“To the great Shaak’garar. The Scorpion King. The Old One granted him this world as his own, a dimension built in honor of Jonathan’s greatness.” He sweeps a green palm around at the many Jonathans on display. The Slayer remains unimpressed. Somehow, she just doesn’t think that making a Star Trek–Star Wars crossover film series should fall under the category “greatness.” It’s niche at best. Masturbatory at worst.

“Here, he was allowed to flourish,” Adam continues. “To mold unity and foster peace.”

“And bring about Hell on Earth?” the Slayer interrupts. “Because, unless I took a wrong turn at portal junction, there’s gotta be a Black Flame flag in here somewhere. Which is not exactly my definition of utopia.”

Adam flexes his free arm. His fingernails are pointed, brown, and thick. Imagining how gnarly his toenails must be makes the Slayer want to gag. Out of his wrist, a long sharp bone stake slides out. Talk about a keratin surplus.

“Hell’s Own Herald is sensitive compartmented information,” he says. “You do not possess the security clearance required to know of its being.”

“But didn’t you break some kind of security protocol by even mentioning it?” she asks, scanning the visible displays for any sign of black fire. The staff in her hand trembles, prodding her back toward the movie Jonathans and Adam. “I was guessing. You confirmed it. If I had to bet which of us was going to be in more trouble, I’d put my money on you.”

“Gambling is illegal outside of licensed Levinson Casinos!” Adam says.

“Probably not as illegal as spilling top secret information to a time-traveling civilian, though. Do they have robot prison? Oh, sorry. Is playing security guard at the fake president museum already a punishment?”

The Slayer sweeps the green gem through the air like a metal detector. She’s relieved when the staff flinches away from Adam. If the black flame had been on his person, she would either have to pull out his battery pack or figure out how to use a floppy disk. Neither would be pretty.

She turns her back on him, the staff pulsing as she creeps through the exhibit.

“You will never find the Black Flame flag,” Adam says. Both of his green hands are wrapped around the trident in his shoulder as he tries to rock it out of his skin. “It is invisible to human eyes, hidden in plain sight—”

The green gem knocks against the giant screen, thudding against the image of Jonathan crying, “You like me, you really like me!” while clutching an Oscar statue. Even his acceptance speeches are plagiarized. What a ridiculous world this is.

Good thing she’s going to end it.