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CHAPTER 20: ALIEN VS. PREDATOR – RATATOUILLE
I leave the dinner to its simmering “until cooked but not too cooked if needed maybe I don’t know nor care or whatever” and I walk down the hallway to the bathroom door, nearly tripping on McLeon—because, of course, I still haven’t changed that thrice-damned light bulb and this feline spawn of Ares is blacker than a moonless night in a cloudy desert.
What is he still doing here anyway? Shouldn’t he be asking to go out by now?
Well, “whatevs.”
I rap on the bathroom door. Not too strongly. I still haven’t replaced the lock. I might not become a lucky pervert today, but at least I’ll live to not talk about what never happened.
Fear is a surprisingly good motivator to be a gentleman, isn’t it?
*knock* *knock*
“Eva?”
“…yes?”
“I’m about to start a washing machine. Just drop your clothes in front of the door. I’ll leave something for you to wear in the meantime.”
“Okay.”
“Right. I knew you’d say that. Let me tell you—wait, what did you say?”
“Okay. Thanks. I’d just realised I didn’t have clean clothes for tomorrow. Sorry to impose.”
“Oh… Eh… No, sure. No biggie… Well, I had this whole speech about how I wasn’t a pervert and wouldn’t do anything suspicious with your underwear… but I guess I won’t need it… err… in fact, I probably shouldn’t have brought it up. I’ll… err… I’ll go… fetch a change of clothes… Yeah… I’ll go do that…”
Shut up and get going.
Right.
I can’t figure out this girl.
You can’t figure yourself out, dumbass.
Scratching my head, I walk to my room. I address a military salute to my alien alarm clock and throw the doors of my wardrobe open.
Mmmm… What would be good for a girl to wear?
Tee-shirt? It’d look like a dress on her.
A shirt? I don’t own a shirt.
Okay, maybe that one tracksuit I only ever wore once?
…I could give her that dress I bought for Yasmin one day I was drunk then thought better of ever doing something like offering a dress to Yasmin if I wanted to keep my jewels intact.
For a girl who hates being reminded how manly she is, she can’t stand being considered girly either.
What a troublesome girl.
She’s one sexy tomboy though.
Not pertinent.
But true.
True.
What about that thing in the corner?
What—Oh, hell no… She’d kill me.
…
Should I?
I pick up the piece of clothing, weighing the pros and cons.
Pro: that’d be hilarious.
Con: I might die.
Ehhhhh…
I take my finding and return to the hallway.
Death? Pffft. Dead men don’t have regrets, only the living do.
In front of the bathroom door, there is a neatly folded pile of clothing. She’s efficient, isn’t she?
Creepy, cute, smart, irascible, gutter mouth, rational, gloomy, green, efficient…
You keeping a list?
Someone has too.
But why green?
………no reason.
O-kaaaay…
Anyway.
With the prudence of Indiana Jones switching an idol for a bag of sand, I change Eva’s clothing for my… “item”—mysterious quotations marks—then quickly move away.
Doesn’t he end up activating the trap anyway?
The difference is that he gets to live in the end.
* * *
Once the laundry is on its way to cleanness by way of technology, and after a quick check to make sure my ratatouille didn’t develop sentience and started a plan to overthrow mankind with the complicity of the microwave and McLeon while I wasn’t looking—what? You never know—I move to the living room and fetch my computer.
*ting-ting*
[ You have 769 unread emails ]
…
……
………
I’ll take care of it later.
It’s probably just spam anyway. Anyone who knows me knows they have as much chance to reach me by email as they have to stop a brachiosaurus with a baseball bat.
Says the guy who confronted a wyvern with a toothpick?
It was a very sharp toothpick.
I explore the dark confines of my mailbox—thank Allah for search bars—and finally find what I’m looking for.
Since when are you Muslim?
I’m pan-religious. STOP COMMENTING ON EVERYTHING I THINK!!
Alright, that old mail. What’s it say?
“Here it is: Congratulations—aw, thank you. Err… Congratulations… blah blah … we are happy—me too—to grant you the first prize … blah blah … one latest generation game pod. Ha!—Hey! It’s a better model than mine!!”
Should I take it for myself and give Mary my current one?
…Nah. Too much of a hassle.
