SAVE POINT 33

Reloading Joy's Side Mission...& An Unusual Key...77%...

[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1105534413162422463/3b1400a0-bad1-4caa-bb31-8ad26c0f6435.png][https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1105534413460209744/e97b2076-6e59-4b05-bee5-e106d41f23be.png]

Joy

After walking through enough perfume to kill a horse and getting jabbed in the stomach only five million times by unsuspecting oafs too drunk to stand, I finally shoulder through the darkness and crowd to make it to the rear office where my old boss, Henry, is in his typical place—his enormous, walrus form seat belted behind a plywood desk so thin that it bows in the middle from the amount of stacked papers and shit he has piled there.

Let's be real about it: it's a janitor's closet converted into an office.

...And his ass is too large to be squatting in a janitor's closet.

They call him Hungry Henry here for obvious reasons. The half-devoured burger laid lovingly out on its fast-food wrapper and the extra-large fountain drink beside it, displaying dark cola through a see-through cup, are only further evidence. ...And he has two, crisscrossed fries dangled just before his lips in two pudgy fingers. He only delays his munching for one second as his eyes barely flicker up from the paper he's holding—probably a bill for this place—as he nods at both my entrance and my torso.

"Who'd you steal that from?" he mumbles.

Meaning the uniform.

I scowl at his massive form, my hip leaning against the doorframe as I notice the wad of mustard clinging unbecomingly under his lip. "I want my job back," I hiss.

He shoves the fries into his yapper, chewing furiously with a huff and, then, talking around the food, "I want a lot of things, ladybug: the roof fixed, my rent paid, to hire some servers who aren't completely incompetent—"

Ladybug.

I freaking hate how condescending his ass is. I chew on my lip, attempting to bite back the rude retort that wants to fly out.

"I used to train the younger girls," I tell him confidently, "I'm good at what I do. Let me have another chance. I was just going through a rough patch—"

He throws his hands down, disgusted, on the desk. His fists land amidst the wrappers and papers there, nearly upsetting his soda. He looks at me directly, now, clearly irate and belittling at the same time—the combination that usually sets me off the edge—

"I hate to break it to you, pumpkin," he starts, "but trying to stab a customer is not a normal reaction for 'going through a rough patch'. I had a hell of a time pulling this place out of the Google review dungeon as a literal nightclub stab and grab. If you want my opinion, you need psychological help."

That's it.

The last straw.

The one that broke the camel's back...or, in this case, the waitress's.

But I'm not a waitress anymore.

I'm a warrior.

And I don't take advice from misogynist deadbeats.

Even in heels, my steps are huge as I rush towards his desk, grabbing him by the front of his collared shirt and yanking his face close to mine.

"Psychological help?" I sneer, "You're the one sitting here in a closet, stuffing yourself sick with greasy nonsense and giving demands to half-dressed girls half your age. What does that say about you?"

But his eyes are only annoyed, dark marble.

And his jowls don't quiver.

"Joy, get out of my office. Now." he growls.

...Wait...Have I met someone I can't intimidate? The shock of the realization makes me loosen my grip on his shirt, falling backwards and nearly twisting my ankle in these high shoes...

"I—I need the key," I insist.

I can't lose this side mission because of this god-awful baboon. He needs to give me the damn key!

But the man doesn't look patient or like he's backing down. "I'll have you forcibly removed if need be. Thanks to your antics, we now have bouncers 24/7 at the doors..." His pudgy finger pauses over the red intercom button on his desk phone. He wouldn't even need to move to press it. Of course, the man fights his battles while sitting down—having others do his bidding. So typical.

"Joy, we should get moving..."

I whip around to find Rosabella standing in the shadows outside the doorway. Her eyes are wide and worried.

Hungry Henry's round face cocks to one side at the turn of events, studying the girl and obviously liking what he sees. "Is this your friend?" he coos, "She's much smarter than you. Move along and put those clothes back where you found them. ...Unless, the girl here wants to fill out an employment application..."

"You can go fuck yourself," I snap, "She's coming with me."

The man shrugs, "Suit yourself. Go get a job somewhere else where it's acceptable to stab patrons—"

"You cockroach!" I scream, lunging at the man.

But Rosabella grabs my arm.

"Let's go," she insists.

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And I tug my arm out of her grip.

And we leave that stupid man behind us, slipping back into crowd which still does nothing to mask my seething face. I should have played the conversation different. I should have convinced him to give me my job back so I could get the key! ...But he'd been so hostile—so unbudging. How am I supposed to conquer this side mission when assholes like that are in the way?

I grip the fists at my sides more tightly. "This is pointless," I growl at Rosabella.

She shakes her head, "We'll find another key—another way."

God, I hate her optimism right now.

I'm about to tell her to bug off and stop being so sunshine-and-rainbows when a flash of light catches the corner of my eye. I turn, my hair billowing out—

...To see a young woman leaving the club.

