that Axe could sit beside me in comfort.
Malpe showed me something else.
She could sit beside me in chaos.
And somehow make chaos feel comfortable too.
Children.
That is a dangerous compatibility.
A very dangerous one.
Because once you discover someone who can look at a complete shit show
and still place their hand on yours
you become significantly less afraid of shit shows.
The council smiles.
Maybe that explains us.
University Nuo did not think any of this.
Archive law.
His thought was much simpler.
Yeah.
This is perfect.
And honestly?
Perhaps his version was better.
No analysis.
No lesson.
Just happiness.
Carlos carried us back toward Malpe.
The road rolled beneath us.
The resort waited somewhere ahead.
Our shirts remained part of an unresolved missing person case.
Hat Guy and Ribbon Girl?
Also unresolved.
The previous night?
A black hole.
Children.
Many questions remained.
But for now
movement.
Hand on gear.
Her hand on mine.
And my glorious chariot,
resurrected through morally questionable emergency logistics,
taking us home.
Thus concludes Chapter Eleven.
The Fifteen Kilometres.
The Discovery Of Carlos.
The Empty Tank.
The Emergency Idiot Tax.
The Resurrection Of The Chariot.
And The Drive Back.
Children.
We woke up lost.
Then discovered our car was somehow more lost than we were.
We solved one problem.
Found another.
Solved that badly.
Paid for it generously.
And drove away.
The council sighs.
Unbegun logistics.
But somewhere on that road,
with Axe’s hand resting on mine,
I looked at the complete disaster our anniversary had become
and thought:
Yeah.
This is perfect.
