Victory Hangover

Sunlight stabbed through the blinds of their Hyperion-funded LA crash pad, a sleek rental that still smelled like fresh paint. Elliot sprawled across the couch, groaning as he flung an arm over his face. "Winning the world's toughest AI throwdown? Iconic. This headache? Criminal. Dain's victory party hit like a roller coaster drop."

Marcus, camped at the dining table with coffee and laptop, smirked without glancing up. "That's what you get for mainlining energy drinks like they're rocket fuel. MIT didn't teach you limits?"

"Limits?" Elliot sat up, wincing. "I was celebrating, Marcus. We owned LA, snagged Hyperion's insane prize haul, and you were too busy playing grown-up with suits to notice."

Esterio shuffled out of the kitchen, tea steaming, hair a jet-lagged wreck. "Can we not bicker 'til I'm human again? I'm still chewing on Dain's 'galactic cage match' speech."

Elliot grinned, raiding a chip bag from the counter. "Right? Guy hands us a fortune, then drops, 'Oh, btw, aliens wanna scrap.' I'm waiting for the plot twist."

"Twist's us not being broke," Marcus said, tapping his screen. "Hyperion's cash bought us this pad and a semester off MIT. They're calling tomorrow—Dain's got 'next steps' cooking."

Esterio's mug hovered midair. "Semester off? We just got back from LA—shouldn't we be hauling ass to Cambridge? My lab's probably a ghost town."

"Lab?" Elliot snorted, munching loudly. "Bro, we rewrote AI history. MIT's cool with us riding this wave—approved the break so we could flex out here. But yeah, we gotta figure out home base. I vote we snag your dad's old warehouse in NYC, Marcus. That spot's got vibes."

Marcus nodded, leaning back. "Not a bad call. Dad's not using it—perfect for EVO tinkering once we ditch LA. Hyperion's bankroll could kit it out."

Esterio rubbed his temples. Dain's words—Galactic Tournament, survival, beyond Earth—buzzed like static, louder than the prize money or MIT's leniency. "NYC makes sense, but this LA timeout feels like we're stalling before the chaos hits."

"Then we dodge chaos today," Elliot declared, tossing Marcus a cap from the rack. "Universal Studios—rides, churros, me dunking on you both at Minion Mayhem. Hyperion's dime, our day."

Marcus groaned. "I'm not wrestling tourists for a snack."

"Too late, you're in," Elliot said, halfway to the door. "Esterio, you drive. I shotgun—Marcus can sulk in the back with his budget."

Esterio smirked, grabbing his jacket. "Fine. But if you freak out on Jurassic again, I'm live-streaming."

"That was one jumpscare!" Elliot yelped, clutching the chips. "Those dinos are sneaky—zero chill!"

Marcus snagged the keys. "You screamed louder than the ride. Let's go before I rethink this."

They spilled into LA's morning grind—horns blaring, a food truck's grill hissing, the air thick with heat. The trio piled into Marcus's dented sedan, Elliot cranking pop tunes while Marcus cursed gas prices.

"Hyperion's footing this," Elliot said. "Victory tax."

"Keep dreaming," Marcus muttered, merging into traffic. "You're lucky I don't invoice you for those chips."

Esterio half-tuned them out, watching the city blur—Hollywood signs, palm trees, the whole LA sprawl. His phone buzzed—an EVO alert: Unidentified subroutine detected. Source unknown. It flickered off before he could poke it. Weird. Post-win glitch, probably?

"Yo, Esterio, you alive?" Elliot twisted around, grinning. "Or still tripping over Dain's 'aliens are coming' bit?"

Esterio chuckled, pocketing the phone. "Just plotting how to ditch you on the Mummy ride."

"Harsh," Elliot said, turning back. "But respect. Game on."

The car rolled toward Universal, their banter bouncing off the sun-soaked streets—for now, just three champs riding the high, cosmic shadows on mute.