What seemed like five days later, Brock staggered into the cafeteria, eyes bloodshot and face haggard. Mikael peeled away from the doorway where he'd been leaning.

"How're you feeling?"

"...fuck. Harems are so fucked up."

"I did try to warn you."

Brock took the offered arm, because otherwise he was going to collapse.

"There was this thing... with tentacles... and then a shop... with cat ears... and oh god, the noises..."

Mikael guided him towards the back counter where Chef George was busy bending the rules of reality to create sumptuous feasts.

"Sounds like the standard training module. What do you want to eat?"

Brock convulsed, somehow not throwing up into his mouth.

"...you want me to eat? After watching all of that?"

Mikael laughed uproariously, drawing the attention of the other diners.

"Didn't happen to you, so life goes on, yeah? C'mon, you'll feel better with some food in you. Try a Squidshake, George does this great thing with the ink and suckers."

Brock's face paled, and he stumbled away from Mikael.

"I'm just... gonna go to the bathroom... real quick..."

Mikael laughed again.

"I'll save you a seat." He turned to the counter, and as Brock weaved drunkenly past tables towards the restroom entrance, he could hear Mikael placing his order.

"One Squidshake, George, extra wriggly, and a taco salad, hold the corn."

"Coming right up, Operator Thorne!"

Brock gagged and slammed through the bathroom door, clutching desperately at his stomach.

He's... gotta be doing that... on purpose... oh crap here it comehrrrkkkkk-

Several minutes later, Brock re-emerged into the cafeteria, rubbing his hand across his mouth, and made his way over to the ordering counter.

"Afternoon, George," he said weakly. "Can you make something to settle an upset stomach? Like, a really upset stomach?"

"Might could, might could," George said heartily. He glanced around, then leaned in closer. "Didn't see you at the High Score last night," he said in a quieter voice. "Thought you were going to come by and introduce yourself to the crew."

Brock swallowed. It felt like there was an undercurrent of hostility in George's tone.

I definitely shouldn't tell him anything about the Overlord.

"Uhhh, sorry about that, I was trying to find my apartment, and then some stuff happened. Lost track of time."

"Yeah. 'Stuff' happens quite a bit in these parts," George agreed conspiratorially. He leaned in even closer. "Scuttlebutt has it your 'stuff' saw you ghosting someone. Total player kill."

Oh crap. How does he know about the Overlord?

Brock chuckled nervously.

"Uhhh, I'm not sure what you're talking about. I was, uhhhh, in bed. Reading. A book," he finished weakly.

George tapped his nose.

"If that's how you want to play it here, I understand." His eyes narrowed. "I understand. But you'll be at the High Score tonight to give us the details, yeah? The crew needs some new blood. Things have gotten a bit... stagnant, lately. No one challenging the ladder."

"Sure," Brock squeaked. "Tonight. High Score. See you there."

"Definitely." George's eyes shifted, and he blurred back into his normal beaming stance. "One Hair of the Dog coming up, Mister Brock!" A grumbling dwarf with colorfully braided hair slapped a hand on the counter next to Brock.

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"Make it two."

"Absolutely, Operator Thunderaxe!"

As George worked his magic, Brock turned nervously to the dwarf, who came up barely past his waist and looked like he was ready to murder the world, just as soon as he finished waking up. A bushily bearded face yawned, then gave him a curt nod.

"Late night for you too?"

"Uhhhh, yeah. Something like that."

Brock felt his right hand reaching for his collar, trying to adjust it so that his Limiter was completely covered, then forced himself to stop.

Don't look suspicious. Don't look suspicious. Don't look suspicious!

The stout figure belched, then rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

"Fucking Sekkies. Supposed to be my night off, but noooo, some dipshit has to go and start a snake cult at three in the morning." He shifted slightly, glaring at George's teleporting figure. "And I told you my name's Doug, asshole," he bellowed. A middle finger appeared and disappeared like a flash, and the dwarf grunted out a laugh. "That one's still got some spirit at least. Kill us soon as look at us, but hey, what can you do, Starak?"

Oh shit he thinks I'm Starak oh shit oh shit-

"Uhhh, yeah, yup, for sure."

A pair of plates clattering onto the counter forestalled any response, George finally finishing the order a half second after it had been placed, and Brock looked down in relief. Relief quickly turned to confusion. Each large plate had a single small grape on it, the upper half peeled away, revealing a perfectly normal looking fleshy interior. A single dabbed spot of something red several inches away was the only other edible accompaniment. On the side was a small fork and even smaller knife, which looked extremely sharp.

