The morning after Bastion's second assault on District Nine, Lord Malachai expected several things.
Damage assessments.
Intelligence reports.
Interrogation results.
Guild representatives demanding meetings.
Seraph demanding answers.
The First Fallen demanding considerably more violent answers.
Possibly another cryptic transmission from the Architect.
Instead, at nine seventeen in the morning, Mara entered his office carrying a clipboard.
Malachai looked up.
"Casualties?"
"No."
"Structural damage?"
"Already being handled."
"Bastion?"
"No."
"The prisoner?"
"Still secured."
Malachai leaned back.
"Then what?"
Mara placed the clipboard on his desk.
"We're almost out of toilet paper."
Silence.
Outside the office, District Nine continued repairing the damage from the previous day's battle.
Construction crews replaced shattered windows.
Engineers examined damaged infrastructure.
Guild personnel continued coordinating with District Nine security.
Somewhere below, the captured Bastion soldier remained under guard while analysts attempted to understand precisely what "Phase Three" meant.
And inside Malachai's office...
The greatest immediate threat was apparently sanitation logistics.
Malachai stared at the inventory report.
"How?"
Mara coughed.
"There was apparently a discrepancy."
"We employ thousands of people."
"Yes."
"We have three warehouses."
"Yes."
"We have automated inventory tracking."
"Yes."
"We have a department whose sole purpose is preventing this."
"Technically, they also manage paper towels."
Malachai stared at her.
Mara reconsidered.
"That probably wasn't helpful."
"No."
Malachai returned to the report.
Toilet paper.
Coffee.
Milk.
Eggs.
Rice.
Flour.
Cleaning supplies.
Disposable plates.
Garbage bags.
Approximately eleven varieties of cereal.
Someone had added cookies.
Someone else had added more cookies beneath it.
Then somebody had underlined both.
Malachai looked toward the window.
Yesterday, he had fought an unknown commander in the skies above District Nine.
Today...
He needed toilet paper.
There was something almost comforting about that.
"I'll handle it."
Mara blinked.
"My Lord?"
"I need groceries anyway."
"You are going personally?"
"Yes."
"The Dark Lord."
"Yes."
"Who fought Bastion yesterday."
"Correct."
"Is going grocery shopping."
Malachai looked at her.
"Mara."
"Yes?"
"Does defeating mysterious paramilitary organizations cause toilet paper to spontaneously manifest inside warehouses?"
"...No."
"Then someone has to purchase it."
Thirty minutes later, one of the world's most feared supervillains entered a wholesale club.
He pushed a shopping cart.
Nobody noticed him for approximately fourteen seconds.
Then someone dropped a rotisserie chicken.
Malachai continued walking.
He had dressed casually.
Black trousers.
Black shirt.
Long coat.
No armor.
No mask.
No twelve void wings.
Unfortunately, being nearly impossible to mistake for anyone else made the disguise somewhat ineffective.
A father slowly pulled his child closer.
The child immediately escaped and pointed.
"Mom! It's the villain!"
Malachai stopped.
The mother looked horrified.
The child looked delighted.
Malachai nodded politely.
"Good morning."
The child waved.
"Hi!"
He continued walking.
The mother remained frozen.
Her husband quietly whispered, "I think that went well."
Malachai retrieved an industrial-sized package of toilet paper.
Then another.
Then six more.
He checked his clipboard.
"Twenty-four."
He stared at his cart.
This presented a logistical issue.
An employee approached cautiously.
"Sir?"
"Yes?"
"Would you like a flatbed?"
Malachai looked toward the cart.
Then toward the mountain of toilet paper.
"That would be helpful."
Ten minutes later, Malachai had two flatbeds.
Twenty-four packages of toilet paper.
Twelve cases of paper towels.
Six industrial boxes of garbage bags.
Enough rice to feed a small army.
Which, technically, was precisely what he was doing.
His communicator vibrated.
Malachai checked it immediately.
For half a second, his expression hardened.
Bastion?
The Architect?
Phase Three?
No.
Mara: Don't forget coffee filters.
Malachai stared at the message.
Then put the communicator away.
