The Vacation [4]

In the sanctuary, a rustic hotel of questionable grandeur and even more mysterious location, situated in a place that would make even the most intrepid explorer scratch their head in confusion, there was intense activity. And by activity, I mean an eclectic collection of beings that would make any fantasy convention look like a neighborhood meeting. Elves with their pointy ears that seemed sharp enough to open cans, dwarves grumbling about the lack of proper beer, and, of course, demons. Because, after all, what would a rustic hotel be without the occasional infernal presence?

In a spectacle worthy of Hogwarts (if Hogwarts had gotten lost and ended up in a parallel universe), a crimson rift tore through the fabric of reality right in front of the hotel. And from this rift, as if late for a date with destiny, emerged a demon. But not just any demon. This one wore a black suit so elegant it would make even the most renowned tailors sigh with envy, adorned with two black horns that gave a "Jack Sparrow meets the underworld" air to his persona. His red eyes glowed with the same intensity as a viral meme, while an arrogant smile revealed he was no stranger to the idea of causing a bit of chaos.

"This little hotel still remains the same," declared the demon, examining the structure as if considering buying the place – or setting it on fire, depending on his mood.

Soon, a small legion of suit-wearing demons – apparently, hell now requires a dress code – emerged from the rift, each sporting just one horn, as if participating in some strange infernal fashion trend.

The two-horned demon, naturally assuming the role of leader of that grim-faced group, turned to his subordinates with an air of authority that would make any general proud. "We'll spend the night here, and tomorrow, we'll head to the island where humanity's prodigies are. Simple, right?"

"Yes, sir!" the demons responded, with an enthusiasm that suggested they might not be so bad after all – or perhaps they were just excited to earn points on the hotel's loyalty program.

As the demonic leader signaled for his entourage to enter the establishment, a dark elf, whose elegance in his suit rivaled that of the two-horned demon himself, made his appearance. Descending the stairs with the calmness of one who knows exactly what to do in a demonic invasion, the elf greeted the infernal guest: "Lord Kan-Yara-Lath."

Kan-Yara-Lath, upon hearing his name called, turned around surprised, a smile immediately blossoming on his face as he recognized the voice. "Draco?" he asked, a mix of excitement and surprise coloring his voice, as if he had found a winning lottery ticket he had forgotten in the pocket of a coat.

Draco, the dark elf, watches Kan-Yara-Lath and his subordinates with a look that mixes skepticism with the resignation of someone who has seen this movie before and knows that the "happily ever after" part might not apply so well when it comes to demons on vacation.

With enthusiasm worthy of a school reunion of classmates who haven't seen each other for decades, Kan-Yara-Lath begins to ascend the stairs with open arms, all smiles, practically emanating an aura of "the best friend you didn't know you needed." He approaches Draco and envelops him in a big hug, which, to the surprise of zero people, is not reciprocated with the same vigor.

"Draco, Draco. How long has it been, my friend?" Kan-Yara-Lath says, lifting Draco slightly with the hug, in a display of affection that could easily be mistaken for a wrestling move. "How long has it been? A century? Two?"

"It's been three centuries," responds Draco, his voice carrying the weight of eternity and a facial expression that could easily translate to "seriously, why did you come back?"

Releasing Draco, Kan-Yara-Lath casually slung his arm around the elf's neck, with the ease of a pirate planning his next adventure. He addressed his subordinates, who until now had been frozen by the scene before them, with an animation that suggested surprise parties are common in hell: "Come in, come in. I'm going to have a word with my great friend here."

As the demons entered the sanctuary, hesitating like novices on their first day in hell, Draco remained vigilant, like a host who suspects his guests might have forgotten to mention they're allergic to peace and quiet. "What have you come to do on Earth?" he inquired, his voice laden with a skepticism that could easily be compared to that of a father discovering the teenager plans a "small gathering" while he's out.

