Chapter Text
It started like most of Arthur’s days did-him, a horse, a rifle, and a vague promise to hunt something that wouldn’t cause him grief. He’d meant to get a few rabbits or maybe a deer, something quick, quiet, uncomplicated. That plan ended when he saw the corpse in the middle of the plain.
The guy didn’t look like any rancher or trapper Arthur had ever seen. Too clean. Too… off.
He wore shoes without laces-white as snow but clearly made for city walking. Tight jeans that looked like they were poured on, and a shirt with weird symbols printed bold across the chest alongside the words "Live, laugh, lift", whatever the hell that meant. No gun, no hat, not even a knife. Just a busted wristwatch and the briefcase.
The cowboy squinted at the body, then looked up at the sky.
No vultures. No birds. No blood trail. Just… impact.
“Damn, poor bastard.” Arthur muttered, glancing around. “Ain’t that somethin’.”
He crouched next to the corpse, nudged the guy’s shoulder with the barrel of his rifle, just to be sure. The man didn’t move. His sunglasses had snapped in two. His hair was stiff with gel.
Arthur took a second to look around again-no sign of a struggle, no camp, no horse nearby. No way up, and no way down. Just a splatter of dirt where the guy hit.
“…Hosea ain’t gonna believe this one.” He muttered.
He slung the briefcase over his shoulder, searched the man’s pockets for anything useful (came up with what looked like a tiny brick that didn’t light even when he fiddled with it), then mounted his horse and headed back to camp.
By the time he returned to Horseshoe Overlook, the light had started to dim. Dinner was being stirred by Pearson, smoke rising from the stew pot in lazy swirls. Abigail was telling Jack to stop throwing rocks, and Dutch was reading a book upside-down and pretending it was philosophy.
Arthur dropped the briefcase onto the table by the fire with a thunk .
“You find somethin’ good?” Dutch asked, without looking up.
“Not sure yet.” Arthur unsnapped the latch. “Found a dead fella out on the plain. Dressed like he was from… I dunno. France, maybe.”
“France?” Hosea asked, appearing beside them with a cup of something brown and hot in his hand.
“Real weird business,” Arthur said. “Didn’t say much. On account of bein’ dead.”
He flipped open the briefcase.
Everyone leaned in.
Inside, there was nothing. But not just nothing. The space in the briefcase shimmered, pulsed faintly like it was breathing. The interior seemed deeper than it should’ve been-black, bottomless, and cold even to look at.
Dutch leaned back, frowned. “Now that’s peculiar.”
“That’s not just peculiar…" Hosea murmured, reaching forward cautiously, “That’s-”
BZZZZZT!
A loud electronic whir erupted from the case. Everyone jumped back. The briefcase glowed white-hot for a second, then went still.
When the light faded, there was something sitting neatly inside: a sealed plastic package with the word Hot Cheetos in fire-red letters.
“What in the-?” Arthur picked it up, sniffed it. “Is this food?”
Lenny, drawn over by the noise, peered into the case. “Looks like a bag of snacks. I think...”
Arthur tore the bag open. The smell hit him like a punch.
“Good lord!” Hosea reeled back. “That smells like it was designed to kill a man.”
Dutch peered inside. “Or possibly raise him from the dead.”
“Let me try,” said Uncle, who had appeared behind them like a ghost summoned by the scent of processed corn.
He took one. Then another. Then four more.
“Not bad,” he said, lips stained orange.
By now, the crowd had thickened-John and Abigail showed up, followed by Sadie, Charles, and even Javier, who had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and an expression that said he expected this was Arthur’s fault somehow.
Arthur reached back into the case.
BZZZZZT!
This time, a second item appeared: a slim, silver rectangle labeled iPad . Arthur picked it up. “This another snack?”
“No, kinda looks like…. a book. But a magic one.” Lenny chimed in.
Dutch took it and stared at the blank screen. “How do you open it?”
“Maybe it needs a spell,” Charles offered, deadpan.
“Let me try,” Dutch said, dramatically clearing his throat. “ Carpe diem, lex perpetua, espresso martini- ”
The screen flickered on. Everyone gasped.
“…Huh,” Dutch said, pleased. “I still got it.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes at the briefcase. “So we got a bottomless suitcase that gives us mystery food and glowin’ rectangles.”