When you order a new pod, usually the delivery people also set it up. To move mine to Mary’s apartment, I’d need to hire someone. That would mean spending money, and especially getting stranger into my home. I feel sick just thinking about it.
Eva? She’s not a stranger. I’ve been stalking her for at least a month!
Anyway…
Thankfully, the offer on that pod-prize is still valid. I quickly fill the delivery form with Mary’s name and address. There’s a 50% chance she’ll have forgotten our conversation by tomorrow morning, but even if she doesn’t want it, she can always sell it. It’s not exactly “latest generation” anymore, but it should still be worth quite a lot of money.
I really don’t care about the money myself. I could probably make… What? Twice? Three times? Maybe four times as much by selling some of the junk that has been sitting in my vault in UT. Players pay real money for game items all the time. Some even make a living out of it. Pro-gamers, dark gamers, resellers or whatever they want to call themselves. I’ll probably do that too, eventually—I can’t imagine myself keeping a normal job—but I’d like to at least have some kind of diploma, just in case… and to get my mum off my back.
Mmm… Now that I’m thinking about it, exactly how much could I get by selling the content of my vault? Or even limiting myself to stuff I really don’t need? …I have absolutely no idea. I’m not even sure what’s in there. You’d be surprised just how many so-called “holy” swords and “legendary” artefacts are just lying around in deadly ruins.
Seriously, a labyrinth filled with traps and monsters is such a bad place to store your belongings. Anyone can just stumble upon them.
I sure do. And so, I just drop by the vault every so often, empty my inventory inside, then go back to adventuring.
Well, I’m digressing. A-ny-waaaay…
The order completed, I roam online for a bit, check out the progress of my fanatical worshippers in the investigation of my enemy who doesn’t even know he is my enemy, and I watch cat videos.
A typical Monday evening for your average Evil Overlord, I’d say.
I shut off the computer. “Alright… Dinner should be about ready. I’ll—”
“What is this?!”
Did I just hear Death?
Nah, it’s just Eva.
Your point being?
I turn towards the door…and freeze.
There stands a vision I shall never forget for the remainder of my life… which, given Eva’s expression, should end anywhere between two seconds and a half-a-minute from now. Even though she isn’t looking straight at me, I can still feel her furious gaze.
“Err… It’s a bunny jumpsuit?”
I would think it’s quite obvious.
Indeed. And it’s a pink one too! With a white tummy! And big fluffy dropping ears! Excellent quality and criminally comfortable. Though I’ve outgrown it a couple years back, I never could bring myself to throw away Mr Fluffy Hollow.
On Eva, it just beats some record of adorableness.
It’s over 9000 thousand.
I will probably die now, but it was totally worth it.
Totally.
Her face contorts. “UGH!! I know it’s a fucking jumpsuit. What I want to know is why you thought that was a good idea to give it for me to wear?”
…She’s wearing it though?
Her voice is low, but the anger is raging just below the surface.
Why does this feel strangely familiar?
Geeeee, I really wonder why…
Oh, right, better answer.
“Err…because I thought it would look cute on you?”
“I am not cute!”
“You are, though.”
She is. Especially when she is angry. She’s like a very dangerous puppy.
The kind of puppy who knows Kung Fu and is carrying a nuclear shotgun.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“NO!”
“No.”
“YES!!”
“Ah-HAH!! You said it, not me.”
“Ugh!! You are impossible!” She throws her hands up. “I can’t wear this!”
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
“…you are wearing it though?”
That’s something that has been bothering me. She could have just shouted through the bathroom door and I’d have brought the tracksuit instead. I’m insufferable, I know, but even I know that pushing a joke is just one step too far. Even I would get annoyed.
So, why did she feel she had to put it on and come complain to me in person?
“That…” She seems fascinated by the wall all of a sudden.
Well, I know the paint job is rather amazing, but…
Is she blushing?
…
She is!
Awwwww~
“You thought it was cute too, admit it.”
“No!”
“Uh uh. No lying under this roof, Missy. That’s the rule.”
Is it?
It is now.
“Come on, you know you look adorable in this.”
“You’re being creepy again.”
“And you’re deflecting again.”
And so are you.
You just need to be better at deflecting than your opponent.
“……”
“……”
The not-staring contest continues for a good three minutes until Eva’s eyes fall on the floor.
“…it’s kind of cute…”
“Ah! See.”
“……”
She’s too adorable.
