Episode 4: The Speakeasy at the End of the World

New Orleans smelled like jazz, regret, and something frying that probably shouldn't be fried. Chillada loved it immediately.

"So we're looking for a bar that doesn't serve drinks after midnight," Berry said, parking her motorcycle next to a cemetery. "In New Orleans. The city that literally never stops serving drinks."

"Jenkins said 'doesn't serve drinks after midnight.' Not 'closes at midnight.'" Chillada studied the cemetery gates. "What kind of bar serves you but won't give you alcohol?"

Mike looked up from his phone. "A bar that serves something else. Something you can only get at certain hours."

"Like what?"

"Information. Secrets. Answers." Mike shrugged. "I read a lot of conspiracy forums. You'd be surprised what people trade at 3 AM that isn't drinks."

The cemetery was old. Spanish moss hung from everything like nature's attempt at gothic decoration. Tombs rose from the ground like tiny apartment buildings for the dead.

"Jenkins said beneath," Chillada muttered. "Beneath a cemetery. Who builds a bar under dead people?"

"People who don't want to be found."

They searched for an hour. Nothing. Just tombs, tourists taking selfies with crypts, and one very confused ghost tour that Berry accidentally joined for ten minutes before realizing they weren't the right group.

Then Chillada saw it. A tomb older than the others. The nameplate read: FAMILLE PARADIS - 1789

Paradise. In a city of the dead.

"Mike. Your lockpick skills still sharp?"

"Bro, I once broke into a Coachella VIP section using nothing but a churro and aggressive eye contact. This is nothing."

The tomb door swung open. Inside: not bodies. Stairs. Going down into darkness.

The stairs descended three stories. The air grew warmer, not colder. Music drifted up, something old, something with brass and soul.

They emerged into... a speakeasy. But not a hipster recreation. The real thing. Preserved like a time capsule from 1925.

Crystal chandeliers. Velvet booths. A bar made of mahogany so dark it absorbed light. And patrons, dozens of them, nursing drinks that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light.

A woman behind the bar looked up. She was ancient, easily ninety, but her eyes were sharp as broken glass. Her hair was silver, piled high in a style that hadn't been fashionable since the Eisenhower administration.

"Kitchen's closed," she said. "Come back after midnight if you want answers."

"We're looking for The Historian."

The room went silent. Every patron turned to look at them.

The old woman's eyes narrowed. "Who sent you?"

"Jenkins. Old Man Jenkins. He said you'd know what we need."

A long pause. Then she laughed, a sound like ice cubes in a glass.

"Harold Jenkins. That old beach bum is still alive?" She gestured to a booth in the corner. "Sit. I'll bring you something that isn't alcohol. And then we'll talk about The Source."

She brought them tea. Actual tea. In a speakeasy. The cognitive dissonance was staggering.

"I am Marguerite Paradis," she said, settling into the booth across from them. "And yes, I'm The Historian. I've been collecting stories about The Source since before your parents were born."

"Jenkins said you were there. Sixty years ago."

"The last party." Her eyes went distant. "1965. The Summer of the Source. Before The Director destroyed everything."

"Who IS The Director? Milton mentioned her. Said she used to love parties."

Marguerite's face darkened. "Victoria Frost. That was her name, once. Before she became what she is now. She was the life of every party. The most joyful person I ever knew. And she was in love."

"With who?"

Marguerite looked at Chillada. Really looked. "You really don't remember, do you? What you are. What you were."

"Everyone keeps saying that. I'm a pineapple. I throw parties. That's the whole story."

"That's NOT the whole story." Marguerite leaned forward. "The Source doesn't just host parties. It CREATES them. It creates the essence of celebration itself. And sixty years ago, it created something more. Someone to spread joy across the world."

She reached across the table and tapped Chillada's sunglasses.

"It created YOU."

Silence. Mike choked on his tea. Berry's hand drifted toward her knife.

"That's insane," Chillada said. "I have memories. A childhood. A life."

"Do you? Really? What's your earliest memory?"

Chillada opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried to think back. There was... a beach. Always a beach. But which one? When? He couldn't...

"The Source created you to be its ambassador. Its emissary of joy. And Victoria Frost loved you. LOVED you, with everything she had." Marguerite's voice was sad now. "But you left. You had to. The Source needed you in the world, spreading celebration. And she... she couldn't follow."

"What happened to her?"

"Heartbreak. The worst kind. The kind that turns love to hate, joy to bitterness. She founded The Beige Hand to hunt you down. To find The Source and destroy it, so no one would ever feel what she felt."

Berry suddenly stood up, knocking over her tea. Her face was pale.

"We need to go. Now."

Marguerite looked at her. Really looked. And her eyes widened.

"Sergeant Rodriguez?"

Berry froze.

"I know that face. You were on the footage. Victoria's right hand. Her most loyal operative. They told me you were dead."

"I got better," Berry said tightly.

Chillada stared at her. "Berry. What the hell is she talking about?"

"Not now."

"BERRY."

She turned to face him. And for the first time since he'd known her, Berry Blaze looked scared.