It's obvious she was dressed for a late night out, but it looks like the night has gone sour. Tears run, mixing with black mascara, down her cheeks as she clutches a fur wrap over pale arms. When she shifts to tear out the revolving door entrance, I catch sight of what had grabbed my attention.

Her necklace.

It's a golden key pendant.

Shimmering even in the dim light.

"Find the key," I repeat disbelievingly under my breath—so quietly that Rosabella, who's standing quite close, doesn't even hear.

She squints at me, "What?"

"That girl..." I point at the willowy form just disappearing out of sight, "She's wearing a key necklace."

I don't wait for Rosabella to figure it out; I slip off the heels, currently keeping me captive, and bolt out of the building with the pumps in hand, swinging beside me as I run. The sidewalk and street are drenched with rain, and the wetness of it tingles on the pads of my feet as I duck behind the nearest corner and into the shadows as Rosabella trails after me.

Maybe the key is a sign.

I'm supposed to follow this girl?

I don't know if it's my warrior side or what, but I don't want to let her see me.

I press my back up against the brick wall there and spy.

The girl from the club is younger than me...maybe even younger than Rosabella. How had she gotten past the bouncers? She's still sobbing and swaying back and forth, there, in the middle of the street from both the height of her shoes and, probably, how many drinks she's had. I watch her slip off her high heels, throw them in the nearest puddle and slink down the sidewalk.

Her shoulders are slumped. ...She's rather pretty. A flash of jealousy runs through me as I imagine trying to pull off the same silver-sequined dress without any luck. She's a little skinny thing. Why the hell is she so tormented? She could have any boy she wants.

...But I realize something as I hear the girl dial a number and a male voice picks up.

She can't have the boy that she wants.

They're arguing.

I hear snippets of the conversation.

The man calling her a bitch.

The girl screaming in fury and accusing him of sleeping with her best friend.

And she throws the phone too.

In a different puddle.

And runs under the shelter of the corner convenience store's neon lights, ducking inside.

"Watch her," I tell Rosabella, pointing at the store, "Tell me when she comes out."

My mind is distracted as I look around the dark night. ...Because I recognize the concrete block building rising up over my head. It's home—my old home.

It's the apartment where Mom and I lived before...

I swallow.

She'd died in one of those upper rooms. I used to be able to pinpoint exactly which window was ours. Now, they all look like a jumble—a puzzle which my scattered brain can hardly fathom to solve. I crane my neck backwards, trying to remember:

Was it the one on the corner?

Or the one two windows down?

...I've forgotten all of this on purpose. I've blocked it out for so long that it's nearly impossible to try to resurrect. Like something dead for years. That can't ever come back. ...And I was okay with that. I was more than okay with it until...today.

Right now.

Because I kind of want to see where I lived again.

I kind of want to remember—because, maybe, it'll not only let me remember Mom... Maybe it'll let me remember...myself.

I hold up a finger to Rosabella. "I'll just be a minute," I promise, never taking my eyes off the building above, "Come get me if she comes out."

And I let my feet slip up the concrete steps to the entrance of the familiar, imposing building. I push on the glass door, palms flat.

...And red carpet greets my aching feet inside.

And an outdated chandelier overhead...

...And those couches I remember, arranged like building blocks, in square seating sections. I'd always told Mom that I thought the apartment lobby still looked like a hotel. She'd responded that they probably hadn't done too much to it when they remodeled. Looking around, I realize she was right.

The carpet is threadbare under my toes.

The furniture looks worn and the front desk's wood veneer has rubbed off in some places.

"Can I help you?" the girl behind it appears too chipper and helpful.

She probably can't see the tears in my eyes. I turn away from her quickly, just to make sure.

Of course, I can't just waltz in here after all these years. Of course, I wouldn't be able to see the apartment where Mom and I lived. I don't have the key card. It's impossible...

I swipe at my eyes,

"I'm fine," I call over my shoulder, "I'm just—"

That's when a girl with a fur wrap and a plastic, shopping bag catapults through the glass door, nearly running me over in her hurry—

And Rosabella hurls in after her.

I whirl around.

It'd been the girl with the key necklace.

"I'm just—with them," I point at the girl from the club and Rosabella, both of who are almost disappearing into the elevator lobby.

When I catch up, I throw a warning arm across Rosabella's chest as she tries to follow key girl into the elevator.

"We'll take the next one," I yell, trying to keep my face hidden as the elevator doors close.

Rosabella is all but squawking at me. Her eyes are frantic as she hastily pushes off my hand. "How are we supposed to know where she gets off?" she huffs.

But I know this building backwards and frontwards.

And I don't need to talk to answer her question.

I point a finger up.

Towards the digital pad over the elevator doors which just closed.

And, together, we watch that red number tick up.

...2

...3

...4

...5

...6

It stops there, hovering.

"Our girl lives on the sixth floor," I say, allowing a smug grin to cover whatever expression is tracing my face.

It's time to take the stairs.