Just add a few splatters of red on the jumpsuit and give her a bloody knife and she’d be perfect.
Stop it. That outfit is already enough stimulation as it is.
I stand up. She flinches, but I pretend not to notice. “Okay, I’ll go fetch the dinner. Why don’t you take a seat?” She opens her mouth, but I raise a hand. “And before you refuse, you can sit here on the sofa and eat on the coffee table. I’ll sit at the actual table. That way you won’t have to look at me, and we can… talk or something.”
“…you don’t have to force yourself.”
“I’m not. I love hearing myself talk.” I chuckle. What? It’s true. “In fact, I should be asking you that question. If you can’t stand being in the same room as a man for that long, I can bring your food in the guest room, if you’d prefer.”
“No…” She takes a peek at the sofa, then at the table. “It’s… I’ll be fine.”
“Great! And if I do anything that bothers you, just tell McLeon to attack me.” That traitorous feline has once again come to sit beside her, like a sentinel or a subordinate. The fat monster reaches past her waist, so she does look like a giant bunny who commands a black panther. The game is starting to invade my reality.
I glare at the cat. He glares back with his one good eye. I sneer. “He seems to like you, so he’ll probably chew me out and bring you the corpse to be praised.”
“…he’s cute.”
“……”
………………………Is he?
I give a dubious glance at the overweight creature covered in scars, with only one eye and a ripped-off ear, with his stubby half-tail twitching slowly behind his fat butt.
Him? Cute?
I can’t see it.
And did that cat just snort at me? Again?
No more Friskies for you anymore, Mister.
…I’ll eat them instead.
No use letting them spoil.
* * *
I bring back two fuming plates of ratatouille from the kitchen. I expected it, but I’ve really made too much. I’ll bring some to Mary after Eva’s gone to sleep. A full stomach is one of the key ingredients to happiness!
And that’s why you’re a few pounds too heavy.
It’s a few pounds of happiness!!
I walk around the sofa and come standing next to Eva but not too close not to oppress her.
“Mademoiselle,” I say with a fancy bow, setting the plate on the coffee table and pushing it in her direction, “the restaurant Vhatever’z In the Fridge ees proud to present you vith arr most unknown, untested and potenzially sentient ratatouille. Eat at your own rizk…” I drop the silly French-ish accent. “You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”
“I’m lactose intolerant.”
“Sincere condolences. Well, this should be fine. Enjoy~”
Mental note: get some lactose-free ice cream.
I waltz back to the table and start eating while keeping an eye on the back of her head. She even put the hood of the onesie. Those ears are just too much.
Must… resist… petting…
An unexpected challenge!
She seems a bit hesitant to eat my food at first, but after she takes a first bite, she seems to lose all her reservations and dives in hungrily.
“Fuck. It’s so good!”
“Is it? It’s just normal food.”
“It is! I haven’t eaten anything that good since last time I went to a restaurant.”
“Well… thank you then.” I’m actually happy she’s not looking at me because I’m blushing so hard right now. I never know how to handle compliments like that. I mean, I just followed a recipe I found online. I don’t see what’s so extraordinary about it. “Do you only eat fast food or something?” That would be a reasonable explanation. It doesn’t really fit her tiny frame, but who knows? I already suspect she exercises way too much. That’s the only explanations for her superhuman strength.
Not being out of breath after climbing five storeys is hardly superhuman.
Superhuman strength!
“Not really,” she replies between two bites, mouth half-full. “But neither my sis nor I am really good in the kitchen, so our chef is usually the microwave.”
“Ah, well… I’ll give you a list of some good frozen food. It’s just a matter of knowing which one to buy. Contrary to what people think, it’s not always the most expensive ones.”
“…thanks.”
“Sure.” I shrug, forgetting again that she can’t see me. “Just sharing the lonely bachelor’s wisdom. Even I don’t have the time to cook every day. Do you live alone with your sister?”
“Yes. Our mum works overseas. So it’s just me and my older sister.”
“How much older?”
“She’s twenty-five.”
“Uh… And is crucifying people a hobby of hers?” I ask in reference to Eva’s earlier threat.
“……”
“Eva?”
Please say something. I’m starting to sweat here.
Whatever you sister’s into, I don’t have a hobby of getting crucified.
You don’t?