"Oh, that hurt," Kan-Yara-Lath replied, stepping back and bringing his hand to his heart with the drama of a snubbed Shakespearean actor. "But know that I've come to this globe for business."

"Uh-huh," Draco let out, the expression so clearly unconvinced it could serve as a model for an emoji of suspicion. "As long as these 'businesses' don't take place within the sanctuary's premises, we won't have problems."

"Oh, don't worry about that. The business will take place far from here, on the human continent," Kan-Yara-Lath revealed, with the casualness of someone discussing the weather forecast instead of potentially nefarious plans. "But enough of interrogations, I'm going up. I'm exhausted and in need of a comfortable bed. Hell doesn't know what comfort is, or air conditioning," he said, as he began his ascent up the stairs, leaving Draco down below, who watched him intently, certainly pondering the likelihood of Kan-Yara-Lath opening a chain of infernal resorts as his next venture.

Draco, with a look that said "I know you're going to pull something, and I'm already mentally preparing the lecture I'll give you when it happens," just watched Kan-Yara-Lath climb. The demon, oblivious or indifferent to the elf's concern, seemed more focused on the promise of a mattress that wasn't made of stones or, worse, of misinterpreted intentions.

And so, with a carefree wave from Kan-Yara-Lath and a worried furrowing of Draco's brows, the stage was set for a stay that promised to be anything but monotonous. Because, after all, when it comes to demons on vacation, boredom is probably the only thing that's not on the activity list.

---

Lying in that wooden room, I was panting more than a dog on a summer day. My black hair? A sweaty mess that would make any anti-dandruff shampoo resign. And the white tank top? It already had enough sweat to supply a small fountain. My pants? Well, let's just say they were stickier than a needy relationship.

Alva was there, sitting like a queen on her throne, only a little less majestic due to the sweat. Her white hair, now with a touch of 'just got out of the gym', swayed slightly as she cast me a look that could cut diamond. "Never do that again, understood?" She growled, with the gentleness of a bear with a toothache.

Ah, you must be wondering: "What the heck happened here?" Well, believe it or not, my mental attack worked on Alva. But instead of celebrating my epic achievement, she decided to gift me with a punch in the stomach. It wasn't for a knockout, it was a pure demonstration of 'affection'. And the only reason she didn't continue the beating session was that she knew I'm more fragile than a celebrity's ego.

"You agreed to be my guinea pig," I murmured between groans, sounding like a cat after a night on the town.

"Find another guinea pig, idiot," she retorted, with the sweetness of a sour lemon.

I always end up on the losing side, don't I? I got up, still groaning, and faced Alva. Her sharp gaze was a mix of "I want to hit you so much" and "But I'm a lady, so I restrain myself."

"Listen, Alva," I began, trying to sound convincing despite the pain. "Even though I now have an attack that works on monsters like you, I know it's not enough for what I'll face on the island."

She, as irritated as a wet cat, knew she couldn't just ignore me. After all, she had agreed to be my guinea pig. "What do you suggest then?" she asked, with the curiosity of a cat that just saw a laser.

"A team," I proclaimed, rising with an excitement that would make a circus director blush. For a moment, I forgot the pain, the adrenaline making me feel as if I could take on an army. "I need a team so incredible it would make The Expendables look like a bunch of interns in Hollywood."

"Hmm," Alva murmured, her curiosity piqued like a lion spotting a moonstruck zebra calf far from the herd. "A team? I thought you were the lone wolf type."

"It's not that I like working alone," I said, shrugging with the resignation of a man who knows his fate is as inevitable as finding spoilers on the internet. "It's more of a curse that forces me to solve everything by myself. Call it fate, or lazy scripting."

Alva stared at me, her white eyes analyzing me as if I were a new species discovered in the urban jungle.

"So, do me a favor and notify the high court assassins that I'm hiring," I said, gesturing in the air as if drawing an imaginary poster. "Put in the ad: 'Freelancer needed for tomorrow, urgent.' They'll understand it's serious."