“And possibly magic,” said Dutch.
“I think it’s from the future,” Lenny said. “Has to be.”
Javier exhaled smoke. “Or it’s cursed.”
Karen snorted. “Same difference.”
Arthur stood, hands on his hips, staring into the starsuitcase. “...wonder what else is it gonna give us?”
The stars in the sky had only just started peeking out, but around the briefcase, it may as well have been noon. Nearly every member of the camp had gathered in a ring around it, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and stunned murmurs.
After the iPad incident-which had led to five solid minutes of everyone yelling at each other to “not touch that button” and “stop turning it around like that, you’ll break it”-the briefcase had let out one final bzzt, then gone ominously still.
Like a slumbering beast.
Like it was… thinking.
“Well, that’s that,” said Uncle, picking his teeth with a twig. “Guess we broke it.”
“We didn’t break nothin’,” Arthur snapped. “I barely touched the damn thing.”
“You opened it in the first place,” Javier pointed out, arms crossed.
“I found it!”
“Maybe it’s waitin’ for us to say the magic words again,” said Dutch, who was now fully convinced he’d awakened it with his Latin gibberish.
“Or maybe it’s just empty,” Abigail said. “Like most suitcases.”
Lenny squinted at the interior. “Doesn’t look empty.”
“It don’t look anything,” John muttered.
He was crouched low beside the briefcase now, glowering at it like it had offended him personally. “Looks like a hole to hell.”
Arthur raised a brow. “Well, why don’t you reach in and see what the devil packed.”
“Gladly,” John said, ever eager to prove someone wrong, especially Arthur.
The gang leaned in like spectators at a prizefight. John flexed his fingers, took a breath, then plunged his hand into the void.
His whole body went rigid.
His face twitched.
“…What the hell,” he said, voice tight. “It’s… cold. And… fuzzy? Tingly? Like a thousand ants crawlin’ over my bones.”
“Pull it out, dumbass!” Karen called. “Before it bites!”
“Shut up,” John grunted. “I got somethin’. I think. It’s… hold on-”
He yanked his arm back with a huff, dragging a strange, oblong contraption out of the briefcase. Black plastic. Long, curved handle. Wires. A big lumpy center with a fabric cover. A switch on the side. It looked like a cross between a saddle horn and a spider.
Everyone recoiled.
“What the hell is that?” Arthur said.
“Looks like a weapon,” Charles muttered.
“Some kinda torture device,” Javier added.
“Or maybe a real ugly saddle for a squirrel,” Sadie said.
John held it like it might explode. “It was vibratin’ in there. Real gentle-like. Kinda felt good, actually.”
“Oh lord,” Abigail said, rubbing her temples.
“It’s alive,” Uncle declared.
“No, it’s not,” Lenny said, stepping closer with cautious reverence. “I think it’s… mechanical.”
Arthur flipped the switch on the side experimentally.
The object whirred to life, a low, rhythmic BRRRRRRRRR that rattled in John’s grip. The center section began to pulse with vibrating force, sending tremors through the air.
The gang erupted in chaos.
“IT’S SCREAMIN’!”
“TURN IT OFF!”
“It’s possessed! Put it back! PUT IT BACK!”
John, however, stood completely still-his eyes half-lidded, the thing buzzing against his shoulder where he’d accidentally leaned into it.
“…Wait,” he said, blinking. “Wait. Wait, no. Hold on. This feels… real nice.”
Everyone froze.
Arthur stared at him, mouth half open. “You alright there, John?”
John’s expression had gone almost serene. “My back ain’t hurtin’ no more.”
Pearson leaned in. “You always complain about your back.”
“I know,” John said dreamily. “But this-this thing is like Abigail’s hands when she ain’t mad at me. Which is never. So this is better.”
Abigail rolled her eyes so hard she nearly fell over.
Hosea took a step forward, intrigued. “Could be some sort of therapeutic implement.”
“Thera-what?” Karen said.
“A healing device,” Hosea clarified. “Like leeches, but… better, I reckon.”
Dutch’s eyes gleamed. “We could market this. ‘Outlaw Remedies: The Modern Way to Unknot Your Tensions.’”
“Dutch, nobody’s buyin’ a shake machine in the woods,” Arthur muttered.