"Two Hair of the Dogs, as ordered!"

Unsure of what to do, Brock defaulted to instinctive behavior, and simply grabbed one of the plates. Next to him, Doug grunted a quick thanks, grabbed the other plate, then looked up.

"Where you eating, Starak? We can exchange stories, because if you're ordering one of these, I know there's something to tell."

ohshitohshitohshit-

Beads of sweat popped out on Brock's forehead, and he scanned the room frantically. Over in a corner, Mikael waved at him, and Brock immediately beelined in that direction. Doug fell in beside him, still chatting.

"And I swear to whatever god you want to name, if you think what you've got tops a snake with five heads wriggling out of some poor woman's-"

Mikael's amused look as Brock scampered over quickly morphed into consternation upon spotting Doug, then back into a welcoming expression that didn't fool Brock one bit.

"Well if it isn't the fucking Blade himself," Doug exclaimed, eyebrows raising. "What's got you eating down with us commoners? Slumming it with Starak here?"

He slapped Mikael's back with a hearty thud while tossing his tray onto the table. Up above, Mikael glared at Brock with an expression that seemed to say, "Why is this person who knows the person you killed joining us for lunch?" Brock gave a tiny shrug and mouth lift in response that he hoped said, "All of you are terrible at your jobs when it comes to me avoiding horrible situations, so I have no further comment."

If Mikael's darkening brows were any indication to go by, he'd communicated extremely successfully.

"Simply here engaging in conversation with my teammate," Mikael responded elegantly, his expression shifting back to a welcoming smile. "I didn't know that you were on duty today, Dr'gvarn T'msmlt Thunderaxe, else I would have greeted you properly with the dawning of the sun."

"My name's fucking Doug, you posh asshole," the dwarf grumbled without rancor, sliding onto the far seat, "and this 'dawning of the sun' bullshit is bullshit for anyone who enjoys their sleep. Like me. Like I've told you a thousand times before."

Mikael motioned his eyes towards the table, and Brock took the hint, sitting down with his tray in a clatter of cutlery. Mikael hissed and grabbed the tiny knife before it could tumble off the plate, then carefully placed it back on the ceramic surface. "Do not drop that," he growled in Brock's ear, before settling into his own seat with his previous smile.

"So you've said, Dr'gvarn T'msmlt Thunderaxe, but permit me my eloquences."

"You hear this shit, Starak?" Doug snorted, hands clumsily grabbing his tiny knife and fork. "You'd think this asshole was trying to get me to leave." He frowned, utensils poised above the plate, staring down like he was getting ready to defuse a bomb.

Brock gave what he hoped was an appropriate chuckle, then grabbed his grape, rubbed it in the red sauce, and popped it into his mouth. Next to him, he felt Mikael freeze.

Such a tiny meal, he thought glumly as he chewed, juices bursting across his tongue. Not sure this is going to make my stomach feel better.

Across the table, Doug was staring at him in awe, fork and knife still paused in the air.

"Holy shit, Starak. Now I have to hear what you went through that made you take an entire Hair of the Dog at once."

Brock swallowed and looked at him in incomprehension.

Tasted okay, little bland if I'm being honest. Could've used some salt.

"Uh-"

An entire universe worth of pain slapped Brock straught in the brain. It was like getting kicked in the crotch by someone who understood how to inflict the maximum amount of discomfort an individual could suffer before dropping unconscious.

"...meep-"

As Brock tried not to scream, Doug shook his head and carefully sliced the merest shaving off his grape, delicately lifting it to his mouth. He let it settle on his tongue and winced.

"Ugh, that shit is foul, but damn if it doesn't do the trick. Eventually."

Brock could only stare at him, goggle-eyed. It felt like an entire parade, complete with prancing ponies, color guard, and full marching band, was stomping on one singular point of his body, cramping his stomach into a miniature black hole. In desperation, he clawed at his throat, trying to draw some air into his straining throat.

"...horkk-"

"So, Starak. What's the..." Doug's eyes drifted upwards, to where Brock's clutching fingers had dislodged his coat collar enough that a sheen of metal could be seen around his throat, "...deal?"

"Awww, fuck," Mikael breathed out, his hand suddenly on the hilt of his blade.

Brock's eyes finally finished crossing and he headbutted the table with a gentle sigh.