She shook her head, a reluctant smile forming on her lips. "Do you really think they'll respond to an ad?"

"Oh, they will," I assured her, with the confidence of a man who knows that even assassins can't resist a good job offer. "They can't resist the call of adventure, action… and money. Especially the money."

"But where the hell are you going to get the money to get their attention?" Alva asked, her tone suggesting she already knew the answer before I even put my hands in my pants pockets, rummaging through them in the vain hope of finding some lost change.

"You don't have any money, do you?" She stated, with the subtlety of a hammer breaking ice. Believe me, being broke is one of the worst feelings in the world.

"Well, if you at least paid me instead of treating me like a modern-day slave, I'd have more than lint in my pockets," I grumbled, feeling like a comic book hero forgotten after the end of his series.

Alva sighed, the sound carrying a mix of pity and resignation. "I'll help you with this 'team' of yours, okay?"

"Oh…" I let out, surprised. "And I won't need to give anything in return?"

"Consider this a bonus for services rendered," she said, and I couldn't help but blurt out: "So, after all these months of work and danger, my 'salary' is a fund to assemble a team that will only stay together if there's cash. Wonderful. I don't know why there isn't a flood of resumes arriving at the high court."

Alva stood up with the patience of a Jedi master who had just heard the worst joke about midi-chlorians. "Okay, Mr. Comedian," she said, walking towards the door with the determination of someone who has a plan. "Since you're setting sail tomorrow, I'll gather the adventurers willing to embark on your Caribbean journey today. You'll be able to choose your crew, okay?"

She gave me a look that expected an answer, but I, exhausted, could only lie down and send a 'thumbs up' in the air, with the energy of a side character who had just been promoted to protagonist.

Alva left the room without further ado, leaving behind the sound of her footsteps fading away, the door closing with a final click, and the silence of the corridor swallowing her presence.

Lying there, I began to scheme. "Okay, I think I'm ready for tomorrow… I just need to gather a bunch of cannon fodder willing to face villains and demons. And voilà, do whatever it takes to snatch that damned fruit from Sam's hands." I thought with the seriousness of an RPG player planning their next move. "Everything is going to change tomorrow…"

---

Hours had passed, and after a rejuvenating shower and a change of clothes, I found myself in a simple office room, seated behind a desk in one of those corporate chairs, with Alva by my side.

Moonbeams streamed through the window, illuminating the Christmas decorations that adorned the office. "Tell me something, Alva," I began, casting a curious glance around the room: "What did you guys use this room for, huh?"

"Let's just say it's better you don't know," she replied, and before my imagination could take off with theories about secret fetishes, she called out: "Send in the first one."

"And here we go…" I thought.

The first candidate was a man who clearly had more muscles than IQ, staring at us with that typical look of someone who compensates for the lack of hair with muscles. Bald, with a beard that vainly tried to soften his rough appearance, wearing a tank top to highlight his arm muscles, and military pants and boots.

With his "resume" in hand, I let out: "So, Viktor Dracov, what made a former hero turn into an assassin?"

"I killed my ex-wife's lover, and because of that, I was imprisoned. But I escaped from prison, and that's how I make my living these days." Viktor revealed, and my reaction was a big "Wow…"

Viktor Dracov, the mountain of a man with a history as heavy as his biceps, just shrugged. "Life is a struggle, and I fight to live," he said, with a deep voice that echoed like distant thunder.

"Oh, so in addition to those muscles, you have a pair of horns? I like him," I commented, giving Alva an approving look. She had that look that mixed business with a touch of mystery, her white hair tied back in a fringe that gave her an air of authority. "Hired," I declared, marking a big and satisfying 'check' on Viktor's resume.

"Next!" I called out, with the excitement of a talent scout at the peak of hunting season.

The next candidate was a woman, or a walking contradiction. Dressed in loose clothing that hid more than it revealed, her slender face matching her short black hair, she was an enigma that defied any fashion logic. "So…" I began, looking at the paper that detailed her life in words. "Valet, peculiar name… tell us a bit about yourself and your innate ability."

