The calendar on the peeling kitchen wall stared back, a menacing grid of numbers. Selah, six months old and trapped in a body that could barely command a burp, stared at the ink. Her gaze fixated on the circled '24'. August 24th, 1988. Today. Today, the Stanton Mill roof would cave in. Today, Bram – her kind, unwitting father – would be crushed beneath a cascade of rusted girders and asbestos-laden concrete. Selah, who had survived three hostile takeovers at Omnilink Corp, tasted sour bile. She needed to stop him. Now. Bram, a mountain of a man with calloused hands and a perpetually hopeful grin, whistled off-key as he knelt, reaching for his work boots. They were mud-caked, scuffed, and worn beyond recognition – his ticket to a meager wage at the mill. Each lace threaded through an eyelet was a step closer to his doom. Selah’s little fist balled, a useless protest. Dessa, her mother, a vision of domesticity in a faded apron, hummed as she stirred grits on the stove. "Ready for your morning mash, little firefly?" she cooed, oblivious to the catastrophe unfolding around her. Selah’s mind raced. What did a six-month-old have? Flailing limbs? A limited vocabulary of gurgles? No. She had one weapon, a last resort honed during her first three months of infancy to manipulate her parents into midnight snack runs: projectile vomiting. Bram tightened the knot on the first boot. "Just a few more hours, Dessa," he called, his voice booming with a cheerfulness that grated on Selah’s nerves. "Then I can finally fix that leaky faucet." Selah knew she had to be precise. A direct hit. Something undeniable. She focused, a primal scream building in her chest, bypassing her vocal cords and channeling directly into her stomach muscles. Her face began to contort, a furious, purple mask. "Oh, Selah-belle, what's wrong?" Dessa’s voice sharpened, concern replacing her earlier lightness. She turned from the stove, dropping her wooden spoon. Bram, now standing, slid his foot into the second boot. "She's probably just hungry, hon. Babies do that when they—" *GACK!* Selah aimed with the precision of a seasoned sniper. A torrent of semi-digested formula, thick and yellow, erupted from her mouth. It arced perfectly, splattering across the front of Bram’s worn, freshly laced work boot in a curdled splatter. Bram froze, his foot halfway into the boot. A slow, horrified realization dawned on his face. "Oh, for the love of—" "Selah!" Dessa shrieked, rushing forward. Her hands fluttered, torn between her wailing baby and her husband’s suddenly disgusting footwear. "Bram, she's really sick! Look at her!" Selah, still retching for dramatic effect, managed a tiny, pathetic cough. Her face, still a splotchy mess of red and purple, now looked genuinely distressed. The sheer force of the effort had brought tears to her eyes. She leaned into Dessa’s embrace, a tiny, trembling bundle of calculated misery. Bram, ever the doting father despite the assault on his foot, knelt. "She's burning up, Dessa! Feel her forehead!" His voice was laced with genuine fear. The mill, the leaky faucet – all forgotten. His baby was sick. “Oh, my poor little blossom!” Dessa gathered Selah close, her face pale. “We have to get her to Doctor Renwick. Now.” Minutes later, the old, battered family sedan, ‘The Wanderer,’ coughed to life, its engine sputtering a reluctant protest. Bram, now wearing a mismatched pair of old sneakers he’d found in the shed, gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. Dessa cradled Selah in the back seat, murmuring soothing words that barely registered through the ringing in Selah’s ears. The Stanton Falls Clinic was a dreary brick building, smelling faintly of antiseptic and despair. Inside, the waiting room was blessedly empty. A crackling radio played an upbeat pop song, a stark contrast to the tension in the room. Doctor Renwick, a kindly woman with spectacles perched on her nose, quickly examined Selah. "Just a little tummy bug, I think," she announced, her voice calm. "Give her plenty of fluids, and it should pass in a day or two. Nothing to worry about." Selah offered a weak, grateful gurgle. Mission accomplished. Bram was safe. As Bram and Dessa gathered Selah to leave, the radio broadcast suddenly cut out the music. A news anchor’s grave voice filled the quiet room. "...we interrupt this program with a breaking report. Emergency services are currently on site at the Stanton Mill, where the main factory roof has suffered a catastrophic collapse. Early reports indicate multiple casualties. We advise all non-essential personnel to stay clear of the area..." Bram stopped dead, his hand on the clinic door. The color drained from his face, leaving it ash-grey. He stared at the ancient radio, then slowly, deliberately, turned his gaze to Selah. A dazed, superstitious awe flickered across his face. He reached out a trembling hand and gently stroked her cheek. "My little firefly," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You saved me." Dessa, tears welling in her own eyes, pulled Selah into a fierce hug. "Our precious baby girl. Our miracle." Selah, nestled between her parents, allowed herself a smirk, quickly interrupted by a sharp cramp. It wasn't the relieved flutter she expected. Her diaphragm clenched hard, ejecting another bitter gout of stomach acid onto Dessa's collar. Emptying one's stomach on demand carried real physiological overhead, especially when six months old.

The Projectile Protocol