The biggest flaw of a warrior is the failure to ask for help – General Mann

Operation Menu: Phase Lunch (D-23 hours)

Sitting alone in a booth, Estelle leaned back on the pillowy vinyl bench seat. An old man with heavy lines around his eyes and face sat across from her, staring into space. She studied his tattered tweed jacket and wondered if it was ever new and if so, how many decades ago it was purchased.

Seeing that the old man presented little if any, amusement, she turned her attention to the overweight cook and his grease-splattered apron. He flipped a burger and caught it with the precision of a marksman.

Giving up on the short-order cook as a source of entertainment, Estelle shifted her gaze to the diner window. She flicked a newspaper away with her finger and dragged it back while watching people pass by the parking lot.

Eyeing the name “Battle City Gazette” she looked at the notes she made in the margins in red ink.

As the tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon wafted through the diner, Estelle's stomach couldn't help but protest with a low rumble. She scanned the menu, but it lacked any allure, leaving her dissatisfied with the options.

Amidst the clatter of dishes and the sizzle of the grill, the cook's grizzly voice cut through the air, "Hockey puck burnt to a crisp, two-dashes topped with rabbit food needs legs, Honey."

In response, a woman in her mid-forties, adorned in a form-fitting pink dress and a pristine white apron, emerged gracefully from behind the counter. With practiced ease, she scooped up a plate and carried it over to a teenage boy perched on a stool nearby. The plate held a delicious-looking dish that made the boy dig in without hesitation.

Estelle rolled her eyes as she reviewed the nicknames, she had given the patrons when she first walked into the diner. As she watched the waitress pass by, carrying a load of empty dishes, she noticed that "Honey" was stenciled on her dress.

"I bet I could have come up with a better name," Estelle thought, scowling.

Her attention then shifted to an old man who caught her eye. After some contemplation, she decided on giving him the nickname "Grumpy McGrump-Grump."

A swirl of steam rose from the white coffee cup that was placed in front of him by Honey.

“I wonder if he's a retired mafia boss or something,” Estelle speculated.

Grumpy McGrump-Grump continued to stare with the same placid expression he had when she first entered the Number 7 Diner. Deciding he wasn't worth any more of her time, she shifted her focus to the teenager who had ordered the burger. He was happily munching on the bits of bacon that had fallen off and reading the comic section of the newspaper. As the window rattled with the thunder of two motorcycles pulling up to the parking lot, Estelle found herself intrigued by the newcomers.

The moment the rumble of the two motorcycles reached its crescendo, a cloud of dust swirled around the Number 7 Diner's entrance. Curious heads turned to see the source of the commotion. As the dust settled, a mid-aged man clad in faded blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a sleek black leather jacket dismounted one of the bikes with a firm push of his black boots against the ground.

His presence exuded an air of rugged confidence, and his jacket and bike were emblazoned with a striking symbol - a wheel with flames shooting out from its sides, giving off an aura of excitement and danger.

As he stood beside his motorcycle, he ran a gloved hand through his dark, tousled hair and glanced around with a hint of defiance in his eyes. After adjusting his mirrored shades, he scanned the diner.

With a subtle nod to his companion, who mirrored his outfit and motorcycle emblem, they approached the entrance, their boots thudding with steps against the pavement. The diner's patrons stole glances at the newcomers' appearance.

Estelle, who had been watching them enter the dinner wondered how long this would take. She cast a lazy eye toward them and picked out a napkin from the dispenser.

As they made their way inside, the tinkling of the diner's bell announced their entry, and the atmosphere seemed to hold its breath, anticipating what would happen next. The mid-aged man and his companion took a moment to scan the room, their expressions unreadable, before settling down on the empty bench opposite Estelle.

The diner resumed its normal activity, but a subtle buzz of excitement lingered in the air. The man who trailed behind the leader ran his fingers through his blonde hair and leaned against the jukebox.

"Doll Face, it's been, what, too long since I last saw you?" he said, flashing a warm smile at her.

"Meh, 766 days?" Estelle replied casually, folding a napkin into a little boat. "Marko, how can I put this? I require... umm."

"Is the big bad Estelle asking for help?" he teased, a slight laugh in his voice.

Estelle stood up, smoothing her jacket as she did so. Marko chuckled and snorted playfully.

"Chill, I'm just yankin' your leash, E," he said, using her nickname affectionately. "Before I agree to anything, I need to eat. Angel Eyes, you want anything? I'm buying."

She couldn't help but feel grateful for his lightheartedness and support but refused to show it.

"No thank you, I'm good," she said with a faint smile.

Marko winked at her and asked, “Not even a…strawberry cheesecake shake?”

Estelle took a moment to collect her thoughts and stopped folding the next napkin. He snapped his fingers and Honey appeared from behind the counter. She smacked her lips on some bubblegum.

“Wat’ can I getcha?” she asked.

Marko sat back and threw his arm over the back of the seat.

His eyes scanned the colorful menu hanging above the counter, his finger tracing over the items as if he were deciphering a treasure map.

"Let's see," he mused, his gaze lingering on each delicious option. "A big stack of pancakes, a burger with everything on it, buttered toast with a generous spread of jam, a dozen donuts, and..."

He paused for dramatic effect, and Estelle leaned in, eager to hear the final choice.

"One strawberry cheesecake shake with extra whipped cream, Honey," Marko said, enunciating each word with theatrical precision.

Honey merely nodded as she smacked on her gum, unfazed by the elaborate order.

"Did you get all of that, Honey?" she asked.

With a cheeky grin, Honey replied so that her voice carried through the entire dinner, "Paulie, Boss Kitty wants a Jayne Mansfield, hockey puck all the way, shingles with a shimmy and shake a dozen sinkers, and a Betty Grable with extra Betty."

