Transmission 017 // "Insert Coin To Continue"
The fresh air hit like an ice bucket—sudden, sharp and overwhelming—as Amelia stepped back out into the world. Autumn’s bite dragged her back to a reality that looked very much the same but had been fundamentally altered underneath.
It had been daylight when they arrived at Helpmann’s office, but now the dusk swept in all around them. Streetlights flickered awake, one after another, halos of white examining the sidewalk. Each one caught her in its beam as she passed, as if the city itself were studying her.
The scent of dry leaves hung in the air. Somewhere nearby, a window shut with a hollow thud. She pulled the strings on her hoodie tighter. The season had turned without her noticing. Something colder was coming.
Marv took his usual place at her shoulder and they began to walk. Amelia’s fingers brushed the envelope in her bag. She didn’t need to see the contents—she could feel them. They were tilting her off balance. Pulling her. Toward truth or trouble, she couldn’t say. It seemed increasingly likely that they were one and the same thing.
At the station, they boarded the train in silence. Normally, Marv would have filled the carriage—jokes and half-baked theories tumbling out of him like marbles. But tonight, he held back. Maybe he saw the tension in her jaw, or the weight in her shoulders. Either way, he seemed to understand that, for now, she didn’t need conversation. She just needed to drift, untethered, in the storm that was rolling in her head.
The city blurred past in streaks of light and shadow, the rhythmic rattle of the train pushing her thoughts forward. As Amelia began to decompress, the envelope’s call grew stronger. But she wasn’t ready to answer it.
Not yet.
They got off at Banyan Street—Old Town's main terminal. She’d passed through the Station a hundred times before. But tonight it felt different. Where Greenhaven Central Station had been all glass and algorithms—automated turnstiles, EverLink payment nodes glowing at every entrance—Banyan Street felt like stepping back a century. The old building stretched out around them, vast and hollow. Vaulted ceilings rose overhead, supported by iron trusses that had begun to rust at the joints. Mosaic floors spread beneath their feet, intricate compass roses and trade routes worn smooth by generations of footsteps.
At the center of the concourse stood a tall glass case, fogged and cracked along one edge. Inside—a tree. The Old Town banyan. Its trunk rose pale and skeletal, branches reaching upward, leafless and grey. It had been dead for years, but preserved—frozen in place like everything else in this building. The tree had been imported. A gift from across the ocean, back when ships still docked regularly on the waterfront. It wasn't meant to grow in this climate, but they'd kept it alive for decades—heating systems, specialists, constant care.
Then, Greenhaven Central Station had opened in Uptown, and the funding dried up. The tree withered, then died.
But the people here hadn't forgotten it. The base of its case glittered with coins. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Liberty Dollars, quarters, pennies. It was a rare sight in a world where most people paid with a tap or a glance. Commuters flicked them over the glass, feeding it with their pocket change. Marv had told her that the locals called it "the tree that pays rent." Some sort of tribute to the past, she guessed. Maybe they hoped to raise enough to buy another one. Or maybe the coins helped keep the station going.
Marv was already moving toward the exit, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. She followed, stepping through the turnstile and out into the night.
Old Town's cobblestones were uneven underfoot. It was cold enough now to see their breath. The streets here felt different. They were unkempt and messy, with an undercurrent of something restless. The cracks and pock marks that adorned the walls weren’t just scars; they were stories. A radio blared distorted music from a high window. Laughter spilled from a nearby bar. Somewhere, the hollow echo of a basketball against concrete, a distant heartbeat thudding in the dark.
Amelia slowed her breath, letting the evening wrap around her. She caught Marv watching, his eyes carrying just enough mischief to suggest a plan.
"Charlies?" he asked.
She hesitated. A long pause.
"Yeah. Charlies."
Checkpoint Charlie's was Old Town's beating heart, a twenty-four-hour diner-arcade where time ground to dust beneath the glow of flickering fluorescents. A liminal space—wild, feral, and immeasurably alive. The smell of frying doughnuts and burnt onions drifted into the street. The relentless pulse of flashing lights and 8-bit music crashed over everything, assaulting passers-by while simultaneously putting a friendly arm around them to pull them inside. Beneath the chaos, one sound never stopped: the clatter of tokens falling like rain. No digital taps. No contactless anything. Just coins—real ones—traded at the counter for stamped plastic Charlie Tokens, passed hand to hand like communion, each one ready to be devoured by the next hungry machine.
