"Working from home"

It's Sunday, the sun’s barely cleared the buildings when I step outside, a bucket in one hand, sponges in the other, already grinning. It's quiet, today. A soft breeze rolls off the Hudson, carrying with it the faint scent of exhaust and river water. Coffee hasn’t even hit my system yet, but I already know exactly what I want to do.

Wash her.

I pull the garage door open, and there she is… my “Baby”. Dirt-caked and dull black in the shade, chrome catching the light just right. The Impala looks like something pulled out of a dream and dipped in memory. She’s got history under her hood and scars on her body, but she’s standing proud. At least that’s what it feels like to me.

I roll her out slow, hands on the wheel like I’m guiding royalty down the red carpet. Once she’s kissed by the morning sun, I set to work. Bucket down, water running cold. The first suds hit the surface, and I start working in slow, patient circles.

Because “Baby’s” a lady… and you don’t rush a lady.

I take my time, savoring every moment. The curves of her body, the weathered edges of her grille, the cracked spot on the front bumper that tells me she’s lived a few lives already. I treat her with respect. With care. Every stroke of the sponge feels like a meditation, the world falling away while the morning light glints off the soap-covered windows.

I slide into the front seat, the door creaking just the way it always did on the show. The leather is cracked and peeling in places, the upholstery holding on with more willpower than stitching. But to me, she smells like stories. Not quite "new car" scent. More like... legacy. Gasoline, old pine air freshener, and a thousand miles of ghost hunts and gravel roads that I watched for 15 years.

I wipe the dash down gently, my fingertips tracing over the old-school dials, the radio knobs, the frayed edge of the bench seat. I make a mental note to price out reupholstery. See if any of the same guys who restored the show's screen-used versions are still in business. Might need to schedule a tune-up, too—she growled yesterday, but I could hear the fatigue behind it.

Still. She runs. She’s mine to care for now. And I’ll happily take on the responsibility.

I spray her down once more, the sun glinting off the rising mist. For a second, it almost looks like she’s glowing, like the car knows it’s got a new home. A new chapter.

I step back, arms crossed, soaked to the elbows. She’ll never smell new again, but who the fuck cares?

She’s mine, and she's perfect.

The next two days crawl by. I'm still high on the rush from the shoot, but anticipation's the real **** now. I work from home, half-focused, bouncing between paperwork, emails, and fantasizing about what’s coming. Creation Entertainment is hosting the Supernatural-Con. But I’m not just attending—I’ve been invited. Eric Kripke and Kathryn Newton themselves added me to the guest list. That’s the kind of sentence you write in some fan fiction website.

Iris, of course, worked her magic. I’ve got a sleek hotel suite a few blocks from the convention center, a generous per diem, and a tidy payday coming my way. All for a two-day appearance where I can enjoy a panel or two when we're done presenting the surprise teaser trailer. I’d drive Baby there if I had the time, but she needs a full checkup before she goes long-distance. Wouldn’t feel right pushing her too soon.

Eric pings me mid-afternoon, texting me. “Think you can mock up a few rune designs? We’re adding a short ritual sequence to the teaser.”

I grab my sketchbook and dive in. What I come up with is a fusion. Arcane symbols spiraling into Chinese calligraphy, with some Kryptonian glyphs ghosting between the lines. Nothing too overt. Just... Easter eggs for the initiated. They flow from my hand without effort, like I’ve seen them before. Maybe I have—in some dream or they’ve always existed in the back of my mind.

Later, Iris sends over more contracts. Big ones. I’m officially being offered the chance to reprise my tattoo artist character, if the teaser footage gets incorporated into the pilot or full-on reshot for the production. Iris, sharp as ever, included a rider that guarantees I keep whatever wardrobe I wear if I want. I laugh when I see it. She thinks of everything.

They’re letting me name the character, too. That one takes a beat. Just a breath. I think of my grandmother. Her kindness. Her strength. Her unflinching love. She was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico, on Christmas Day. Gabriel Nativad. That’s the name I send back.

Emily will be back tomorrow, so I prep for her return. Groceries are ordered for her favorite dinner. Pasta carbonara. I order guanchale, Pecorino-Romano cheese, thick spaghetti, and the rest to make a crisp Italian romaine salad dressed just the way she likes it. Cooking’s always been a meditative hobby of mine, and for Emily? I’ll cook like I’m competing for a Michelin star. I want everything to be perfect.

But right now, it’s just me and the chaos of Borderlands 3.

I’m on the couch, controller in hand, locked into a firefight. Lilith’s back, fighting with Zane, my chosen character. We’re facing down the Calypso Twins and their overblown god complex. The world pulses around me in bursts of ****, techno-psychedelic explosions, and cell-shaded madness. It’s beautiful, in a neon fever-dream kind of way.

But then I start to wonder. What would this world feel like, be like, if I stepped into it? Not as a passive observer or some off-screen puppeteer. But as an original Vault Hunter. When I stepped into the Louisiana bayou to play in the Supernatural world, it just existed around me. I didn’t have to think of the enemies or characters that existed in it; they already were there. Sure, I wanted an adventure with Claire… but my domain and my powers inside it let the rest happen naturally… as naturally as decapitating vampires, having healing abilities, and fucking a fictional character as she begged for my cock in a cheap motel could be.

The thought blooms into something stronger than curiosity. A pull. I set the controller aside. Lilith is mid-dive, a frozen blur of red flame and energy bolts. The game pauses, time halts as the portal answers my call.

The Void waits for me, cool and infinite, its black floor reflecting no light but always inviting.

I rise from the couch, my imprint still in the cushions behind me, paused in time like a ghost of a moment I’ve just vacated. I stretch, roll my shoulders.

Then I walk into the portal.

Back into my Domain.

Where I’ve proven anything is possible.

Where the rules are mine to write.

And where tonight...

I’m going to become something else entirely.

A Vault Hunter.