Arcane prime, p.1
Arcane Prime, page 1
ARCANE PRIME
KELLEN SQUIRE
Copyright © 2025 by Kellen Squire
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
1. The Mundane Magic
2. The Depot Hell
3. The Big Delivery
4. The Meeting
5. The Pickup
6. A Different Kind of Encounter
7. The Package's Voice
8. The Interruption
9. The Revelation of a Name
10. The System Unravels
11. The Race
12. The Dialogue
13. The Return
14. The New Normal
15. The Final Line
About the Author
Also by Kellen Squire
CHAPTER 1
THE MUNDANE MAGIC
The receptionist held the Curse of Mild Inconvenience like it might explode. Jack had been explaining for ten minutes that it wouldn't.
"It's just going to make his coffee taste weird," Jack said for the third time. "Maybe trigger some check engine lights. That's it."
"The waiver says 'hostile metaphysical entity.'" She squinted at him through designer glasses that probably cost more than Jack made in a week. The nameplate on her desk read JENNIFER, but the way she pronounced it earlier—"Jenn-ih-FAIR"—suggested someone who'd spent eighteen years in Sheboygan before moving to the city and deciding she was too good for it.
"Everything's a hostile metaphysical entity to Legal." Jack's tablet chimed with another Shriek notification. He didn't need to look to know it was Lenny.
It was always Lenny.
The curse, a small bronze medallion that looked like it came from a mall kiosk circa 1987, sat between them on Jennifer's immaculate desk. It was supposed to be dormant for another six hours. The app guaranteed it.
The app was wrong.
Jennifer's coffee mug—one of those "Don't Talk to Me Until I've Had My Coffee" numbers that Jack wanted to launch into the sun—began to steam. The office suddenly smelled like burnt popcorn mixed with ozone. The carpet beneath Jack's feet felt wet but somehow dusty, a sensation that made his skin crawl.
She glanced at the mug, then back at Jack with the kind of withering look reserved for service workers and DMV employees.
"Is it supposed to be doing that?"
Three years of magical logistics training, Jack thought, and nobody ever explained what to do when a curse got stage fright.
The coffee turned bronze. Then copper. Then, with a small plink that somehow sounded apologetic, it turned into actual pennies. Jennifer stared at the mug now full of loose change. Her computer monitor flickered. A check engine light appeared in the corner of her screen, somehow, impossibly, next to the Wi-Fi indicator.
"Customer service is a different department," Jack said, pulling out his tablet to file an incident report. His Curse Delivery Satisfaction score dropped in real-time: 4.6 stars to 4.5 to 4.2. He watched his quarterly bonus evaporate with each decimal point.
"This is unacceptable." Jennifer's voice had that particular pitch that meant she'd been practicing it on retail workers since childhood. "I'm calling your manager."
"Please don't—"
"This never happened with the old system," she muttered while dialing. "The one from the '90s was so much more stable."
Through the window, Jack watched a FedExorcists driver strutting past with a glowing package, making direct eye contact and offering the kind of smug nod that said at least my curses activate on schedule. Their van, pristine white with golden runes, made Jack's beat-up vehicle look like it had crawled out of a junkyard. On the TV mounted in the corner of the waiting room, a news anchor with too many teeth was saying something about "Project Sunset" and "unprecedented magical consolidation." The ticker beneath read: "FLOATING MONOLITH CAUSES THIRD TRAFFIC DELAY THIS WEEK."
Jack's tablet erupted with Shriek notifications:
Lenny_Management
Hey buddy! Noticed your CDS score dropping! Remember: Every Curse Counts!™
Lenny_Management
Quick reminder about your Aura Compatibility Score! Currently at 62%. We're looking for 80% minimum!
Gary_Courier
Who left an unmarked demon in the break room fridge? It ate my sandwich.
Lenny_Management
FYI, client is calling. Whatever happened, just remember the Arcane Prime Promise: "We Deliver More Than Magic!"™
Alice_TeamLead
@Gary_Courier That was a perfectly labeled Hostile Entity. Check your email about proper fridge protocol.
Jack muted the conversation. Lenny's messages continued appearing anyway, each one somehow more passive-aggressive than the last.
Jennifer was now explaining to someone—presumably Lenny's assistant—how Jack had "maliciously activated" the curse and "assaulted" her coffee. She'd already used the word "lawsuit" three times, and the more agitated she got, the more her o's went long—"cawfee" becoming "cahfee"—like she was one bad day away from ending sentences with "then" and calling someone at corporate to complain about "those people down there."
Jack pulled up Form 77-B on his tablet: Emergency Metaphysical Variance Request. Subsection 3: Premature Activation Due to Technical Error. He'd filled out so many of these he could do it from memory. The form asked for the "Proximate Cause of Metaphysical Variance." The dropdown menu jumped between options like it was trying to gaslight him—a feature Arcane Prime's UX department had once called "dynamic interface engagement." He finally landed on "App-Related Failure" between "Act of Gods (Lowercase)", "Mercury Retrograde", and "User Error (Theirs)."