“I’d buy ten,” said Uncle, who was now holding the massager against his shoulder. “Oh, hell yes. This is the most peace I’ve felt since the war.”
Arthur reached into the briefcase again-but nothing happened. No buzz, no glow. Just that same endless dark.
“Guess it’s restin’ again,” he muttered.
“Maybe it needs time,” Lenny theorized. “Or… charges up somehow.”
“How?” Sadie asked. “It don’t eat, it don’t sleep.”
“Maybe it’s waitin’ for inspiration,” Dutch said, eyes distant. “For destiny to choose its next gift.”
Arthur raised a brow. “Or maybe it’s waitin’ for someone else to stick their damn hand in it.”
Javier sighed and looked up at the sky. “I miss when our big gest problem was Micah’s mouth.”
“Hey!” Micah barked from a distance, despite not being anywhere near the conversation until now.
Arthur shook his head. “Well, we got a demon case that gives out comfort machines and burn-your-tongue snacks. Let’s just hope it don’t start givin’ out somethin’ worse.”
“I like it,” John said, cradling the massager like a baby. “For once somethin’ from the sky came down and didn’t try to kill me.”
Abigail looked at him. “Yet.”
They were about to give up when Javier-arms crossed, skeptical, cigarette dangling from his lip-gave the thing a long, sideways look.
“This is stupid,” he muttered. “Let me try.”
“Be my guest,” Arthur said, waving a hand. “Maybe it likes guitar players.”
“I ain’t a guitar player. I’m an outlaw.”
“You’re both ,” said Dutch, like it was profound.
With a grunt, Javier stepped up and jammed his arm into the shimmering black.
He froze immediately.
“…Yeah,” he said through clenched teeth. “This thing feels wrong .”
“Told you,” John muttered, still holding the massager.
“It’s like reachin’ through a jelly made of ghosts,” Javier went on, wincing. “Wait-got something.”
He yanked his hand out, gripping a boxy black rectangle with a silver antenna and too many buttons. A short strap dangled from one end. It had a small screen, a dial, and the faint echo of static buzzing from within.
Everyone crowded in.
“What is it?” Sadie asked.
“Some kinda brick?” said Lenny.
“Looks like a detonator,” said Charles, brows drawn.
“Looks like a lunchpail for a very organized raccoon,” Uncle added.
Javier turned it over in his hands. “Feels light. Hollow, maybe.”
There was a dial. Naturally, he turned it.
A harsh crackle of static exploded from the speaker. Everyone jumped. Karen shrieked. Micah yelped like a kicked dog and swore profusely from thirty feet away.
“ What the hell was that?! ” Arthur barked.
“Is it alive?” Tilly asked, eyes wide.
“I didn’t hear it say nothin’,” said Hosea. “Just… noise.”
Javier adjusted the dial again. More static. A high-pitched whine. A faint garbled voice that sounded like it was screaming from the bottom of a well.
“This thing’s got spirits,” Pearson muttered. “You just released ‘em.”
“Maybe it’s tryin’ to speak to us,” Dutch said, once again far too excited. “Think about it! A talking box! This could be communication across time!”
“Then it needs to learn manners,” Abigail said, covering Jack’s ears. “That thing’s loud as hell.”
“Try hittin’ it,” Arthur suggested. “Maybe it’ll fix it.”
Javier ignored them. He flipped switches. Pressed buttons. Shook it a few times.
Then, suddenly-
BOOM-BOOM-CHHH-
“ I’m a savage, classy, bougie, ratchet- ”
The camp exploded.
“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME-?!”
“TURN IT OFF!”
“WHAT IS THAT WOMAN SAYING?!”
“ IS SHE CASTING A SPELL?! ”
“ SHE SAID RAT?! ”
Javier fumbled with the box like it was a lit stick of dynamite. The pop music kept blasting, loud and proud, as if Beyoncé herself had been trapped in the briefcase and was now enacting glorious vengeance.
“ Actin’ stupid, what’s happenin’? Bitch, what’s happenin’? ” the radio crooned.
“ Oh my god it talks like Karen! ” John shouted.
“I don’t say ‘bitch’ that much,” Karen yelled.
The volume surged.
“ HIPS TIKTOK WHEN I DANCE! ”
“MAKE IT STOP!” Dutch roared.