Amelia felt the change in Marv as soon as they walked under the open arches—his shoulders loosened, his step lightened, like he’d left something heavy at the threshold. To Marv, Charlies was something between a home, a day spa, and a temple—only louder, and more chaotic, than any of those places had the right, or desire, to be.
No matter how many times she came here, Amelia was always surprised by the noise. A crash of bleeps, boops, and jingles, collided with the clack of pinball flippers and pool balls. Somewhere in the melee, a claw machine let out an overenthusiastic victory cheer. It should’ve been unbearable. A mess. Too loud. Too much.
And yet, somehow, it worked.
The arcade stretched across three floors, a labyrinth of glowing screens and elaborate machines. Every level pulsed with its own distinct rhythm, thick with voluntary hostages locked into never-ending battles of reflex, skill, and memory. Charlie's pulled in people from every corner of the city—Old Town locals brushing shoulders with Midtown kids chasing something wilder, Uptown wanderers slipping in to get a taste of something real.
By the time dusk rolled around, Charlie's became something else entirely. The early drunks gave way to night owls and hangers-on clinging to the last dregs of the evening—curfew-breakers, bleary-eyed revelers, and a few ghosts who preferred to go unnoticed. For them, it was the final checkpoint, a neon-lit limbo between yesterday and whatever the morning had in store. Security, seasoned and patient, knew the rhythm by heart—when to step in, when to let things slide, when to pull someone out before trouble took root.
Marv dodged between machines, eyes beaming like headlights. He was in his element. She should have guessed he’d suggest coming here—maybe reading her need for distraction, maybe just wanting to play—but she had to be honest with herself: she needed this too. A chance to lose herself for a while, sinking into the electric haze of a place where no one cared about anything beyond the high score.
The diner occupied the ground floor, perfectly placed to catch the steady stream of foot traffic. Separate from the chaos of the gaming floors above, it still couldn't escape the arcade's relentless hum. Red vinyl booths lined the walls, their surfaces perpetually sticky with spilled sodas and sugar-dusted fingerprints. The air was thick with hot dogs, milkshakes, and melted cheese. Waiters in faded aprons wove through the aisles with practiced ease, trays balanced overhead.
Amelia and Marv slid into a booth half-shielded by a flickering Open 24 Hours sign on the window. The table wobbled, one leg propped up by a folded napkin. Neither of them seemed to notice.
A server drifted by, and Marv ordered without hesitation—a Charlie Deluxe burger, waffle fries, onion rings, no salad. Amelia shook her head when asked if she wanted anything.
“You’ve gotta eat, Ames,” Marv said, stretching his arms behind his head. “Can’t solve mysteries on an empty stomach.”
"I'm fine."
She wasn't hungry. Couldn't be. Not with that envelope burning a hole in her bag.
Marv eyed her, then shrugged.
"Suit yourself."
As always, the food arrived quickly, and Marv dug in. Amelia watched, almost envious of his ability to compartmentalize. He caught her staring, three waffle fries halfway to his gaping mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Want some fries? They’re really good.”
"No."
She exhaled. Pulled the envelope from her bag and set it on the table between them.
"I'm opening it."
Marv dusted his hands together and leaned in.
“Ok. Here we go then. Let’s see what secrets the grand high puppet master has in store for us.”
She slid her fingers under the flap. The paper gave way with a soft rip.
A single sheet inside.
They stared in disbelief.
Greenhaven University. Department of Environmental Science and Engineering.
That was it.
Marv squinted. “A university department? No way. That can’t be… what are we supposed…”
A pause.
“Wait a minute, there’s got to be something on the back. Invisible ink, maybe? We should check that.”
Amelia didn't reply. She stared at the paper.
"No, Marv. I think… I think this might be where my mom worked."
Marv sat back slowly. "Seriously?"
"Yeah."
"So he's sending us to dig up your mom's old office? What do you think we're supposed to find?"
"I don't know." She folded the paper back into the envelope. "But it's a start, I guess."
Marv tossed another waffle fry into his mouth.
"So, when do you wanna go?"
"Tomorrow." Her shoulders tensed again. "Let's go after our study session in the library. We can work out the details before we go."