Of course not! It’s not the pain, really. It’s that death by crucifixion can take from several hours to several days, and death isn’t caused by blood loss, but by a combination of cardiac rupture, heart failure, hypovolemic shock, acidosis, asphyxia, arrhythmia, and pulmonary embolism. It’s really horrible!
You don’t have any idea what half those words mean.
…I memorised the Wikipedia page.
I remember it did hurt like hell though.
We should never have provoked that clan of coconut worshippers. Who knew you could get crucified to a coconut tree?
What’s with weird cults and fruits anyway? Or is only us that keep running into weirdos?
Don’t your own personal fanatics worship onions?
………I have nothing to say.
Then don’t and listen. Eva’s saying something.
Oh.
“Hellen, she… She gets a little overprotective.”
“…I see.”
Siscon, uh. And violence seems to run in the family.
Hehehe. My life expectancy keeps getting shorter. Hehehe… err…
Is it something I should be laughing about?
Let’s change the subject. This one is getting me anxious.
“Do you play video games?”
“…a little.”
“Oh? Which ones?” I stab another piece of courgette.
“Just this one game. Untold Tales.” My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. The courgette takes the opportunity to escape. Don’t get your hopes up, Courgette. I’ll get you eventually.
Eva must have interpreted my silence as incomprehension, because she thinks necessary to add, “It’s a VRMMORPG.”
“Oh, I know. I play that one too. Though not exactly ‘a little’. In fact, I probably play too much.”
But now I’m curious. What kind of player is she? Something violent I bet. Probably not human? Maybe something that optimises strengths… which leaves the beastkin, the barbarians, the dwarves perhaps—but I don’t see her wanting to be even shorter. Short people rarely play dwarves, statistically.
And of course, if you really want to play it brutish, there’s the orcs. Those guys are all muscle and no mana, stealth, or speed… Just pure strength built really…
I wonder if Athena is online yet?
However, I don’t think Eva would take well me asking directly about her character. Most people wouldn’t just disclose that sort of thing to a stranger, or even an acquaintance. I sure wouldn’t—but I’m probably not the norm because of how many death threats Elric has received over more than two years of in-game time.
*sigh*
Let’s stick to the basics for now.
“Do you enjoy the game?”
I see her shrug. “It’s…okay, I guess. I’m not too much of a gamer. It wasn’t really my idea to play that one either. I… I’ve never really played anything else, so I can’t really compare.”
“Mmmm.” I swallow another mouthful. I wonder why she’s playing UT if she doesn’t like it. Probably a bit too personal to ask, though. Eh… Me, tactful? Who’d have guessed? “It’s really good, the game I mean. The graphics alone are amazing, and the NPCs’ artificial intelligence is just ridiculous.”
“Are other games not the same?”
“No way. It’s not even comparable. I don’t know how Whatever Inc. did it, but it really is stupidly amazing.”
“Uh… Can I have more? The ratatouille.”
“Already?” I laugh and she ducks down. Is she embarrassed? “Sure. There’s a whole saucepan of it in the kitchen. Go for it.” I would have offered to fill her plate myself, but I think it’s better if I stay as much out of her personal space as possible.
Eva comes back with what I believe is the entirety of what was left of the ratatouille.
Sorry, Mary.
But where will she fit all that? She already ate enough that McLeon is looking at her with awed respect.
For a moment, we eat in silence.
To my surprise, Eva is the one to initiate the conversation this time.
“I… I want to apologise.”
“Apologise? What for?” Did she break something in the kitchen? Or is it the bathroom?
“I’ve broken your legs.”
Oh. That.
“First, that’s wrong. It was just one leg, not both. And, second, it was already half-broken.”
“And your fingers.”
“The door did, not you. I was the moron who put them there when you were slamming it in my face.”
“I hit you with a book.”
“Knowledge is a weapon. Besides, I need to work on my dodging skills.”
“I nearly stabbed you in the eye.”
“That hurt.”
I can’t deny it.
I still have the fork though.
Am I creepy?
“Sorry.”
That girl…
I push my empty plate away with a sigh. “Don’t apologise. Seriously, don’t. I was the one who kept bothering you. Just…maybe try not to attack me when I approach you in the future.”
“…in the future?”
“Sure. We’re already at the sleepover level. I’m sure that qualifies us at least as friends. I’d like to get to know you better too.”
“I’m a lesbian.”