“ ON THAT DEMON TIME SHE MIGHT START HER ONLY FANS! ”
Pearson threw a blanket over it. It muffled the sound but didn’t stop it. Now it was just a possessed pillow, vibrating with chaotic rhythm.
Arthur, bewildered, shoved a fork into one of the buttons. The song changed .
“ I got my driver's license last week… ”
“Now it’s sad!” Abigail shouted.
“Is that a child ?! Who let a child sing ?!” Hosea barked.
“It’s a very emotional child,” Lenny said, weirdly invested.
“Is this what music becomes?” Javier muttered, still holding it like it might bite him. “This is… sacrilege . I play guitar . Real music.”
“You ain’t never made my hips TikTok , I’ll tell you that,” Karen teased.
“ That’s not a phrase! ”
Arthur finally yanked the blanket off, flipped the battery cover open, and popped something out. The music died instantly.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Everyone stood there, stunned, slightly sweaty, mildly traumatized.
The briefcase glowed faintly once more.
“…I liked it,” said Uncle.
Arthur looked at him. “You would.”
Hosea rubbed his chin. “So that… was music. From the future. Delivered by a mechanical messenger.”
Dutch crossed his arms. “Incredible. Imagine… voices from beyond, traveling through the air .”
“I am imaginin’ it, Dutch,” Arthur said. “And I want it gone .”
Hosea was the one who'd finally snapped the lid shut.
“That's enough madness for one evening,” he'd said, like a weary schoolteacher corralling a gaggle of delinquent time-travelers. “We'll figure the rest out tomorrow. Or never. Preferably never.”
He had done it gently, though, as if afraid the thing might bite.
No one argued. Not really. They just wandered off-some to their tents, others back to the campfire, where Karen was already spinning a dramatic retelling of The Screaming Singing Box Incident to a captive (and increasingly skeptical) audience.
Dutch had stayed behind for a few long minutes after the rest had gone, gazing at the briefcase like it held the final chapter of his great American novel. Then, with a tired sigh, he muttered something about “dreams deferred” and followed Hosea toward their shared tent, dragging his boots through the dirt.
Arthur remained behind a moment longer, leaning against a post, arms crossed.
His coat still smelled faintly of burnt hair and fake strawberry lip balm.
“Damn thing,” he muttered.
Then he remembered.
He reached into his satchel and pulled out the little rectangle he’d swiped off the stranger-something he hadn’t looked at too closely in all the excitement. It was black and glassy on one side, with a single button that had a tiny circle on it. Too smooth to be a weapon. Too small to be a book.
He pressed the button.
Nothing.
He pressed it again, held it longer.
A buzz. A soft flicker of light.
Arthur blinked as a glowing apple appeared onscreen. Then-suddenly-color. Bright squares. Symbols. Words.
“What in the…” he whispered.
He tapped the screen. It responded.
A small square labeled Games caught his eye.
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting by the fire, hunched over, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Some of the others had fallen asleep already. John was snoring loud as sin somewhere behind him. Sadie leaned against a crate, hat low over her face. Javier was quietly plucking at a guitar.
Arthur didn’t hear any of it. He was too busy playing Fruit Ninja.
“Get ‘em… Get that one. Damn, missed it-WAIT, WHAT WAS THAT, A BOMB?!”
He startled slightly when the phone vibrated in his hand and then dimmed. The screen turned black.
Battery dead.
Arthur stared at it for a long moment.
Then he sighed, leaned back against a barrel, and looked up at the sky.
A long, thoughtful quiet.
That little device-whatever it was-didn't feel evil. It didn’t scream, or talk, or try to make his hips TikTok. It was just… quiet fun. Something calm. Pointless, maybe. But kind of peaceful.
He couldn’t help but wonder what else the future had.
Not just the screaming music boxes or the self-moving dishes or the weirdly tasty lip stuff- but everything . If a tiny glass rectangle could hold games and lights and motion, then what else might be out there?
Was the world… better? Worse?
Or just… stranger?
He wasn’t sure. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.
The fire popped beside him. Javier muttered something in his sleep about “future devils” and rolled over.
Arthur smiled, just a little.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered. “We’ll see what else this fool box has to say.”
And with that, he tucked the phone back in his satchel, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.