The diner wasn't what we expected. In contrast to its dilapidated signage and rundown exterior covered with peeling paint from ancient history, the inside was well-lit and fairly clean. Its age did show, with some tiles cracked, a couple of light bulbs dimmer than others, and patches of the ceiling stained with mildew. But it was cozy and reminded me of the diners my family used to visit when I was a kid.

Another surprise was the number of people here. It had a lot of customers. I didn't really note the vehicles parked outside, just that there were a couple of trucks and cars.

The old lady wearing a patchy yellowed apron making coffee could be the owner. A younger woman with a similarly-designed newer-looking apron, logo, colors and all, must be her daughter based on their looks.

On the other side of the counter sat a stout middle-aged man reading a newspaper. At the end of the row, a couple of old men conversed with each other over cups of coffee. A family occupied one of the diner booths. I couldn't see how many children the parents had with them because the back of the booth blocked my view. Lastly, on the furthest table sat three burly men in checkered shirts who were probably truckers.

All of them stared at us when we entered. We did look out of place, two girls who could be on their way to some college party that got lost. I suppressed a grin as I realized Deen and I appeared like the perfect cast for a slasher horror flick—the clueless girls who usually got murdered first by the deranged serial killer.

We looked at them too, Deen standing strong and confident as if she frequented this diner for years. The people all went back to what they were doing and ignored us.

I raised a brow. No one was rude? Not even a single catcall at Deen?

Wow, I'm really a judgmental bitch, aren't I? Sorry, trucker guys.

Hearing the blasting music and a loud engine coming closer, the two of us hurried to find seats. I hoped those assholes wouldn't mess with Deen's car.

We picked the furthest booth, two places down from the family with kids, and near the table of the truckers. They might be of help if the drunk fratboys harassed us in our weakened state.

The waitress with extensively curled hair came to our table and handed out menus. "What'll it be, girls?" she drawled, taking the pen tucked behind her ear and poised to write on a small notepad.

Deen stared at the menu then looked at me. She did it a couple more times, hinting that I order for her.

It's all food, I thought exasperatedly, everything is edible. Of course, she didn't have telepathic powers to know what was on my mind. She kept doing that stupid eye-flicking thing. I gave her a slight nod to confirm I got her message. Looking up at the waitress, I asked, "Do you have tea?"

"None of those fancy tea leaves kind of stuff," she replied with a shrug. "Probably a box of teabags left in the cabinet.”

“I’m fine with that.”

“Is that tea for two?"

"Just one. My friend will have coffee."

"Do you have honey?" Deen said, raising her hand as if to recite in class. "Can you please use honey instead of sugar to sweeten the coffee?"

"Honey? We ain't no bee farm, dear."

"Oh, just sugar then. Wait, I'll have it black."

"What else?"

I adjusted my glasses as I ran a finger down the offerings on the menu. "We'll have a grilled cheese sandwich. Can you slice it into two, please? We'll share it. Waffles too, just a plate, the option with chickens on top."

"We ain’t got no honey to go with that, okay?" the waitress interrupted. Deen looked away, a hint of an embarrassed blush on her cheeks. "Only maple syrup." She pointed at a bottle in the middle of the table beside the hot sauce. “The hot sauce too, if that’s your thing.”

"I love maple syrup," I assured her. Scratching my chin, I wondered what else to get. I hadn't been inside a diner in ages. It made me feel a bit nostalgic about the family road trips we used to have before Dad disappeared, and we became a family of two. A bit surprising that this was on my mind. "I think we'll also get hash browns and a slice of apple pie."

"You girls hungry?"

"A bit, yeah. And we'll be resting here so might as well enjoy the good food." I gave her a smile like the polite and well-mannered lady that I was. "That's all we'll get. Or maybe we can—" And I didn't get to decide whether to ask if milkshakes were available because of a loud crash.

Everyone in the diner jolted in surprise as the door opened with a bang. The tiny arch windows rattled, threatening to pop off. The wooden door frame creaked as if it was about to break.

Six assholes piled in. In the lead was the guy with the skull tattoo on his arm. What did I decide to call him again? Skull Tattoo Bro or something?

