SAVE POINT 51
Loading The Smell of Fries...Err, NYC...Again...99%
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1113272174174814309/f2dea13c-23fa-4295-8947-9dac0ca72d52.png][https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1113272174460018688/1d4fc3ba-8831-47e2-8eac-77932b0b75c4.png]
Rosabella
The diner's busier than I remember it typically being—crowded from the dinner rush. I'm tired. I can feel it in my heaviness of my feet, swinging against the tile floor under the table. And the heaviness of my eyelids. We haven't really thought about where we'll sleep for the night yet, and it feels like there's a giant, ticking clock over our heads with every unsuccessful stop we've made. How long are we going to do this—search every hidey hole I can think of for Goran? How long are we going to blindly hope that we catch a glimpse of him? The red, plastic cushion of the diner booth is peeling in a few places around a tear, and I pick at it anxiously as Dormouse's eyes scan the laptop screen I can barely see around the milkshake Sparo ordered for him.
Is this all just a giant waste of time? Will we ever find him? After an afternoon of wandering from place to place, the task is beginning to feel like a needle in a haystack.
...One that's just led us, again, to the reek of fried food, the chattering, overwhelming conversation of strangers and heavy silence between all of us.
"Six—that makes six places he hasn't been," Mimi announces optimistically, checking off what appears to be a list she's made on a napkin with a pen from the waitress.
"—Out of six million," Dormouse laments, rolling his eyes.
Unfortunately, the boy just said what everyone else is thinking... His fingertips clack over the laptop keyboard like rapid gunfire as languid quiet blankets us again. I chew on a sagging French fry I stole from Sparo's plate, but don't really taste it. It's true, we've been all over the city today with little to show for it except no Goran.
No idea of where he is.
No idea of if he's already tried to breach The Game security measures until Dormouse checks it...
"I'm in," the kid announces seriously, his face leaning closer to the screen as his fingers begin to type.
And I find myself holding my breath, waiting for Dormouse's answer to one of the too many questions swimming in my head.
Sitting here, cramped with the three others in a corner booth of the bustling, antiquated diner, trying to find a man who doesn't want to be found...
There's memories in this diner—like, if I blur my eyes a little, I can almost see our shadows here: the shadows of Goran and me. This was the place he used to take me for breakfast after Sunday mass....or on my birthday if I pestered him hard enough. We usually got the booth by the door. They'd looked newer then—the fabric shiny and not torn. In fact, the whole place had looked newer then—glossy like a freshly-waxed car.
Or maybe it'd been my own exuberance.
Because the ice cream came in those thick, glass dishes that you had to cram a long spoon into to get all the way to the bottom.
And the burgers were as big as my face when I was little.
Whenever I left here, Goran would say he had to 'roll me out the door'. I smile a little about it. ...Till I remember I'm daydreaming about a murderer.
"Rosabella?"
Dormouse's voice.
I start to attention, tucking my hair behind an ear to make it look like I wasn't completely zoning out, "Oh, sorry?"
"There's nothing yet," the boy informs me, talking around a slurp of milkshake, "No activity on the firewall yet—
"You're sure?" I hate to pester him but—
The kid looks offended, "Of course, I'm sure. I'm only one of the best coders in The Game..."
Coders in The Game...
My brain starts clicking, trailing a yarn of thought like I might finally be onto the ball of it, after all.
What if we're doing this wrong—going about it wrong?
What if we're thinking about this wrong...?
"Dormouse," I demand, "What does Goran have to do to destroy The Game? I know you said he needs a computer and Wi-Fi, but tell me the specifics."
"Specifics...now she wants to hear specifics," he groans. He opens his mouth again to answer, but it looks like it's gonna be a long one, "Well, just like I just did he has to hack into the code from outside of it—like I mentioned—around the security measures and firewalls and—
"Wait, how advanced is it?" I ask.
The dark-haired kid balk at me, "What?"
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
"I mean, is this like algebra or calculus? Difficulty level," I pry. And hope flutters in my chest like a bird I can't seem to pin down at the moment.
"Pretty difficult, that's why I can do it," Dormouse tells me, fluffing his chest out a little thanks to the ego boost.
"But a beginning coder can't?" I clarify quickly. Oh my gosh, if I'm hearing this right...
The kid looks lost, "No, a beginner coder wouldn't even get past the first few barriers. ...Where are you going with this?"
My cheeks flush with excitement. I think I have something. I really think I have something! "Goran's hardly made his own website; how would be even be able to do all this?!" I gush breathlessly.
"Help," Sparo's face lights from across the table—he understands—"He needs help."
"Someone who knows magic and coding..." I prod.
...And there's only one, crazy-haired and eyed lady who I can think of who fits that description...