She settled into the chair, and with a voice that carried the confidence of someone who knows the value of their cards, she began: "My name is a play on words, a trick, just like my ability. I can make people see what isn't there, or fail to see what's right in front of them. Illusion and reality, for me, are just pieces on the board."

I exchanged a look with Alva, both of us impressed. "Interesting," I murmured, pondering the possibilities. "And how do you use this… in the field, let's say?"

Valet smiled, a smile that held more secrets than a locked diary. "Ah, that you'll have to see to believe. But I assure you, it's more useful than an ace up the sleeve."

"Hired," I said, with enthusiasm that vanished as quickly as Valet. As she faded away like digital smoke, I couldn't help feeling somewhat… duped. "Spectacular," I murmured as I looked at a drone that appeared all shy where Valet had been, with sarcasm so sharp it could cut through the awkward silence that followed.

Alva and I exchanged a look that mixed incredulity with a hint of disappointment. "Wow, what a twist," I said, in a tone so dry it could dehydrate a cactus. "Here thinking you were the David Copperfield of the 21st century, and you're just another drone enthusiast."

Alva, with her eternal optimism, tried to soften the situation. "Well, it's impressive technology," she said, but even she couldn't hide a tone of disappointment.

"Yes, impressive," I continued, "if we were in 2010. What else can you do, Valet? Project a PowerPoint in the night sky?"

The drone, formerly the mysterious Valet, buzzed softly, as if trying to defend itself. "I can do much more," she said, through a speaker that I imagined was hidden somewhere among its gears.

"Oh, of course," I said, with a smile that was anything but genuine. "Because when I think of useful skills, the first thing that comes to mind is a drone making light riddles."

Alva shrugged, resigned. "Maybe you can use that to… I don't know, distract kids at birthday parties?"

I nodded, already visualizing the advertisement: 'Valet and her Wonder Drone – guaranteed fun for your five-year-old.' Well, at least now we knew we didn't have to worry about being fooled by high-tech illusions.

I looked at the next in line, a man who seemed to have stepped straight out of a film noir - thin, pale, with an air of someone who hadn't seen a good meal in days. "You look like you've been run over by life, huh?" I commented, unable to prevent my voice from sounding as if I were judging a beauty contest for zombies.

He looked at me with a confused expression, as if trying to decide whether that was an insult or just a casual observation. "Huh?" he murmured, clearly lost.

I shook my head, dispelling the awkwardness that had formed. "Nothing, nothing. Let's get to the point," I said, trying to regain some formality as I examined the resume in my hands. "So, Caroline?" I asked, the surprise evident in my voice as I pronounced such a delicate name for a man who seemed anything but delicate.

"Ah, that's the name my mother gave me," he began, and I could swear I saw a glimmer of pride in his tired eyes. "She was frustrated that I was born a boy and decided to keep the name." He shrugged, as if that explained everything.

Alva and I exchanged a look, both thinking the same thing: "Wow." It was unusual, yes, but who are we to judge? After all, in a world where drones create illusions and people vanish into thin air, a name is just a name, right?

"Okay, Caroline…" I said, trying to keep a serious expression while a laugh stubbornly wanted to break out. "What is your innate ability?"

"My innate ability allows me, for one minute, to use my opponent's stats," Caroline declared with a confidence that contrasted with his disheveled appearance. I raised my eyebrows, genuinely impressed. "So, you can copy the stats of the woman here by my side?" I asked, discreetly pointing to her.

Caroline cast a cautious glance at Alva, as if assessing the risk of offending her with his response. "Theoretically, yes," he said, "but only for a minute."

"Boy, you really surprised me," I exclaimed, marking a big 'Check' on Caroline's resume. With a nod of approval, I shouted enthusiastically: "Next!"