“……”
“……”
“I wasn’t hitting on you.”
You weren’t?
She doesn’t need to know that.
I don’t know that.
“Oh! I…” She almost turns around, but freezes and just lowers her head instead. “I’m so sorry. I just assumed…”
“Nah. It’s okay. Don’t sweat it. I get that all the time. With my dreamy physique, it’s normal for girls to assume I’m a player. Ahhh… It’s so hard to be popular.”
“……”
“……”
“……”
“…please at least chuckle.”
“I don’t really laugh. Sorry.”
I’m starting to see that, yeah.
“But you apologise way too much.”
“I know. I’m sor… I know.”
Silence returns, awkward this time.
It doesn’t take long before I can’t stand it anymore. I let out an irritated grunt. “You don’t have to feel sorry for feeling uncomfortable or depressed. You know that, right?”
“……”
Guess she doesn’t.
“I mean, who cares about what others are thinking? I don’t. Take care of yourself first, that’s what’s important. In the end, your own opinion is the only one that matters. If others can’t understand that you’re feeling down and that you’re going to be cranky, just tell them to piss off.”
“…isn’t that kind of selfish?”
“Selfish? Sure. But so what? You know how they say ‘charity begins at home’? Don’t try to be nice to others until you at least feel good yourself, or you’ll only add to your stress and it will only get worse and end up being a bother for everyone, including yourself. So you need to be selfish from time to time. It’s good for you. Think of your own happiness before worrying what others might think.”
“You sound like my shrink.”
“Well, give that man a cookie. He’s awesome.”
“It’s a woman.”
“Then give her two cookies.”
“You’re silly.”
“My, thank you. That’s what my shrink keeps telling me. That, and ‘are you taking your meds?’.”
To which the answer is obviously ‘no’.
But I’m not going to admit that to anyone. Especially not to Mum.
“…You’re seeing a psychiatrist?”
“Wasn’t it obvious?”
“……”
I chuckle. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“No! I mean… you’re weird, but you don’t seem crazy.”
“Pfffft-hahahahahahahahaha! Hahahaha-hooo…” I wipe a tear at the corner of my eye. “Hahaha. Thanks. But I’ll ask you that question again in a couple months, okay? And, besides, you don’t need to be crazy to see a psychiatrist, right? You’re seeing one, and you’re not crazy.”
“…Not crazy?”
Ugh. So, why does she sound angry, this time?
“I can’t look at a man’s face without acting violent and breaking down like a pathetic idiot! I hate myself! I have anger issues, and obsessive–compulsive disorder!”
Err… bingo?
“I organised your whole freaking bathroom closet for one freaking hour before I could even step into the shower! Say that’s not crazy!! SAY IT!!”
“My bad. You’re really fucked up.”
“……”
“……”
“………what?”
I shrug. What do you want me to say?
That girl’s mood is not on a swing. It’s on a bloody rollercoaster.
“What? It’s true. I like when stuff is at its proper place, at least in my apartment, so my closet couldn’t have been that disorganised in the first place. If you really spent an hour organising it, then, yeah, you’ve got a problem.”
“……”
“Eva? You alright?”
Says the guy who just called her insane?
Isn’t that a compliment?
Insensitive moron.
Thank you.
“Eva?”
“…thank you.”
“What for now?!”
Is she reading my thoughts?!?!
O-Okay. Test. Eva, please say “micropachycephalosaurus.”
“……”
“……”
No mind-reading then.
Alright, that’s official, this girl is reeeeeeeeeally weirding me out.
Should I start sending invites for the wedding?
Shush you. She’s a lesbian.
Go tell that to Steph.
I’m not having an operation!
Medicine has done a lot of progress in that domain, you know? Nobody would be able to tell the difference.
This subject is closed.
For now.
“Eva?”
“……”
“……”
“……”
Back to mute mode, uh?
*sigh*
Okay, okay, I get it. Enough serious talk for tonight.
“Hey, Eva, want to play some retro 2D video game from the beginning of the century on my amazingly dated self-made home cinema?”
“……”
“……”
“…what kind of game?”
“Mario Kart.”
* * *
“FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!!”
“Eva, don’t throw the controller.”
The short girl stops mid-swipe…and lowers the gamepad with what I suppose is a sheepish nod.
I stare at the back of her head for a long minute, then ask, “…another race?”