A look of disgust and anguish creases Sparo's face, "Oh, Grand Dragon, don't even say her name—"
"Prickgada!" I slap both palms face down on the table with my excitement, clattering the plates from our dinner.
"No, no, no!" Sparo protests openly, throwing a bit of a two-year-old fit so that the elderly couple sitting one booth over peer above their spectacles at us...causing a spectacle... But the dragon-non-dragon barely lowers his voice to an insistent hiss, "I am NOT seeing that woman again. I just got free from her; it hasn't even been 24 hours!"
"Sparo, please," I plead with him, "It makes sense. Goran's going to need someone who specializes in all that, and you have to admit that she's definitely sleezy enough to aide someone like him for the right price..."
The dark-skinned man shakes his head at me, disappointed, "Just when I thought I was moving up in the world..."
"Come on, Sparo, help me out," I urge, "You said Prickgada's into trading. Does she have any areas around here she frequents?"
The man looks particularly sour.
"Lairs," he spits finally, "she calls them 'lairs', and, yes, she talked about having one on West 49th Street. But that was a long time ago—"
"Thank you, thank you!" I squeal, grabbing for his hand before I've realized it.
His eyes look just as surprised as mine as our skin meets. His hands are warm and rough in a way that makes me want to run the pads of my fingertips over them. I draw in a sharp breath, quickly grabbing my fingers back but...
It's too late.
Because we both felt it—I can tell.
A spark.
Jumping.
Between us.
A zap.
Of heat.
I clear my throat awkwardly.
Luckily Mimi jumps in to save me, "So we have somewhere to start!"
I knew I liked her.
Distracted, I jump back into the conversation, "I actually want to check out one more place before we go to Prickgada's. We can stay there tonight and, then, find the sorceress in the morning," I tell her. "There's this church—"
"What'd you say, we're in a lurch?" Dormouse asks around a mouthful of—what is he eating now?!
"Seriously!" I gripe, "How are you still hungry?!"
It's a white-frosted donut this time that he's shoving in sticky portions into his piehole. The way the sticky kid's been scarfing down food, he's going to eat Sparo straight out creator magic.
Dormouse seems to read my thoughts, "I got it for free, okay? It must be like freaking free donut day or something because they had them free here too! The coffee shop had them...that McDonalds on the corner had them... It's not my fault okay? I see something free; I want to eat it..."
He flicks a pink sprinkle in my direction and...
And my heart skips a beat.
Not in a good way.
I freeze.
And I lift a finger, pressing it into the sprinkle and lifting it, hanging onto my fingertip towards my intent gaze.
The tiny sprinkles are ribbon-shaped—pink ribbon-shaped.
For breast cancer awareness.
And there's only one bakery I know that orders such unique sprinkles for all their baked goods.
Goran's favorite bakery.
The one further downtown...
Why would they be delivering here unless...?
"Dormouse, don't eat the rest of that," I warn, gesturing to the sweet treat.
The kid puts the remainder down on his plate, his face growing ashen and his mouth dropping in uncertainty, "...Is there something...wrong with it?"
"I think so," I admit.
"These were free?" I question the kid, raising an eyebrow, "At every place we've been today?"
He nods.
If that isn't suspect, I don't know what is...
I flag down the waitress. She's a middle-aged woman with a lined face and kind eyes even though she's clearly working the busy shift. Her stringy, pale-blonde hair is pulled back in a messy bun, "You need something, hun?"
"I was just wondering," I start, "—These donuts? You had them free at the front. Do you make them here?"
The waitress squints at the remains of Dormouse's treat, mushed up and desecrated on the edge of his plate while the chalky icing still smudges his upper lip—something Mimi is trying to get him to remedy with a quick nudge.
"Oh, no, honey, those aren't ours. Some man stopped by late this morning. Said they were spreading cheer in the neighborhood. He had a bakery apron on. I don't normally let people drop their goods here, but I let it slide. My manager said it was okay and...well, he was cute." She winks at me.
"Describe cute," I slice into the conversation.
The woman looks a little frazzled by my comment. She pats at her hair, "Oh, hun, you know, cute to me is different than to you probably. Middle-aged. Slicked back hair. Muscles. Had this tattoo on the side of his face actually—hope he wasn't in a gang," she widens her eyes at me jokingly.
But, suddenly, I know this isn't a joke.
None of it.
Not even free donuts.
"Ed," I say grimly under my breath.
Goran's best friend at the bakery.
"What dear?" the waitress wants to know, but I've already turned away.
"Thank you for your help," I quip with the uneasy end of a smile I can barely muster. When the woman's out of earshot, I lean in low across the table. "Doesn't it feel like Goran's been one step ahead this entire time? Like he knows where we're going and where we've been?"
The group nods—Dormouse emphatically.
"It's because he does," I say—risking sounding completely paranoid—"He put trackers in the donuts Dormouse has been scarfing down all day."