"My name isn't Berry Blaze. It's Maria Rodriguez. Sergeant Maria Rodriguez, Beige Hand Special Operations. I was Victoria's protege. Her weapon. I did things..." she swallowed. "Things I'm not proud of. Shutting down parties. Confiscating joy. I was GOOD at it."

"Then why are you here? With us?"

"Because three years ago, I was sent to shut down an underground rave in Miami. And for the first time, I didn't just observe. I walked in. I heard the music. I felt the bass. And I..." tears welled in her eyes. "I danced. For the first time in my entire life, I actually DANCED. And I realized everything The Beige Hand taught me was a lie."

"So you defected."

"I ran. Changed my name. Bought a motorcycle. Started looking for something worth believing in." She looked at Chillada. "Found you at a beach party two years ago. Decided to stick around."

Glass shattered above them.

The pelican drone crashed through the speakeasy's ceiling, followed by a dozen Beige Hand operatives rappelling down on cables. They wore tactical beige, which was somehow more terrifying than it had any right to be.

"FREEZE!" one shouted. "Nobody move! By order of The Director!"

Marguerite was already moving. "Tunnel. Behind the bar. GO."

Chaos erupted. The speakeasy patrons scattered. Berry pulled two knives from somewhere and started fighting like a woman possessed. Mike grabbed the golden swizzle stick and ran for the bar.

Chillada hesitated. "Marguerite..."

"I've been waiting sixty years for someone to find The Source again. I'm not dying in my own bar. NOW GO."

She pulled a shotgun from under the counter. An actual shotgun. In the hands of a ninety-year-old woman.

"This is for 1965, you beige bastards!"

Chillada ran. Berry was already at the tunnel entrance, fighting off three operatives at once. Mike was nowhere to be seen.

"MIKE!"

He spotted him near the back. Two operatives had him pinned. The swizzle stick was still in his hand.

"GO!" Mike screamed. "I'll catch up!"

But Chillada could see what Mike couldn't. A third operative coming from behind. A syringe in hand.

"MIKE, BEHIND YOU!"

Too late. The needle went in. Mike's eyes went wide, then glassy. He slumped.

Berry grabbed Chillada's arm. "We can't save him if we're captured. MOVE."

She was right. He hated that she was right.

They ran. Through the tunnel. Through the darkness. Emerging somewhere in the Garden District, gasping, covered in dust and sweat.

Behind them, sirens. The Beige Hand was everywhere.

Berry looked at her phone. Her face went pale.

"They have him. They're taking him to Sector 7."

"Where's Sector 7?"

"Alaska. The Beige Hand's main research facility." She looked at him, dead serious. "It's a black site. Off the books. If he's there, they'll break him. Get everything he knows about us, about the map, about The Source."

"Then we go to Alaska."

"It's a FORTRESS. Armed guards. Biometric security. Sub-zero temperatures. You're a tropical fruit!"

"And Mike is my friend."

Chillada pulled the two key fragments from his pocket. Added the golden swizzle stick Mike had shoved into his hand at the last second. Three keys. The map was decodable now.

"We decode the map. We rescue Mike. We find The Source. And we end this."

Berry stared at him for a long moment. Then she smiled, the first real smile since her confession.

"You know, for a pineapple who apparently doesn't remember being created by a magical party island, you're pretty badass."

"Thanks. Now how do we get to Alaska?"

"I know a guy. Well, I know a guy who knows a guy. Well, I know a woman who will absolutely try to kill me on sight but probably has access to a plane."

"Perfect. What could go wrong?"

MEANWHILE, AT SECTOR 7...

Mike woke up in a chair. White room. White lights. White everything. It was aggressively bland. Oppressively average.

He was strapped down. His DJ equipment was gone. The Daft Punk vinyl... he couldn't see it anywhere.

A door opened.

The woman who entered was striking. Late fifties, but wearing it like armor. Power suit the color of sand. Eyes the color of ice.

"Michael Martinez," she said, sitting across from him. "Also known as 'Mango Mike.' DJ. Cryptocurrency enthusiast. Friend of the pineapple."

"My friends call me Mike. You can call me 'Guy Who's Definitely Not Telling You Anything.'"

She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm Victoria Frost. And you're going to tell me everything about Chillada. Where he's going. What he knows. What he REMEMBERS."

"Lady, I don't know anything. I just play music and talk about Bitcoin."

"We'll see." She leaned forward. "I've been hunting that pineapple for sixty years. He took something from me. Something I can never get back. And now, thanks to your friend finding the keys, he's going to lead me right to The Source. Where I will finally destroy the thing that created him. And him along with it."

"You're not going to win. Chillada's going to stop you."

Victoria's smile turned cold.

"He doesn't even remember who he is. How can he stop what he doesn't understand?" She stood. "Get comfortable, Michael. We're going to spend a lot of time together. And by the time I'm done, you're going to tell me everything. Including how to break the only person I ever loved."

She walked out. The door sealed behind her.

Mike sat in the white room, alone, wondering if crypto Twitter had any advice for this particular situation.

It did not.

END OF EPISODE 4