The next candidate was the epitome of the average man, so generic he could blend into any suburban crowd. Dressed in a polo shirt and blue plaid pants, complemented by deck shoes, he had the classic look of a 'family man' on barbecue day. His hair, meticulously combed to the side, gave the impression that he led his life with the same precision.

Holding his resume in my hands, I couldn't help but smirk ironically as I read the description: "World's best assassin." I looked at him, trying to find any sign of danger or threat, but all I saw was an ordinary man with a lost look. "So, James… Do you tend to exaggerate in interviews?" I asked, with a raised eyebrow.

He let out an embarrassed "huh," as if he had been caught red-handed. "My daughter made the resume for me," he explained, "I'm not very good with computers."

"That explains a lot," I said, nodding in understanding. "But tell me, James, what is your innate ability?"

He looked at me with disarming sincerity. "Well, I don't have an innate ability because I'm from class G," he revealed, with a simplicity that almost made me laugh. "But I'm very hardworking and eager to learn new things."

I nodded, marking a 'Check' on his resume. "Hired," I declared, not because he was the world's best assassin, but because something told me this man would bring something unique to the team. Maybe it was his honesty, or maybe just the curiosity to see what a 'family man' could do in the midst of battle, against villains and demons.

"Next!" I shouted, with the excitement of a reality show judge on elimination day.

Then, there he was, the next candidate: a kid. Yes, a kid. With dark red hair and eyes that looked like two glowing embers, dressed in what could only be described as the official uniform of youth hip-hop. I looked at Alva, my eyebrow arched so high it nearly touched the ceiling. "What's this mini-rapper doing here? Is this some kind of kids' prank?"

Alva, with the serenity of a monk, replied: "You didn't say anything about an age limit." And with a shrug, she passed the ball to me.

"Yeah, true," I admitted, picking up little Kant's resume. "Eleven years old, huh? I bet your childhood was as tough as choosing between Xbox and PlayStation." I chuckled, but the boy's icy stare froze me in place. "Alright, let's get straight to the point. What's your innate ability?"

Kant, with the confidence of a CEO in a board meeting, declared: "I'm class D and I can conjure and manipulate fire."

Alva and I exchanged glances, our eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. "Class D at eleven years old? Even more with an innate ability that seems like a cheat?" I exclaimed. "Kant, what are you? The result of a secret experiment to create child superheroes? Or are you just a plot device to boost this team of extras that even the author has forgotten about?"

Kant tilted his head, his expression of confusion was almost comical, if not tragic. "Never mind," I said, trying to disguise my own perplexity. With the pen in hand, I began to drum on the boy's resume. If he were about 18 years old, when responsibility is more theory than practice, he would already be in. But eleven years old? That's asking for trouble with the guardianship council.

"Alva, what do you think?" I asked, seeking support from my colleague and boss. She fixed her gaze on Kant, as if she could see the boy's future. "He is a prodigy, no doubt," she said. "But the attack on the island was planned to exterminate the prodigies. Putting him there would be like delivering a gift to the villains."

"Hmm, yes, you're right," I agreed, about to write a big "Rejected" on Kant's resume, when he interrupted with a desperate plea. "No, please."

"Can you speak a little lower?" I asked, half-jokingly. "We don't want people to think we're committing some kind of child abuse here."

Kant seemed on the verge of tears, the desperation evident in his voice. "Please accept me. I…"

I interrupted him, throwing out the question that could define his fate. "Why should I hire you?"

Alva gave me a disapproving look, but I silenced her with a gesture. "Why should I give you this opportunity, Kant?" I insisted, hoping he would have an answer that could justify the madness of hiring him.

Kant, the little prodigy, gave me such a serious look that for a second I thought he was going to teach me a lesson about economics. "I know I'm young, and I appreciate your concern for my well-being," he began, and I was already expecting him to ask for an advance to buy the new edition of 'Diaper Heroes'. "But I need not only this money but also more strength."