The digital version's different from the physical Form 77-B, he thought, remembering the stack of paper copies in his van. Subsection 3 is Subsection 4 on paper. But pointing that out would require filing Form 102-K: Version Discrepancy Report.
Twenty minutes later, Jennifer had processed the delivery, signed seventeen forms, and threatened to leave a Yelp review. The curse still sat on her desk, occasionally making her stapler beep like a car alarm. Jack figured that was someone else's problem now.
The parking lot security system had other ideas about letting him leave.
"UNAUTHORIZED METAPHYSICAL ENTITY DETECTED," the gate announced in the kind of cheerful voice usually reserved for GPS systems and murder robots. "PLEASE SUBMIT FORM 33-A FOR VEHICULAR EXEMPTION."
Jack looked at his van. It was the same van he'd driven here an hour ago. The same van covered in Arcane Prime decals and disclaimers like "Not Affiliated with Any Registered Pantheon™" and "Driver Carries No Cash, Only Cursed Objects." His personal favorite bumper sticker—"My Other Vehicle is a Fell Beast (But the Insurance Was Ridiculous)"—was peeling at the corners.
He pulled up Form 77-B again. Different subsection this time: Temporary Classification of Commercial Vehicle as Metaphysical Embassy. It was a loophole from the 1977 Supernatural Transit Accords that nobody had bothered to close. Probably because nobody else had bothered to read the 400-page documentation.
The gate dinged cheerfully and opened. "HAVE A MAGICALLY COMPLIANT DAY!"
Jack's van coughed to life on the third try. The mana gauge read quarter-full, which meant an eighth-full, which meant he'd be lucky to make it back to the depot without calling for a tow. He pulled up his soul contract on the tablet while waiting for the engine to warm up.
10,347 deliveries remaining until contractual freedom.
Last month it had been 10,346.
The math wasn't supposed to work that way, but somewhere in subsection 47-C of his employment agreement, there was probably an explanation. There was always an explanation. It was never a good one.
His fingers found the worn photo tucked into the sun visor—Sarah, from before the Last Job, laughing at something off-camera. Three years in that temporal fold. Three years of her existing in a space between Tuesday and Wednesday, 2:47 AM forever. The edges of the photo were soft from handling.
He swiped to mute Lenny's Shriek messages again. The app informed him that "Management Override" had been activated. A new message appeared immediately:
Lenny_Management
URGENT: Mandatory Team Synergy Assessment Tomorrow. 7 AM SHARP! We'll be discussing your Q3 Existential Wellness scores! Can't wait to see you there, buddy!
Outside, a floating monolith drifted across the sunset, casting a shadow that turned everything slightly purple. Someone honked at it. The monolith, being a monolith, continued its inexorable drift toward the highway where it would cause the evening's third traffic jam. Dead birds circled it in perfect formation, and if you looked closely—which Jack tried not to—there was graffiti on its underside in a language that predated human speech. The city had given up removing it after the third cleaning crew disappeared.
Jack put the van in drive. The check engine light was on, but it had been on since 2017. Some curses you just learned to live with.
His tablet dinged with a new delivery request. Standard priority. Standard rates. Standard disappointment.
The pickup was at some wellness startup that sold "Artisanal Hexes for the Modern Witch." The delivery address was three blocks from the pickup. The payout wouldn't cover his gas.
Jack hit accept anyway. The algorithm would punish him if he didn't maintain a 95% acceptance rate. Last week Gary h ad dropped to 94% and got nothing but cemetery deliveries for three days straight.
The van's radio crackled to life with an ad: "Tired of your current metaphysical insurance provider? FedExorcists offers competitive rates on all supernatural coverage! Remember: We Deliver Salvation!™"
He turned it off and drove into the purple shadow of the monolith, toward the depot, toward another day in the machine.
At least tomorrow's Team Synergy Assessment would have good coffee, Jack thought to himself.
It wouldn't. It never did.
But a man needed something to hope for, even if that something was just marginally better break room coffee in a world where coffee could spontaneously turn into pocket change.
The check engine light flickered, as if in agreement.
CHAPTER 2
THE DEPOT HELL
The Arcane Prime depot squatted between an abandoned RadioShack and a mattress store that was perpetually going out of business. Jack had a theory that both were fronts for something, but he was too tired to care what.
The employee entrance had a new sign: "HIRING! Metaphysical Courier - Entry Level Position. Starting at $3/delivery more than you're making!" Jack had been doing this for eight years. The sign had been there for six.
Below it, a laminated posting: "Requirements: 10+ years experience with ArcaneOS (version 15.2 or higher). Note: ArcaneOS launched in 2021."
The temporal paradox of the requirement didn't bother anyone anymore. HR insisted it was "aspirational."
Inside, the depot was what happened when a warehouse had a baby with a DMV and that baby was raised by a conference room. Fluorescent lights hummed at a frequency that made your teeth itch. Motivational posters lined the walls: "TEAMwork - Together Everyone Achieves Magic" over a photo of exhausted couriers loading a van in the rain.
Jack's usual parking spot was taken. Every spot was taken. Hot-desking had come to the vehicle depot, which meant twelve couriers sharing eight van bays and everyone pretending this was "efficiency."