"Okay. Yeah, that sounds like a plan." He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Count me in."
Amelia didn't respond. Around them, Charlie's pulsed and roared—machines bleating, voices rising, someone cheering a high score. She barely heard it. Her mind was already elsewhere, walking corridors she'd never seen, searching rooms she couldn't picture.
Tomorrow.
They moved into the arcade. Marv stopped dead, eyes fixed on a machine in the corner.
Barrel Blaster.
"Here's a thing of rare beauty, Ames. Practically an antique. You know Buttons? Leroy Johnson—my man who works in the burger shack upstairs? He pulled a seven-figure high score on this bad boy. We'd spent five hours stuffing our faces with cotton candy and root beer. We were completely gone. I woke up the next morning thinking I'd dreamt the whole thing. But when I came back, there it was—LBJ sat at the top of the leaderboard like the star on a Christmas tree."
He shook his head. "Man, I was jealous. Still am, honestly."
As they wove through the crowd, Marv nodded toward a group clustered around a modern cabinet. The teenage boy playing glanced up long enough to return a barely perceptible nod. Behind him, a pinball machine erupted in lights and noise, sending a pair of teenagers into a frenzy of high-fives and celebration.
Finally, Marv stopped in front of a battered cabinet. He tapped the side like a mechanic assessing a classic car.
"This? This is Alien Swarm: Dominion. The big momma. The original. The source code." His voice carried the reverence of a priest. "The first Alien Swarm? That was ass. But Dominion? ASD changed the game forever. Every blaster since has used the same mechanics, the same basic blueprint. It's fast, intense, total chaos… and it's the best stress relief in the world."
He cracked his knuckles, eyes gleaming. "Just you, a laser cannon, and infinite intergalactic doom."
Amelia leaned against the machine and watched him play, a smile threatening to break through. For the first time since Helpmann's office, something inside her began to loosen.
Charlie's was buzzing with chatter, laughter, and the occasional triumphant yell. The noise washed over her, not in a bad way. For a moment, it drowned out Helpmann, drowned out Uptown, drowned out the nightmares and the questions that hung over her like permanent shadows.
She was just here, in this moment—this ridiculous moment, with her nerdy friend, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth in deep concentration, as it always did.
But it didn’t last. Moments never do. By definition, they can’t.
A handful of games, a few more machines, and the weight crept back in.
A sharp beep—Marv lost a life. He muttered a curse and flicked another coin into the machine without hesitation. He didn't notice the way her fingers tightened against the cabinet's edge, or how her gaze had dropped to the worn carpet beneath their feet, thoughts dragging her somewhere heavier.
After a while, she spoke, her voice low but cutting through the hum of the arcade. "Marv, I really don't know what to believe."
Marv's hands moved instinctively on the joystick, his focus fixed on the screen. "You mean Helpmann? That he knew your parents?"
"That he knew them. That they worked together." Her fingers dug into the cabinet edge.
Another sharp beep. He'd moved on to Zombie Shopping Mall 3—a vintage shooter older than he was. He sighed, letting the joystick fall back to its resting position, and looked up.
"Helpmann? He's a politician, Ames. And politicians talk a good game—they all do. Selling people a dream, telling them exactly what they want to hear." He scoffed. "Ask anyone in Old Town, they'll tell you. We hear plenty of promises, especially around voting time. But the only dreams we get to see here?" He nodded toward the horizon, where Uptown's skyline gleamed in the distance. "They're the ones someone else is living. Up there. Always close, but just out of reach."
"You're right." She hesitated. "But what he wants us to do… do you think we can trust him?"
Marv's fingers moved over the controls, eyes locked on the screen. His pixelated character blasted another zombie into a splatter of brains. He didn't look up.
"Sure, I trust him," he said, reloading the shotgun, bracing for the next wave. "Like I trust a vampire to run a blood bank."
Amelia couldn't help the small, huffed snort that escaped her, despite the knot of unease twisting in her chest. "So, what do we do next?"
"Well, you've been searching for a lead forever, haven't you?"
Amelia nodded. "Yeah. I guess I have."
Marv pushed off the cabinet and headed for the exit. He glanced back, flashing one of his lopsided grins.
"Pack your book bag. Tomorrow, we're going to the university."
