Station 19 Dean Miller Novels & Stories

He was a shadow in the dark, preparing for a war against men who had forgotten how to be human. They reached the Signal-Hub—a massive room filled with wall-to-wall analog dials and humming Vacuum-Tube Amplifiers. In the center, a man in a tattered AetherCorp uniform stood over a console, his skin grafted with wires that trailed into the floor. "You have the scent of the stars," the soldier rasped, turning to look at Elara. His nameplate read Miller. "We felt the pulse when the Scavenger died. We knew the Vessel would seek the deep signal."

The man standing behind him looked younger with at least twenty years gap, they almost looked like father and son. “Good afternoon, I am Detective Mikson and this is my assistant Warwick and I am the detective working on the Murders in the Miller hotel but it turns out it is not only the hotel but even a company building. Where next Mr Miller? Your house? The King's house?” The detective inquired with a hint of amusement and seriousness and his assistant who was standing behind him also chuckled without looking at the Millers as they were standing to Lydia side by side.

Mr Miller kept panting outside his Banana Penthouse. He had a big cigar in his mouth and a stern expression on his face as he had a lot of things on his mind. Some of the Mamba soldiers had attempted to calm him but he chased them off with a single glance, even Darkie. He sat on a chair near the car garage but soon stood up again almost immediately. “This better not be!“ he groaned, blowing hard at the cigar. Darkie suddenly showed up. He looked unbelievably calm, like he believed the earth was flat and nothing would happen as long as he doesn't fall of the edge.

"Ms. Vale? Mr. Sterling?" Miller’s voice cut through the low hum of the diner’s refrigerator. He slid into the booth next to Roman, his overcoat smelling of rain and tobacco. He didn't look like a detective who had just spent twelve hours reviewing bank logs; he looked like a man who had just won a small bet and was waiting to collect his winnings. "You see the noon broadcast?" Miller asked, nodding toward the television where a legal analyst was now breaking down Roman’s technical testimony from yesterday. "We were just talking about it," I said, leaning forward, my elbows resting on the sticky laminate table. "They’re changing the story, Miller. I don't see my old modeling photos on the sc