A relentlessly cheerful voice echoed across the depot: "Good morning, Arcane Prime family! Time for our Team Synergy Assessment! Remember, synchronicity is just productivity with sparkle!"
Miranda from HR. She had the kind of aggressive enthusiasm that suggested either heavy medication or a curse. Jack suspected both.
The break room already had a crowd. Someone had written "DO NOT EAT" on a container in the fridge, followed by "This means YOU, Gary" and then "The demon in the yogurt parfait is PERFECTLY LABELED per Protocol 7.3" in Alice's neat handwriting.
In the corner, two junior couriers were having the argument. The eternal argument.
"The employee handbook clearly states the Abyss is for staring into," the first one said, holding up a battered copy of the manual. "Section 84, subsection C."
"That's the 2019 edition," the other countered. "The 2023 revision clearly specifies it's for screaming into. They had to update it after the Williams incident."
"What Williams incident?"
"Exactly."
Gary sat at the break table, drinking coffee from what was obviously the "evil chalice" they'd all received at last year's "Supernatural Summit of Synergy." It was supposed to be decorative. Gary had put it in the dishwasher until the curse wore off, and now it was just a mug that occasionally whispered productivity tips.
A new hire sat in the corner, frantically flipping through a marble composition notebook. "CHEMISTRY" was crossed out on the cover, replaced with "SPELLBOOK DO NOT STEAL" in sharpie. Jack recognized the panic. First week, still thought the job would make sense if he just studied harder.
"Circle up, courier family!" Miranda clapped her hands. The lights dimmed automatically, which would have been dramatic if one of them hadn't started strobing.
The Team Synergy Assessment began with trust falls. It always began with trust falls. Marcus, who'd been cursed last week with "mild intangibility," went first. His partner's arms passed right through him. He hit the floor with a thud that suggested the curse only affected other people, not gravity.
"That's wonderful!" Miranda chirped. "Marcus is demonstrating radical vulnerability! Let's all appreciate his willingness to fall!"
Alice stood next to Jack, her LinkedRune profile literally glowing above her head—some new premium feature that projected your "professional aura." It read:
Alice Chen | Curse Entrepreneur | I help brands deliver supernatural ROI through innovative cross-platform entity deployment.
"I see you're still at Courier Level 3," she said, not really asking. "I just got promoted to Team Lead after my Q3 success."
Jack knew about her Q3 success. She'd delivered a birthday clown to a kindergarten. It had been a demon. The demon had been for a bachelorette party across town. The kindergarten had made the best of it, and somehow Alice had spun this into "innovative cross-dimensional party solutions."
"My LinkedRune article about it got twelve thousand reactions," Alice continued. "I'm keynoting at WizardCon next month. 'Failing Up: How Your Biggest Mistake Can Be Your Greatest Spell.'"
Gary shuffled over, his evil chalice steaming. "The temporal stasis loop in the men's room is acting up again. I've been in there for three hours and thirty seconds simultaneously."
"That's not a bug," Alice said. "That's a feature. Facilities optimized the bathroom experience by implementing temporal compression. You can use the bathroom without losing productivity time."
"I aged six months taking a piss."
"Radical vulnerability!" Miranda appeared between them like a chaperone at a middle school dance. "Gary, would you like to share with the group about your temporal experience?"
"I'd like to share that I'm going to file a grievance with—"
"Who wants to do the trust maze?" Miranda's voice went up an octave. "Remember, the real maze is the friends we make along the way!"
Jack pulled out his phone while Miranda set up orange cones that definitely weren't stolen from a construction site. LinkedRune's homepage assaulted him immediately.
Marcus Wellington (Your Wizard Academy Classmate):
"Thrilled to announce I'm now Chief Spell Officer at CurseForge! We're disrupting the hex industry with blockchain-verified maledictions! #Blessed #Cursed #SeriesAFunding"
Jennifer Singh (Your Wizard Academy Classmate):
"Just hit 100K followers! My course 'Manifest Your Best Hex' is now available! Use code MANIFEST for 10% off! #SpellInfluencer #LivingMyBestCurse"
David Park (Your Wizard Academy Classmate):
"Day 47 of turning water into wine. The hangover is permanent but the engagement is INSANE. Like and subscribe to my journey! #WineWizard #ContentCreator #Drunk"
Jack scrolled past eighteen more posts about "crushing it" and "living their best magical life" and "so grateful for this journey." Every single one of them had fled actual magical work for consulting, influencing, or "thought leadership."
"Jack!" Miranda's voice cut through his dissociation. "You're up for the trust exercise!"
He looked up. Everyone was staring at him. Alice had her phone out, probably live-tweeting the assessment for LinkedRune engagement.
"I need to make a delivery," Jack lied.
"The real delivery," Miranda said, her smile stretching wider than anatomy should allow, "is the trust we deliver to each other. Now, who wants to catch Jack?"
No one raised their hand.
"Radical honesty!" Miranda squealed. "This is beautiful!"
Jack's tablet chimed. A new delivery notification. He'd never been happier to see one.
"Sorry, priority package," he said, already backing toward the door. "Algorithm will punish me if I don't maintain my acceptance rate."