The twig-like man sporting a disgrace of a goatee followed him, still holding a beer can, its contents dripping on the floor. I also spotted the unkempt brown-haired kid that Deen mentioned was the nephew of the mayor trailing their group, timidly shuffling his feet. His eyes were cast on the floor as if he didn't want to be with the other idiots.

If I were to guess, I'd say the three older guys in front were upperclassmen and senior frat members, while those three at the back were all freshmen and pledges of their organization.

The old lady behind the counter peered over her glasses at the newcomers. She grabbed the mop and told them, “Don’t be making a mess here.”

"Hey, girls!" Skull Tattoo Bro loudly called out to us, ignoring the old lady. He waved with a creepy leer on his face. "Where are your manners, guys?" he said to his bastard pack, his words slurring. "Say hello to Blondie and her friend." All of them greeted us with varying levels of enthusiasm, the freshies less so than the older guys.

So, I'm the 'friend', I thought, mildly entertained and surprised that they noticed me.

Deen didn't share my amusement. She pursed her lips and intently stared at the menu, letting her golden hair fall to partially hide her face.

"If you're not gonna eat here, then you better scram!" The old lady quickly left the counter and strode forward to block Skull Tattoo Bro and the rest of the rabble. She tightly grasped the handle of the mop, shoving it towards them. She surprisingly had a loud and clear voice and was quite spry despite her age. "Don't be staying here if you're not customers!" The two older men sitting on the barstools turned to face them too, ready to help her out if the situation got out of hand.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The leader of the asshole pack raised his hands and put on an innocent face. "Calm, down granny. We're customers. We got money, and we’re buying food. Isn't that right guys?" he said, looking over his shoulder. There was a murmur of agreement. "See, granny? We're here to eat. You must have good food if Blondie over there chose to go here."

"Then what're you having?" grumbled the old lady as she parted the group with her mop, cleaning up the mess of Goatee Guy. “And throw that can away.”

The jerk squad gathered by the counter to read the menu above the red-tiled backsplash of the sink. Skull Tattoo Bro said, "I'll be having a cheeseburger. That's six cheeseburgers, yeah. Wings? Uh, what else do you guys want?”

Deen heaved a sigh. This must be a common problem for her. While I couldn’t sympathize with her specific situation—oh wait, I didn’t know how to sympathize at all—I could relate to her annoyance at being bothered. The world had been doing that to me a lot lately.

"Do you know them?" asked the waitress, nudging her head towards the monkeys trying to order food.

"No," I said. "Those drunk guys saw us like ten, maybe fifteen minutes from here, and decided to follow us. We don't know why."

"I can guess." She winked at me then cocked her head at Deen who was determinedly reading the menu over and over. "We have all kinds of nasties visitin' 'round these parts," the waitress continued. "If they misbehave, if they stick even one toe out of the line, Momma's gonna kick them out. She may be old but she knows how to handle rascals. And we can also rely on the chunkers back there for help." She nodded at the truckers, the 'chunkers' she called them, enjoying their burgers. One nodded to acknowledge her.

"Um, thanks," I said, uncertain of the appropriate response.

"Thank you very much," said Deen with sincerity in her voice. "Really, it means a lot."

The waitress gave us a salute. "Just your friendly diner in the middle of nowhere. I'll be right back with your food."

After they finished ordering, the six dumbasses somehow managed to reach a table despite their drunken state. To be fair, it was the upperclassmen who were mostly wasted and may be high on drugs too. The freshies could still walk straight; one of them was probably tasked to drive, otherwise, all of them would've taken the highway to the afterlife.

They picked the spot right across us, one table away from the truckers who eyed them suspiciously.

At first, I thought they truly did intend to go to this diner, and we just assumed the worst of them. They didn't call us or try to take pictures of Deen or something stupid. Everything was going to be peaceful it seemed.

But it turned out I was wrong.

They conversed loudly as if they owned the place. Their drunken laughter was annoying as fuck. Skull Tattoo Bro even placed his dirty boots on the table. More often than not, being a judgmental bitch was the right call.

From what I could gather, they were all engineering students on their way to the week-long Greaves Technology Fair in Las Vegas. They were taking advantage of the cancellation of classes at Eloyce University because of the Adumbrae attacks, and also to escape the stifling state of our city with all the security and checkpoint stuff.

