It was another late shift.

Many of Elliot's coworkers loathed the overnight, with its long stretches of nothing broken only rarely by the occasional trucker or weirdo. Far from avoiding it, Elliot often volunteered.

There was something honest about only a few tables at a time, delivering bizarre orders to those customers who rolled in when honest folk were asleep. Overnights were the shift for long conversations, for wild tangents and getting on a first-name basis with the regulars.

Ruby wasn't as fond of Elliot's choice of shifts, since it meant they spent less time together. But his girlfriend needed more time to study, anyway. Finals were coming up, and he was determined to see her graduate. At least one of them would amount to something.

Even for an overnight, that Thursday at the diner was a slow day. Elliot spent half the night refilling milkshakes at a booth full of 'tabletop gamers' fresh from a session of their latest--whatever it was that tabletop gamers did. Then hours more reading a trashy romance novel on his phone.

No, he didn't understand why Ruby wasted her time with these things. But she wanted to talk about it, so he had to catch up on the story. Sacrifices had to be made.

It was 2 AM when the entry bell rang, and someone shuffled through the door, making Elliot look up from his phone.

The figure was even more of a 'night customer' than the usual fare--wearing an oversized trenchcoat buttoned up all the way to the collar, despite the comfortable spring weather outside. He even wore dark sunglasses.

Elliot stood, tucking the phone away into a pocket, and slipped past the counter. "Just one?" He took one menu under his arm, not even waiting for the reply.

"I want to sit by a window. Please?" The customer's voice was a little higher than Elliot might expect for his vaguely masculine features. Whatever, he wasn't paid to judge.

He sat the customer near the window, then came back after a few minutes to take his order.

He still had the coat on, the collar all the way up over his neck. With glasses that dark, how could he even see what he was doing?

Maybe he couldn't. The menu remained folded flat in front of him, untouched. "I want the biggest plate you have. Vegetarian, please."

The biggest... plate? This wasn't the first time he had to do a little interpreting to get an order out of someone. He ran the customer through the options, and eventually settled on an oversized breakfast platter, substituting the bacon and sausage for vegetable soup.

When he returned with the soup a little while later, he found the mysterious customer now pressed up against the window, with a pad of paper in front of him covered in various scribbles.

Only when he set the soup down did Elliot see what was written there. Not the schizophrenic ramblings he expected--but neat rows of text, chemical formulas and equations. The customer pulled his hand back into the jacket as Elliot approached. Not fast enough to keep him from seeing something strange there.

He didn't see the pale tone of this man's skin, but something green instead. An infection, or maybe gangrene? "Can I get you anything else?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral. "Could call you an ambulance if you need it."

"No!" the customer snapped, a little too quickly. "No. Please. Something to eat is fine." He fumbled in his jacket for a few more seconds, knocking something out onto the table in front of him.

It spilled out--a dense roll of bills wrapped with a rubber-band. "Listen. You take that, pay for my meal. Bring out the rest. Change is your tip, if you don't come back until I'm gone. Don't seat anyone over here. Can we do that?"

Elliot's eyes widened. He watched the roll cross the table, then come to rest by the edge.

It wasn't the first time someone had asked for privacy--but the last customer to do it hadn't offered him several hundred or even more.

It wasn't a bribe, technically. Elliot wasn't being asked to do anything he wouldn't already. "Alright, sir." He took the cash, palming it away. "I'll take care of your bill right now. I'll be back when the kitchen is ready. Want a few refills of your drink while I'm at it?"

"Please. And nothing else. I won't stay long, promise."

Elliot did as he was told. He paid the bill, brought some refills, and the meal when it was ready. Then he kept his distance, and didn't return to the customer's table. He took his seat by the front, angled just far enough that he could see if the visitor did anything suspicious. If this turned gross, he would still call the police.

His money was real, albeit slightly damp. The hundred showed as not counterfeit, and went into the register without issue.

Nothing strange happened. The man switched sides in the booth so he had his back to Elliot's seat, and ate by hunching down over his plate in a way Elliot had never seen in a year of waiting tables. Weird, but not the weirdest customer he'd ever served during the night shift.

Elliot checked out the gamers a few minutes later. They lingered near the register to catch a glimpse at the mysterious man.

"What's his story?" one asked--from his shirt, he went to the same school as Ruby. He was also the one paying.

Elliot swiped his card, then handed it back. "No idea. Everyone's got one." He handed them the receipt, and watched them go. The night was winding down, and soon he would get to hand things off to the day shift.

What happened next was so fast, Elliot had no chance to react. A black suburban pulled in front of the diner, parking directly in front of the doors. Elliot stared, bewildered, as all four doors banged open.

