During the infancy of the Defense Program, someone understood that to defeat the bad guys, you needed the good guys to be stronger.

That's how it worked, of course.

Also, if their strongest teams lost too often it would be bad for their profits.

There was little to impede the development of chemical N-978T, fondly dubbed, Agent Orange.

The liquid was named this from the orange effervescent glow it exuded, and somehow the strange color by itself wasn’t enough of a warning sign to say, this shouldn’t go inside anyone’s body.

The original Agent Orange was not known, as various parts of Earth’s history were scrubbed clean during their colonization, and the horrific pictures and accounts of what it had done were lost to time.

The universe itself was giving two warnings that no one should put this inside their body, but people always run, chest out, if it meant they were a step closer to god, glory, or gold.

After a few tests, it was shelved, Agent Orange officially never existed, and other means to temporarily enhance an astral’s ability in a battle that didn’t involve the ingestion of blood was sought out.

Vials, upon vials of Agent Orange, were stored or destroyed and soon forgotten.

“Forgotten.”

Rico laid in bed next to his wife, Diana, absorbing the last moment he would have with her, and she would never remember. He lovingly called her Snow White when they started dating, and he still did, because she kept her maiden name, and when they were alone he would call her Prince Charming.

Rikka found it gross how they would flirt together, in front of her, brazenly, and her father said, you’ll understand one day.

Diana White met Rico during their residency. They would bond over different caffeinated concoctions to make that helped them stay awake all night to study, create funny acronyms to remember parts of the body, and had a mutual love of pumpkin spice, because it was good, no matter what anyone else said.

Now she was Doctor Diana White, and she slept like the dead, making Rico’s task child’s play. He gently moved her black bangs away from her forehead, and he let out a heavy sigh.

Seven minutes ago he shot up in the bathroom, a thick needle, right into his muscle, and he was waiting for it to hit. The orange liquid burned as it went into his body, and he could see it snake its way up to his arm, and then slowly darken until it soaked into his bloodstream.

“This stuff doesn’t work,” he mumbled.

It did work.

As all rules of drug use dictate, once someone announces that this stuff doesn’t work, then immediately it is twice as strong.

Rico felt the change slowly overtake him, starting from the center of his head, to his shoulders, cascading down his arms, and pooling around his feet. There was no visible difference about him initially, but physically, he could feel his stomach widen, his mind expand.

It was time to eat.

His fingers twitched, crackling at once. It was loud and thick, stretching outwards, hardening, turning brown, converging into a singular point. Hardening, growing, the sharpened wooden branch that formerly was his fingers curved at the perfect angle, and went into her nose.

She mumbled something, swatted her face, made a sharp noise, and then there was dead silence. The long wooden branch moved back and forth, like a slug, pushing against itself, sliding nutrients up into Rico’s body and he drooled, eating her memories.

Absent-mindedly, he started to move his mouth in a chewing motion while ingesting the happiest ones, specifically on the day they met, at the hospital food court, complaining that the food was too healthy.

He swallowed great, deep gulps when it was the day they went on their first family trip together to the beach.

The long, winding, wooden slug pushed itself in the opposite direction, regurgitating the memories, maladjusted to her husband’s taste, some of them thrown away, not even recycled. He would dry heave as if he were physically vomiting himself, his face sweaty and pale, tears welling up, chest burning.

The first day they met became less warm, the lights harsher inside the hospital. Rico’s conversation was filled with backhanded compliments that never happened. Their first family trip to the beach was filled with fights, screaming, and then a discussion of his non-existent addiction.

When he was done bingeing and purging, drool streaming down his mouth, he detached his wooden fingers from his wife’s nose, receding his fingers into his body. They sunk into his arms, little wooden stumps, a bit of blood from her nose on the end.

He leaned over, put his head close to check her breathing, and she was fine.

He sat next to her for a few minutes, the armless man until hunger struck him again, and he wobbled upwards out of the bed. With unknown strength, he walked right through the door, his entire body solidified, an oak tree.

His clothes were torn to shreds and fell off, leaving a trail behind him. Rico scraped the wooden floors with his rough bark toes and with every step, his thighs emitted the sound of branches crashing against each other.

The middle of the night was the perfect time to eat, especially if it was something dirty. No one else would ever know. Rico had his fill, eating, throwing up, again and again, all night, his mind a blur, most of it he did not remember himself.

He awoke in the morning, naked in the backyard when Michael Slater III found him while he was going to turn on the sprinklers.

Rico was covered in vomit, he smelled like shit, and the shame only intensified when his thirty-something-year-old nephew turned on the garden sprinklers near the begonias to wash him off.

“You need to stop drinking,” Mike said.

