EP4 Little Sam's Clean Freak
1233 Words
Saturday morning. Jake woke up at 5 AM.
He didn't need a monitor anymore. He could feel it—the system in his head, the weight of the implants, the burn in his muscles.
His real AP had hit thirteen.
The three implants still held his public reading low. But the progress was real.
The system screen flashed:
Current AP (real): 13
Sealed display: 7
Hard Work Points: 47
Counter: Sleep Exemption (active)
Jake smiled. It was working.
At 9 AM, Jake was at the local community college gym. Pre-certified training session. Every Saturday.
A room full of kids, all trying to break past the 14-AP barrier. All grinding. All desperate.
Coach was a retired Special Forces sergeant. Thirty years in. Now he trained kids for free. He said it was his way of paying it forward.
"Lower! Squats lower!" Coach barked.
Jake went lower. His legs shook. Eighty pounds of implants made every rep feel like a full-body earthquake.
Coach watched him. Said nothing.
After practice, Coach pulled Jake aside.
"You're making progress. Most kids plateau at twelve and never break through. You did. Why?"
"I don't quit," Jake said.
Coach laughed. "That's not a reason. That's an excuse."
Jake didn't know what to say.
"You don't quit because you can't afford to. Right? Because someone in your life is counting on you. Am I right?"
Jake nodded. Slowly.
"That's your real reason. Not discipline. Not talent. Just need. That's enough. Keep going."
Coach walked away.
Jake sat on the bench. He thought about what Coach said.
Was that all it was? Just need?
Maybe. Maybe not.
He checked his watch. 2 PM. Uncle Sam was working a double shift at the plant. Little Sam was at home, cleaning. Again.
Jake had two hours before his next shift. He should eat. Rest. Maybe do homework.
Instead, he went to the community center. Downstairs was a small room with an old boxing bag. He paid five dollars a month to use it.
He hit the bag for two hours. Over and over. Until his knuckles bled.
Hard Work Points: +31.
Jake looked at the screen. Then at his bleeding hands.
The system counted pain. The more it hurt, the more points he got.
He wrapped his hands. Went home.
At the door, Little Sam was there. Mop in hand. Floor soaking wet. Shoes lined up perfect.
"You're dripping," Jake said.
"I know. I'll dry it."
"Little Sam—"
"It's fine. I'm almost done."
Jake walked in. The trailer was immaculate. Not a speck of dust. Not a smudge on the windows.
Little Sam was eight. He shouldn't care this much about cleaning. But he did. Every day. Without being asked.
Jake asked him once why he cared so much. Little Sam just said: "Clean means safe."
Jake didn't push it.
That night, Jake lay in bed. He was thinking about Big Bear. About the one-week deadline. About what to do.
The Black Key was in his drawer. Under his socks. He checked it every night before he slept.
One million dollars. His family's ticket out. Enough to pay off Uncle Sam's medical debt. Enough to get Little Sam into a real school. Enough to never worry about rent again.
Enough to betray a dead soldier.
Jake closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, Big Bear would be gone. The chip would still be here.
Jake wasn't sure what he was going to do yet.
But he knew one thing. He wasn't going to decide tonight.
At 3 AM, Jake woke up.
His earbuds were buzzing. A week ago, Jake had gone back to Big Bear's old apartment. Just to check. He found the place empty. But on the table, a small recorder. Jake turned it on. Then he left his number in the apartment. Just in case.
Today, it activated.
Someone was talking.
Big Bear was talking.
Jake put in the earbuds. Pressed play.
"Brothers... ten years now."
Big Bear's voice was low. Tired. Like a man who hadn't slept in a decade.
"You all left too early. I'm still here carrying what you left behind."
Jake heard the clink of bottles. Beer, probably.
"Tofu—your wife wouldn't remarry. I sent her eight hundred thousand dollars. Money won't make her happy. But it'll help."
More bottles.
"Pork Kidney—you wanted a hundred girls after we got out. Your kidneys nearly gave out first. You jumped from a twelve-story building. Twelve stories. I thought I was dead for sure."
A long pause.
"Candy Haw—your old man was sick for eight years. I paid for every day of hospital care. Did the whole funeral myself. You're good now, kid."
Another clink.
"Toilet Paper—your family's paper mill. I put half a million in it. It's the biggest paper mill in your county now. You're the paper king, man."
The bottle stopped. Big Bear breathed.
Then he said it. The thing that Jake hadn't heard until now.
"My old captain—his last wish was just to eat tacos for breakfast for one year. That's it. That's all he wanted. I ate them every morning for a year. My stomach's destroyed. Every time I smell tacos, I want to puke."
A long silence.
"I finished all your wishes. Every last one. But I couldn't get our names back on the Hall of Valor."
His voice broke. Just a little.
"That's my wish. And I failed."
Jake heard footsteps. Someone was coming.
"Big Bear." A new voice. Older. Steady.
Jake heard a salute. Two hands snapping together.
"Sir," the new voice said. "General Pan, Delta Force. I'm here to bring you in."
Big Bear put down his bottle. Slow. Deliberate.
Then he stood up.
Jake heard the salute. He heard Big Bear return it. The sound of two soldiers acknowledging each other across years and circumstances.
"General Pan. Last time I saw you, you were a corporal."
"Last time you saw you, I was trying to be you."
"You made it. Good. That's good."
"Big Bear—the Hall of Valor thing... we talked about it. I'm sorry. The army can't bend the rules."
"I know."
"The Black Key—where is it?"
"Out there. Somewhere. It'll show up when it's supposed to."
Big Bear breathed. Slow.
"If you find me useful someday—scatter some of my ashes at the Seventh Front. That's where the squad died."
Pan didn't answer. He just nodded. Then he moved.
Jake heard something else. The sound of a small bottle. Empty. Falling. Hitting the floor.
Then silence.
Big Bear sat down. Quietly. His eyes closed.
He was gone.
The recorder kept going. Pan was moving around the room. Moving the body. Gathering something.
Then Pan stopped. He was standing over the recorder. He knew it was there.
He picked it up. Stared at it.
Then he crushed it. Quietly. Into powder.
The recorder died.
But right before it cut out, Jake heard one last thing. Big Bear, speaking into the recorder. Not for Pan. For Jake.
"The Blue King's son. Can't let him waste his life delivering takeout."
Then static. Then silence.
Jake checked his phone. The one-week deadline wasn't up yet. But Big Bear was gone. The chip couldn't wait.
Jake sat in the dark. His room. His trailer. His life.
Big Bear was dead.
And the last thing he ever said was about Jake's dad.
- Writer