The idiots talked about the newest bioaugmentronics developments they'd find there—like engineering students—and were arguing about having merits of having augmented penises—like guys normally did...I think? Then their conversation shifted to the newest ComExo models, including military ones, slated to be displayed at the fair.

Guys talking about giant robots and giant dicks? So typical. They could talk about whatever they wanted so long as they didn't bother us.

I had attended the Greaves Fair at Vegas like four times if I wasn't mistaken.

I accompanied Mom to that event whenever she had to give a speech in some forum or present new Greaves products. I wasn't a technology nerd, and I never understood Mom's explanation about the stuff there, but I still behaved like a very supportive daughter and showed fake interest.

Augmentations were never my thing. However, I did know that ComExos weren't usually included at the Fair, much less heavy military models. If there were any, they were displayed for their augmentation integrations.

If Mom would invite me to attend the event, I'd be forced to agree because of my dutiful daughter face. I sure did hope I wouldn't meet these fuckers there.

Our order arrived, and it unexpectedly looked good. Even Deen seemed to agree as her stressed face relaxed at the different kinds of food in front of us.

"The waffles are great," I said. Normally, I hated small talk about food, but I really didn't have any topic in my pocket.

And I wasn't lying about the taste. If only these EFU undergrad gits weren't here, these would've been a fun road trip. It really did bring back a lot of memories. Carefree days. Normal days.

Was I becoming...what's the word...sentimental?

I wasn't sure what that was supposed to feel like. Perhaps I was just missing the days I was a normal human and had normal human concerns.

Or was that what being sentimental was about?

"Yes, it's good," Deen agreed, cutting into the chicken with her knife. She placed the piece of meat on a slice of waffle and ate it. "Maybe we could return here someday to eat peacefully," she added, mirroring my thoughts.

"How's your coffee without the honey?" I grinned at her.

She rolled her eyes. "I can drink it black just fine."

I half-expected the bastards at the next table to bother us. Maybe they'd ask for a taste of our food or something. Deen was also a bit tense as she ate. But the fuckers didn't come. Instead, they played gratingly loud music while complaining about how their orders were taking a long time to serve.

One of the truckers went over to their table and told them to turn down the music. There was an argument and the other two truckers backed up their friend. The fratboys deflated and lowered the music's volume. Although it was six against three, their bitchass knew they were in no condition to start picking fights.

The family eating in the other booth had their food wrapped and left, the mother herding her kids away from the "bad men".

"Hey, kids! We're not bad!" Goatee Guy called out, apparently overhearing her. But the family was already out the door.

"I'm so ashamed of bothering these people," Deen said to me in a low voice that others wouldn't hear.

"Bothering who? The customers? You're not doing anything here." Bothering is my middle name. This was my field of expertise, and Deen was incorrect with her interpretation of the law of bothering. "These jerks are the ones inconveniencing everyone here."

"Yes, but if it wasn't for me. I mean, we know why they're here. If I didn't come—um, we shouldn't have gone here."

"We came here for our safety." I raked the skin of my arm with the fork and showed her the red marks. "They're harassing us, and now they're harassing others. It doesn't have anything to do with you."

"Because of me—"

"It's not your fault, okay?" I felt some kind of deja vu here. We have had this conversation in some shape several times already, but the roles were now reversed.

"Maybe we should just leave."

"Deen, do you want me to yell at you?" Time to pull out the 'real talk'. "You need to stand your ground here. And so what if you're super beautiful?"

"Uh, I'm not—"

"Yes, you are. And I was saying that just because you're beautiful, you can't be blamed for the actions of others. Like those creeps bothering the customers here. Was Helen of Troy blamed for the Trojan War?"

"But she was," Deen said with a quizzical look. "Remember the saying, 'the face that launched a thousand ships' to refer to Helen's beauty? She was blamed for the war. Not everyone did, but still."

"Huh..." I needed to brush up on my Greek Mythology. "Those Ancient Greeks were wrong to blame her then." From the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the asshole squad stood up—the mayor's nephew. He looked extremely uncomfortable, clenched fists by his sides. Goatee Guy and Skull Tattoo Bro were forcing him to do something, pointing at our table. Were they ordering him to hit on Deen as some sort of hazing? "What is it this time?" I muttered as the messy-haired freshie hesitantly walked towards us.