He left, and Rico was amazed at how well his scrambling of everyone’s memories had worked. Months of writing down, matching up events of who was where, and they really believed he was an alcoholic.

It was the perfect cover for his long absences.

Too perfect.

He was confronted, an intervention was held in the evening. The younger children were sent to bed early, all the older family members crowded into the larger dining room, and they discussed what to do about Rico.

Rico later changed their memories so he would have a gambling addiction.

Alcoholism was life-threatening but his imaginary gambling addiction would keep them away because it would mean he would steal their money.

Summer was the perfect time for Rico to complete his plan.

He would take whatever celestial he could, one by one, changing their memories slowly every night. Most of the family came to the main house, to pay their respect to the godfather, Maximilian, and because it was phase two for their ridiculous scheme.

They had convinced their father, Michael, to stick himself inside an object.

Rico’s plan was now softer than cottage cheese, and he called the true mastermind for help.

He was at a seedy motel, another believable spot to stay at, now that everyone thought he was burdened with the ills of worldliness, a lack of willpower, and that he had strayed from God.

Rico was unpacking his suitcase while he called Santos on the phone, and immediately, the call ended. Assuming he was busy, he would call later.

The old and dingy hotel room was graced with an ancient bed that had a yellowing striped print, floral drapes, a bathroom with a toilet that was always running, and a minifridge that worked too well, the inside frosting over.

A knock came at the door, Rico calmly took his gun out of the suitcase, loaded it, checked the safety, and greeted his visitor.

It was Santos.

“What the heck. You can’t just talk over the phone, like a normal person, ” Rico shouted.

“Don’t shout at your elders, it’s rude,” Santos snickered.

Rico scowled, invited him inside, and set his gun down on the side table. Santos groaned and made a face because he came in person for a reason.

“You’re not going to say anything,” he asked.

“About what?”

“My outfit.”

“Looks nice.”

Santos was dressed as a police officer, another game he and his children were playing that week. Pretending was fun. Not being noticed for pretending was not fun. He sulked, sat on the bed, not getting the answer he wanted.

“What do you need help with,” Santos asked.

“It's about our problem at home,” Rico whispered.

“Aaaah,” Santos drawled.

Immediately he told everyone inside his head to mind their own business, the adults were talking, and they were all forced to forget their conversation.

“Go on. How can I help,” he asked.

Rico didn’t want to tell Santos about their plot to put his father inside the rosary because, for the first time, he agreed with their decision, albeit for different reasons. The ability was too useful, and he reasoned, he could convince all of them by scrambling their brains to give it to Rikka, so he could protect her.

He had already warped Maximillian’s mind and convinced him to give Levi the earrings. Levi was defenseless against him, Rico reasoned, and it was the best solution. They had already ‘lied’ about the death of Joshua and it was only a matter of time until he found out.

He tried testing the waters.

“So, we all know Dad doesn’t have a lot of time left,” Rico said.

Police Officer Santos agreed, there were some harsh truths that even he could not pretend about in life.

“We need a new handler for Max. Dad always does it with his ability, but now that he’s too old, he can’t stop him. We decided I can make him forget how to use his ability, but I don’t think that I can keep it up.”

“Why not, it’s perfect! He can’t use an ability if he doesn’t remember it!”

“ That’s the problem. He does! Abilities are innate! He keeps re-discovering it, I keep having to wipe his mind every few weeks! It’s making him crazy.”

Santos wiggled on the bed, creaking it up and down, thinking.

Every time he looked at Maximillian he saw another petulant child.

How does he deal with children when they’re bothersome?

The younger ones needed a distraction, and Maximillian, in his forties at the time, was a baby in his eyes, so Santos reasoned that he needed a toy.

“Give him a celestial, but one that can’t do shit. Give him the key. ”

“Oh my god you’re a genius,” Rico said in awe.

“I know. You’re welcome. ”

Rico tried not to roll his eyes, and internally he thanked God that Father Alvarez had the hindsight to raise Michael until he could give him over to an orphanage run by a church, or else his father would have turned out... like that.

They spent the rest of the day discussing where to hide them, rumors of places where new ones could be found, but mid-conversation Police Officer Santos paused and swore under his breath.

“Someone knows what we’re talking about,” Santos grumbled.

“How!? Don’t all of them listen to you?”

“I mean, my wife doesn’t, but she won’t tell anyone. But there’s Carlos. ”

Santos put an emphasis on Carlos’s name, and the intent was clear. He should be made to forget.

“Do it once we hide all of them so you don’t have to do it more than once,” he commanded.

Rico nodded, and Santos left.

Forty minutes later, Rico scowled and noticed he stole his gun on the way out.