The world remained ridiculous.
He reached the cereal aisle.
Malachai checked the list.
"Eleven varieties?"
A voice behind him answered.
"People have preferences."
Malachai slowly turned.
Nyxara stood there.
She was wearing sunglasses.
Inside.
"Why are you here?"
"I heard you were shopping."
"How?"
"Mara."
Malachai made a mental note.
Nyxara dropped three enormous boxes of chocolate cereal onto the flatbed.
"Those aren't on the list."
"They are now."
"No."
"Employee morale."
"No."
"Workplace culture."
"No."
"Necessary operational expenditure."
Malachai stared at her.
Nyxara smiled.
He sighed.
"One."
"Three."
"Two."
"Deal."
Two boxes remained.
Nyxara looked triumphant.
Then Solin appeared carrying a case of bottled water.
Malachai stared.
"You too?"
Solin shrugged.
"She said you needed help."
"I did not say that," Nyxara replied.
"You sent me a message saying, and I quote, 'Emergency. Dark Lord trapped in wholesale club.'"
Malachai slowly looked toward her.
Nyxara adjusted her sunglasses.
"The situation was developing."
Solin looked around.
"Yesterday we were fighting Bastion soldiers."
"Yes."
"Today we're buying cereal."
Malachai resumed pushing the flatbed.
"Life continues."
Solin considered that.
Then smiled.
"Fair enough."
The bakery section proved dangerous.
Not physically.
Financially.
Someone had put muffins on sale.
Nyxara stopped.
Solin stopped.
Malachai did not.
"Keep moving."
"But—"
"No."
"They're twelve for—"
"No."
"Malachai."
"No."
Nyxara pointed toward the muffins.
"Look at them."
"I am aware of muffins."
"Those are blueberry."
"I possess eyes."
Solin quietly placed two containers onto the flatbed.
Malachai turned.
Solin froze.
"...For the reconstruction crews?"
Malachai considered this.
"Acceptable."
Nyxara looked betrayed.
"Favoritism."
"His argument involved employees rebuilding my district."
"My argument involved blueberries."
"Exactly."
They continued.
Then came the samples.
A woman stood behind a small counter offering pieces of sausage on toothpicks.
She saw Malachai approaching.
Malachai saw her.
They stared at each other.
Professional duty eventually won.
"Would you like to try today's sample?"
Nyxara covered her mouth.
Solin looked away.
Malachai calmly accepted the toothpick.
"Thank you."
He ate it.
The employee waited.
Malachai nodded.
"Quite good."
The woman visibly relaxed.
"Thank you."
Malachai placed six packages onto the flatbed.
The employee's eyes widened.
"Organizational purchase."
"Oh."
She paused.
"...Good benefits?"
"Medical, dental, childcare, retirement contributions, mental health leave, paid vacation, educational assistance—"
Nyxara interrupted.
"Don't recruit the sample lady."
"I wasn't."
The employee raised her hand.
"What's the starting salary?"
Nyxara stared at Malachai.
Malachai stared at Nyxara.
Solin began laughing.
Twenty minutes later, Malachai had acquired groceries and possibly a new logistics employee.
Then disaster struck.
Checkout.
The cashier stared at the convoy approaching her register.
Three flatbeds.
Two carts.
Toilet paper.
Rice.
Milk.
Eggs.
Cereal.
Cleaning supplies.
Coffee.
Muffins.
Cookies.
Frozen vegetables.
Several rotisserie chickens Nyxara claimed had "looked lonely."
The cashier looked at Malachai.
"Business account?"
"Yes."
"Tax exempt?"
"For qualifying organizational purchases."
The cashier nodded.
Malachai nodded.
Perfectly normal.
Then she began scanning.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Five minutes passed.
Beep.
Ten minutes.
Beep.
Nyxara leaned against Solin.
"This is how civilization ends."
Malachai ignored her.
Beep.
Fifteen minutes.
A line had formed.
One elderly woman recognized Malachai.
She tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned.
"Young man."
Malachai blinked.
Few people addressed him that way.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"You're blocking the aisle with your toilet paper."
He looked behind himself.