They rushed the restaurant in an instant--four men. Three of them had heavy police gear, covering all but their eyes.

Elliot only had enough time to tuck his phone into his pocket when they rushed through the door, weapons drawn. "Military police! No one move!"

The lone customer either didn't hear them, or he didn't care. He stumbled out of his seat, rushing for the restrooms. It wouldn't help him--there were no exits that way.

Elliot lifted both hands over his head, staring forward in absolute bewilderment.

He wasn't watching when the three uniformed men reached the customer. He still heard the struggle, heard chairs knocked over and several plates shattering. Elliot's eyes were locked on the fourth man, wearing a dress uniform and carrying a thin leather folio.

He approached the desk, gesturing at Elliot's hands. "Sorry, kid. We don't mean to cause trouble for this restaurant. But my friend here wasn't quite so considerate."

He set the folio on the counter, flipping it open to reveal a badge inside, and a stack of cards. He slipped one card onto the counter.

Behind him, three soldiers carried a single struggling figure behind them, his outline obscured in the jacket. Strange, they'd chosen to wrap him tighter in it, rather than tossing the coat away.

"I don't want any trouble," Elliot said. "I just work here, man."

"And we won't give you any. I'd just like to take a statement."

He set a recorder on the counter between them. While the men loaded their prisoner into the truck, Elliot explained what had happened that night--with one exception. They weren't taking his tip into evidence, that was damn sure.

"You're sure he didn't speak with anyone else? No one made physical contact with him?"

As the officer spoke, two soldiers returned--one with bags, the other with a pressurized sprayer. They worked over the customer's booth, grabbing everything he'd touched, and spraying anything too large to toss into their yellow and black bags. Meanwhile, the chef watched from the window, her face frozen somewhere between laughter and curiosity.

"There was only one other group here," Elliot answered. "They were in that booth in the corner. Never got close. Your, uh--your friend wanted me to make sure no one went over to him. I didn't touch him. Didn't even see his hands."

These people worked fast. The soldiers retreated, taking their sprayers and bags with them. They left a thin foam of sanitizer on several booths, and a whole section of the floor. "Thank you for your cooperation. You can tell your manager to call that number, the base will cover any incidental damage we caused. As for you... I just need your number in case we have any follow-up questions, and we'll be out of your hair."

Elliot gave it, feeling dread growing in his chest with every second. Of course it was too good to be true. He couldn't just have a fat tip to round out the night, so he could get something special for his girlfriend. It always had to be difficult. "Guess I shouldn't ask you what this is about."

"No, sir." The officer tucked his recorder away. "Be glad you don't know. A lot more paperwork that way. But if you think of anything else, call the number on that card. Even small details might be vital."

Elliot waited for the black SUV to drive away before going around the back for the cleaning supplies. He should probably count himself lucky that the police hadn't shattered windows and locked down the whole restaurant. Things could always be worse.

Morning shift wasn't for another hour--which meant it was his job to clean things up, mop up the disinfectant, and take replacement ketchup and spices out of storage. He did so, wiping down the strange customer's booth.

His hand bumped into something tucked under the table. It came free a second later with a little white notebook, covered in dense writing.

It wasn't the same page as before. Instead, it contained a photograph stapled to the page--a horse, though not quite the body shape of any he'd ever seen. This was smoother, cuter, with huge terrified eyes. It was also wearing shorts.

Text scribbled underneath read "Subject shows remarkable evidence of continuity with human identity. Recommend comprehensive personality screening before evaluation of--"

Elliot snapped the notebook closed, then tucked it away into his pocket.

The notebook boiled in the back of his mind while he worked, and was still there a few hours later. He rode home on his bike--he and Ruby shared a car, and she needed it to get to her morning classes. Better her be the one who could make a trip in safety, he would be fine.

Today he wished he had it, feeling the weight of cash in one pocket, and the flat notebook in the other.

He rode for a while, until he reached where the highway passed over a stretch of dry riverbed. It was a long way down--and more importantly, there were no cameras looking this way.

VOTE: What should Elliot do?
1. Investigate the notebook--you have to know more. There's no way that could be a real photo!
2. Call the MP's number--you have to turn this stuff over before you bury yourself so deep you can't get out again.
3. Throw the cash and the notebook over the bridge and go home--they can't prove you knew anything. Never talk to cops.

Author's Note

Vote in this chapter's survey here: https://take.supersurvey.com/poll5359716xaF734906-160
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With Strawpoll RIP, I may end up switching the site I use a few times if one gives trouble. We'll just have to see what ends up working the best.

The chapter art was KlaraPL! (and if you're seeing this little note, the piece is still WIP. I'll replace it with the finished one once I get it)