He was a teenager, a not particularly muscular or tall young man, and his foot was caught in the walk-in meat freezer door.

I looked at him with my bonus-content vision. Brown skin, very dark. Close-cropped afro. Military? He might have been wearing fatigues, I'm not a fashion expert. He didn't have a soul; no Earth-born Human does. He would soon enough.

But he was orbited by a Rune, an invisible sigil inscribed directly on a chunk of spacetime. It looked machined, precise, not handmade in the least.

Printed? Yes.

Guys on Earth, learning the trade. The Rune was Stealth, and it explained why the Radio hadn't known he was in there.

He was unarmed. Looked frightened; not unreasonably. His Taco Bell had just undergone interplanetary travel.

The meat freezer had been twisted and partially welded shut by whatever process had sent the Taco Bell here. The guy's leg was solidly clamped in there.

"Good morning," I said. "Welcome to the Slice. I hope being here was something you wanted."

"No…" He shook his head, and his whole body shook too. "They weren't supposed to do it until…" Accent said East Coast, maybe Philadelphia. He was in shock, I think. A physical reaction to coming here, or just regular old surprise?

Together we were able to yank the door open

and he slipped his foot out, reached back in for the combat boot, put it on again.

"I'm Owen," I said. Military? "I might be the bad guy."

He smiled nervously. "Yeah. You were in the HUMINT and the briefings." He seemed to be making a choice, nerving himself up. Taking deep breaths.

"Okay. You don't have to come with me if you're not into it, but–"

He stood, fast, and clocked me in the face but good. All the force of him rising from the ground went into that punch; a fighting-game move beautifully executed.

It made my ears ring, my jaw explode with pain. I staggered back, bare feet on the transplanted tile floor, fell on my butt in my goofy board shorts. "Dude!" I said, a word that applies to all situations equally.

My attacker's features were set; his feet apart, knees bent, fists clenched. Determined. Choice made.

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"Owen knew he'd be better off with the Navy."

"Good idea," I said to the Radio as I ran past it. I clambered free of the partial Taco Bell and sprinted through the garden of statues.

The Radio helpfully played some kind of old-timey chase music, its way of telling me I was being pursued. And indeed, I heard his footsteps behind me. Fast.

His fingertips brushed my back, giving me the adrenaline for a burst of speed. I really didn't want to be caught by anyone with military training this morning.

But I was pretty fast too; running away from dangerous things was a valuable skillset around here. A juke sent him running the wrong way for precious seconds. I passed a huge statue of a sort of octopus with a car-sized harp, my landmark of choice, and there was my boat where I'd beached it.

I shoved Little Boat by its vine-laden roof garden, out to sea, rolled aboard.

I yanked the cord. The engine had been upgraded lately, and it defied the laws of thermodynamics, so that was nice. The Boat left the shore like it'd been launched from a catapult. Once I was comfortably far away, I cut the engine and looked back over the foaming wake.

The guy was on the beach, panting, hands on his knees. He'd done his best but had given up at the shoreline, or maybe he was considering kicking his shoes off to come get me out here in the fog.

"Hey, cool it!" I shouted. "You're very far from Earth, and there's nothing to eat on this island. The sooner you–"

I was struck in the chest by a substantial stone. I swore and ducked a second rock; it went past my head with a buzzing whir. The dude had an arm on him.

I gunned the engine and got out of range. He tossed a few more, and I was glad I'd gone out so far, because he got uncomfortably close with those rocks.

He started pacing on the shore, back and forth, looking around, trying to find a way to get out here, I assume. There was something I hadn't seen in a lot of young Humans on this side of the Slice: competence. This guy would beat me up and take my boat, given half a chance.

"I gotta go," I called. "Beauty punch, though," and rubbed my jaw theatrically.

He shot me a fearful glance. I was trouble, apparently.

A piercing boom blasted from behind him, causing both of us to duck. Blazing light, smoke, a silvery mushroom cloud. Back there in the Obsidian Chorus.

The rock-throwing soldier spun and ran up the hill, over it, past the statues. To the Taco Bell, one assumed.

By George, I felt unwelcome. So I started for home.

"Pushing the Slice," I said to the Radio. It was in a little fragment of black stone around my neck.

"Yes."

"He lived through it. They can send people through, not like before. Now they can send buildings and soldiers. Ones who do fine with or without guns."

"Yes."

"Anything you want to say?"

"With trepidation, Owen knew that several more soldiers had arrived. They had gear, and were setting up tents. There were items that might have been drones. Missiles. Weapons."

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