It starts with a telephone call. That’s all it takes to end the world.

“The King is dead.”

Brigitte Paladino hangs up, drops the phone in her pocket and walks out of Pico’s, trading the comforting smell of flour tortillas for the oppressive heat of a spring Texan night. It does nothing to alleviate the chill taking up residence in her spine.

He’s dead.

Her King.

And now she has one week to find the Sword before the bones of the Universe collapse in dust and ash. No pressure. Just another day at work.

Brigitte slides into the driver’s seat of her tiny Toyota and grabs a tinfoil bundle out of the bag. The aroma of cheese and greasy meat fills the space. Fuck, it’s chicken.

She doesn’t have time now to complain about something so damn trivial. In her pocket, her phone vibrates again.

She takes out her phone and slides up to answer, leaving a grease trail on the screen.

“You’ve heard,” this voice says.

“Yeah.” She shoves the taco in her mouth.

“You got a plan yet?”

Crunch, crunch.

“I literally just found out five seconds ago,” around a mouthful of lettuce and cheese. “You think I’ve got a fucking plan in five seconds?”

“Yeah. Do you?”

She swallows and contemplates the spray of lettuce and cheese in her lap. A piece of crispy corn shell detaches itself from the taco to join its brethren in a greasy puddle on her jeans. With a sigh, she puts the remains down in a crinkle of foil.

Brigitte thought she’d have more time, honestly. Another hundred years maybe. Another century of delicious deep fried foods and a chance to visit the Sunken City just once more, before…

“Yeah,” she tells the man on the phone. “Of course I do. Who do you think I am?”