I frowned, wondering if he was talking about physical strength or that inner strength that cartoon characters discover at the end of the episode. "You're a monster, kid!" I exclaimed, in a tone that suggested he might be the next antagonist in a low-budget superhero series. "And if the problem is money, your Aunt Alva here can start an online fundraiser for you."

Alva gave me a look that said "Please don't involve me in this," but Kant, undeterred, continued: "I've heard rumors about what's going to happen on the island you're going to. I know the dangers that will be there, and that's exactly why I need to go."

I pretended to ponder, "Hmm, how about you come back later for the answer?" But Kant, with the wisdom of a veteran of many video game battles, shook his head. "You won't even contact me afterward," he accused, and I had to admit he had a point. "You always do that."

"Okay, you seem pretty smart. But what's the big draw of the island that makes you want to join this adventure, huh?" I asked, hoping he would mention something about sand and coconut water.

But Kant, with an expression that tried to be threatening, made his hands glow with a red hue. "There will be demons there. And I'm going to kill them," he declared, with a coldness that would have been frightening if not for his thin, childish voice.

I covered my mouth to hide a laugh. "Alright, 'Human Torch', your argument about killing demons was so determined it convinced me," I marked a 'Check' on his resume, thinking that, at the very least, the island wouldn't be a boring place with Kant around. And who knows, maybe he really could save us from a poorly written script that put a child in charge of supporting a team of lost adults.

Alva, with the patience of a saint who just missed the last bus to paradise, gave me a look that said "you're going to regret this." I, on the other hand, was more excited than a kid in a candy store. "The kid is the strongest of the rookies," I said, ignoring the fact that Kant seemed more concerned with not setting his own hair on fire than anything else.

"And he has that innocent face that would never break a plate, which will make the enemies underestimate him. But when they least expect it… 'Boom!' The kid will turn their faces into barbecue with his fire ability." I finished, ignoring the heat that was starting to make the atmosphere more unbearable than a condo meeting.

I finished my defense just as the heat began to make the environment hotter than a dad joke. "Is it getting hotter in here or is it just me?" I asked, while Kant, with a look of panic, began to shake his flaming hands as if trying to win a juggling contest.

"Kant, your demonstration is great, but how about taking a break?" I suggested, already considering the possibility of calling the firefighters. "It feels like we're in a sauna, and I didn't bring my bathing suit."

"I can't stop," Kant said, with the desperation of someone who just realized their 'superpowers' came without an off switch.

"Wow, darn it. Alva, please control the little pyromaniac," I said, passing the hot potato to her. Alva sighed, with the frustration of someone who knows they'll have to clean up the mess. With a theatrical gesture, she snapped her fingers and, as if by magic, Kant's eyes clouded over and the flames in his hands dissipated. He fell to the ground with a thud that suggested the next item on our shopping list would be a child's helmet.

"Hmm, I think the kid is going to wake up wondering if he was run over by an ice cream truck," I murmured, already picturing him trying to explain at school why he had a bump on his forehead. "But look on the bright side, at least now we know he has an off switch, even if it's external."

Alva gave me that 'I'm-going-to-kill-you-if-you-don't-take-this-seriously' look, and I couldn't help but smile. "Dean," she began, and I knew I was about to receive quite a scolding. "You're going into battle tomorrow, and your 'team'… well…" She paused dramatically, sighing as if trying to expel all the frustration in the world. "You always want to improvise, you never have a concrete plan."

"Hmm, you seem more worried than usual," I commented, with the nonchalance of someone who is oblivious to the danger they're in.

"Ah…" Alva closed her eyes and ran her hands through her hair, clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And then, without warning, came the blow – a punch that sent me flying against the wall with the subtlety of an elephant in a china shop.

"Alva, your right hook is as sharp as your patience," I said as I got up, dusting off imaginary dirt. "But let's face the facts: with a team like this, who needs enemies, right? I think I'm going to need a helmet… and maybe life insurance." I winked at her, hoping my charm would make up for the lack of a plan B… or C… or any plan, actually.