She was correct.
"My apologies."
He moved the flatbed.
"Thank you."
"Of course."
She pushed her cart past the feared Dark Lord without another thought.
Nyxara was trembling.
Malachai narrowed his eyes.
"Don't."
She failed.
Nyxara burst into laughter.
Solin joined her.
Malachai endured this with dignity.
Eventually the transaction finished.
The cashier looked at the total.
Then looked at Malachai.
Then back at the total.
Malachai produced the organization card.
Payment approved.
"Receipt?"
"Yes, please."
The printer started.
And continued.
And continued.
And continued.
Nyxara watched the receipt descend toward the floor.
"Oh my gods."
Solin picked it up.
"It's still going."
Malachai closed his eyes.
The receipt finally stopped.
The cashier handed him approximately one minor scroll of financial history.
"Have a nice day."
"You as well."
They reached the exit.
An employee checked the receipt.
She looked at the receipt.
Then at the flatbeds.
Then back at the receipt.
Malachai waited patiently.
Three minutes later, she drew a line across it.
"You're good."
"Thank you."
The automatic doors opened.
Sunlight greeted them.
Malachai stopped.
Nyxara nearly walked into him.
"What?"
Malachai looked at his clipboard.
Then at his communicator.
Mara's message remained there.
Don't forget coffee filters.
Nyxara's smile vanished.
"No."
Solin immediately understood.
"What did we forget?"
Malachai slowly raised his eyes.
"Coffee filters."
Silence.
Nyxara looked back toward the building.
Then toward the three flatbeds.
Then toward Malachai.
"We're not going back."
"We need coffee filters."
"Order them."
"We're already here."
"Malachai."
"Nyxara."
"The receipt achieved sentience."
Solin sighed.
"I'll go."
Malachai nodded.
"Thank you."
Solin disappeared back inside.
Nyxara stared at Malachai.
"You fought an unidentified superhuman commander yesterday."
"Yes."
"You redirected enough weapons fire to vaporize part of an airborne warship."
"Yes."
"You discovered Bastion is apparently still experimenting on everyone."
"Yes."
"You learned something called Phase Three is coming."
"Unfortunately."
"You have fought armies."
"Yes."
"You've nearly become the Angel of the Void."
Malachai's expression flattened.
"Yes."
Nyxara pointed toward the wholesale club behind them.
"And this place defeated you."
Malachai looked at the mountains of toilet paper.
The cereal.
The muffins.
The cleaning supplies.
The rotisserie chickens.
Then at the enormous receipt fluttering in the wind.
"No."
Nyxara raised an eyebrow.
Malachai calmly folded the receipt.
"I remained within budget."
Nyxara stared.
Then slowly nodded.
"...You know what?"
She placed a hand over her heart.
"I respect that."
Later that afternoon, District Nine's supply warehouses were fully restocked.
Employees rebuilding the district celebrated the return of toilet paper with enthusiasm Malachai found mildly concerning.
The muffins disappeared within eleven minutes.
The chocolate cereal lasted twenty-three.
Meanwhile, the captured Bastion soldier remained under guard.
Phase Three remained unexplained.
The Architect remained somewhere beyond their reach.
And the Deceiver was undoubtedly doing something demonic and unnecessarily complicated.
All of those problems would still exist tomorrow.
Today, however, District Nine had groceries.
Someone placed a photograph on the employee bulletin board.
It showed Lord Malachai pushing a flatbed containing an absurd mountain of toilet paper.
Beneath it, someone had written:
DARK LORD MALACHAI
CONQUEROR. VOID MASTER.
SURVIVOR OF BASTION.
BUYER OF BULK GOODS.
Malachai discovered the photograph the following morning.
He stared at it.
Mara stood nearby.
"Would you like me to remove it?"
Malachai considered the question.
Then noticed someone had drawn a tiny crown on his head.
"No."
He continued walking.
"Morale appears high."
Behind him, Mara smiled.
The photograph remained.
So did the caption.
And somewhere in District Nine, an employee opened the final package of blueberry muffins and discovered that absolutely nobody had remembered to buy napkins.