“FUCK YEAH—I mean. Yes. Please… and this time I’m leaving you in the dust!”
“Huhuhu…” I shake my head with wise indulgence. How could the little grasshopper challenge the mighty tiger? “Hohoho. You still have much to learn, my young Padawan.”
“My what?”
“……You still have much to learn, my young Padawan.”
* * *
“HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?!?!”
“It’s all statistics and timing, really. Once you get the hang of it, it’s rather easy. I like this game.”
Don’t sound so matter-of-fact! At least sound smug! I feel even worse when you act like it’s nothing to have crushed me so completely!
“How could you completely master this game so fast?!”
“Like I said, it’s just about understanding the probabilities and—”
“ARE YOU A FREAKING CALCULATOR?!”
“…another game?”
“HELL FUCKING YES!! And this time, I am leaving you in the dust.”
“…sure.”
Don’t say it like that!!!!
* * *
“……”
“…..”
“……36 to 13.”
“I give up.”
This girl is a monster. In barely two hours, she mastered every aspect, every move, every trick of a game that, a few hours ago, she didn’t even know existed! And she’s not played anything but ONE virtual reality game in her life!
Not an old school game with controllers, virtual reality!
That’s not even the same thing!
“Are you secretly a cyborg?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Should I dissect you on my fake operation table in my kitchen to make sure?”
“Please don’t. I’ll scream.”
“……”
“I should go to sleep. It’s getting late, and I can’t be late at school tomorrow.”
“…You don’t even go to class.”
She half looks in my direction.
“How do you know that?”
“I’m your stalker.”
“……”
“We’re in the same class.”
Please stop staring like that. It hurts.
You too, McLeon.
“Right. Well… It’s… My shrink told me I should try and make friends…and I can’t really come just for breaks and lunch…”
“So you come spend your whole day at school just for that?”
“I quite like the old library too. It’s quiet.”
“And your OCD don’t flare up? That place is a mess.”
“There’s actually a very complex yet accurate organisation system. It’s quite fascinating, really.”
“…Eh.” I scratch my head. “The more you know.”
What’s really fascinating is hearing that kind of overly smart remark from a girl clad in a pink bunny jumpsuit.
I love my life.
“I can explain it to you…someday.”
My ears perk up at that. So she isn’t going to tell me never to approach her again? Well, that’s a better outcome that I expected from inviting an androphobic ninja to my man cave.
I look at Eva, to discover that she’s staring at the ceiling in wonder. We’ve dimmed the lights to play the game, and the phosphorescent stars and planets are in full display. I bet she’s amazed by my sense of decoratio—
“The constellations are not accurate.”
“It’s an artistic interpretation!!”
This girl…
We bid each other good night. She retreats to the guest room, and I get to work, cleaning the dishes, ironing her panties—along with the rest of her clothes—and folding them neatly in front of the guestroom.
I eventually stumble to my own bedroom and collapse on the bed.
I probably should check UT to make sure Athena hasn’t logged back in… but… for some reason, I feel like it would not be the case.
Not sure why…
Oh, well…
I’m too tired anyway.
Good night, me.
Good night, little bro.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up to the sound of a door closing. I blink groggily and cast an awry glance at my plastic alien friend, and I decide it is criminal to wake anyone up so early.
I turn around and fall back asleep.
* * *
When I wake up next, I’m way too late for school.
So I don’t even bother going.
I’ll just play UT all day. I need to prepare several things if I’m to even begin to even attempt that new quest the old man gave me. Especially since chain quests like that tend to increase in difficulty randomly. And with Chaos playing chess in the background, the randomness is exponential.
“First, I need to do something about my spells… I’m a glass cannon with no cannonballs. That can’t work… Then I have to make myself a weapon I can actually wield… probably should do something about that dragon soul—damn, it’s in Thena’s inventory… Oh, well…”
I stop my half-asleep mumbling and I drag myself out of bed and to the kitchen, planning on fixing myself some kind of breakfast.
As soon as I step into the lab-lookalike, however, my gaze is attracted to a note lying on the operation table. It’s not my handwriting.
I snap awake and read the message with widening eyes.
[ Thank you for yesterday. I’ll wash the jumpsuit and return it back to you. ]
…
……
………
SHE STOLE MR FLUFFY HOLLOW!!!
* * * * *