The Slayer ducks into a display of Jonathan’s film career. In front of a giant TV screen playing a clip package of movie trailers and Academy Award speeches, there’s a line of Jonathans dressed in his most famous costumes. Jonathan in a floor-length leather coat and wraparound Ray-Bans. Jonathan in a fedora and khakis with a whip clutched in his plastic hand. Jonathan in shiny green pants that look like mermaid scales and a nubby orange shirt, holding a gold trident. The Slayer wrestles the trident away from him, pleased to find that—although it’s light—it’s actually made of metal.

The approaching footsteps grow louder. The Slayer, picturing Secret Service agents with drawn guns, is relieved to find a square-headed monster in shiny military boots. People have to be reasoned with. Monsters she can fight.

Throwing the trident javelin-style, she spears the monster through the arm, pinning him to the back of the closest Jonathan mannequin. Grabbing hold of the end of the trident, the Slayer throws her body weight into the pole, pushing until she hears the monster’s arm crunch.

The monster doesn’t flinch. Jiggling his shoulder and jabbing the trident’s tines, he tests his mobility. Finding himself stuck, he looks down at the Slayer, curious.

“You are trespassing on government property,” he says. His voice is a resonant monotone, a mechanical impression of a baritone. The pin lights refract off the metal plate molded to one side of his skull. “And this trident is on loan from the Smithsonian. You shall incur a fine for damaging it.”

The Slayer steps out of kicking distance and picks up her staff again. It pulls at her arm, ready to continue its quest for the Black Flame flag. But she can’t stop staring at the security bot. There’s something repulsively compelling about him. It reminds her of living in Los Angeles and seeing people walking around with healing plastic surgery scars. Bruised, puffy, sutured.

“I should have guessed that the future museum would have a robot guard,” she says.

“I am no robot,” the robot says. He tips his boxy head in a stiff bow. “My name is Adam. I am a bio-mechanical demonoid. The first of my kind. Although no longer the last.”

“Yeah, your body has a real first-draft vibe,” the Slayer says, gesturing to the metal stitches holding the two halves of his torso together. Shirtless in camo pants, the monster is a bit camo-colored himself. White human skin blending with Wicked Witch of the West green and patches of silver plating. The Slayer grimaces, squinting at the metal port built into his chest. “Is that a floppy-disk drive?! Bro, how old are you?”