Honey placed her hand on her hip and fired a wink aimed at Estelle.

"Did I miss anything, Doll Face?" she asked.

Estelle could only nod. As Honey strutted behind the counter, Estelle found herself at a loss for words, speechless. Honey picked a slice of cheesecake from the small fridge and threw it in a blender along with other ingredients.

After firing up the blender, Honey poured it into a tall glass and slapped it down in front of Estelle. The rich whipped crème dripped down from the sides, and she pulled out a long spoon from her apron.

“Order will be up in a min Boss Kitty,” Honey said walking away and shaking her rear.

The milkshake materialized in Estelle's hands, and she began to slurp her drink.

"Did you really just use magic for something as trivial as picking up a milkshake?" Marko asked with a hint of disdain.

Estelle simply ignored his comment, continuing to sip on her drink. Once she finished, she used the spoon to scoop out the remaining whipped cream.

“I’ve known you for ten or so years and this is the first time I saw something other than resting bitch face,” Marko said chucking.

After the bell chimed, Paulie placed the plates on the counter with a graceful flourish, the clinking of china filling the room. Honey, quick as a hawk, swooped in like a dancer, effortlessly collecting the plates and setting them down before Marko with a soft, almost reverent touch.

"So why exactly did you call for a sit-down?" Marko inquired, leaning back in his chair with a hint of intrigue in his eyes.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Estelle's eyes darted around the table, her fingers tapping lightly on the rim of her empty glass, searching for more whipped cream that had long vanished.

Her voice carried a note of slyness as she finally spoke, "As you may or may not know, we are going to declare the Iron Mine a battle zone."

Marko let out a dismissive chuckle, shaking his head. "Stupid play but go on."

"I dare say Red will reinforce the territory, just to spite me," Estelle continued, sighing.

Suddenly, Marko's hand came down on the table with a sharp snap, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot. He pointed his thumb towards the door, a silent command that sent a shiver down the spines of the guests and staff alike. Without a single word, they obediently filed out of the room, leaving behind an eerie silence that hung in the air like a heavy fog. Only the old man, Angel Eyes, Estelle, and Marko remained, the tension palpable.

The old man, a weathered figure with sharp, calculating eyes, looked towards me with a knowing expression, a silent observer with a hint of life back in his eyes.

Angel Eyes stood tall, his arms crossing over his chest as he delivered a swift kick to the jukebox with the heel of his polished boot. In response, the haunting melody of "Enjoy the Silence" filled the diner.

"All's clear, Boss Kitty," Angel Eyes reported, his voice low and steady.

Marko engrossed in the newspaper before him, turned his attention away from the mundane astronomy section and focused on the matter at hand.

"According to our Oracles, the Thornewoods are going to take the mine," he stated, his eyes narrowing with concern. "What do you want the Wheels to do?"

Estelle leaned closer, and couldn't help but express her frustration. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she let out an exasperated grumble. She had something to say, but her silence spoke volumes about the weight of the situation and the complexities of their predicament.

“That’s right, you don’t believe in soothsayers, do you?” Marko asked.

“If I heeded the advice of every patchouli-scented decrepit old swamp donkey with a crystal ball, I wouldn’t leave my…place.”

Marko's eyes narrowed, a snort escaping him as he cracked his knuckles.

"And what role do you want us to perform? If we back your play, team Blue will hand over the territory to us, or..." he trailed off, leaving the unsaid consequences hanging in the air.

Grabbing a piece of toast from the table, he began to crunch on it, the sound loud in the tense atmosphere.

Estelle's voice remained cool and collected despite Marko's bravado.

"Your job is quite simple," she said, her tone carrying an air of authority. "Declare Atherton Heights a battle zone."

Marko's eyes widened in surprise, caught off guard by Estelle's bold move. He coughed, choking on the toast, and hastily spitting out the pieces, his composure momentarily shaken.

“That’s balls deep in red territory and the highest revenue steam in Battle City,” Marko said. “As soon as we even think about making a move, the entire zone will be covered in a sea of red.”

Estelle reclined in her chair, a confident smile playing on her lips as she responded, "That's exactly what I'm counting on."

Marko leaned forward, his expression serious and resolute.

"The Wheels don't have the numbers to make such a play. I'm not going to risk our reputation getting tarnished."

"Once you declare war on the Heights, Red will be forced to redirect their resources to defend it, including their people stationed at the Iron Mine. You don't even have to launch a full-blown strike; I just need a diversion," Estelle explained, her eyes shining with determination.

Locking eyes with her, Marko's voice softened slightly, curiosity piqued. "Why do you even need us to create a distraction? You could solo whatever is there, E."

“My presence is requested elsewhere,” Estelle said.

Angel Eyes casually plucked a toothpick from the counter and started chewing on it.

"The reputation of the Wheels is undisputed in Battle City. It took us the last three seasons to grow it from a seed," Grumpy asserted firmly. "Our reputation is to be decided by us and not others. We will not risk a strategically meaningless play."

Estelle's keen senses detected Montaigne's familiar scent in the air.

Her voice softened with a hint of nostalgia as she playfully remarked, "Montaigne, so you're the strategist for the Wheels. I was wondering why they got so good all of a sudden."

Montaigne's eyes sparkled with a mix of pride and amusement as he smiled back at her, giving a mock salute from across the room.

"Guilty as charged," he admitted, his voice filled with good-natured humor.

A playful smile tugged at her lips as she continued, "You're looking a bit worn for the ripe old age of fifteen I haven't seen you since you beat me in the grandmaster's tournament four years ago.”

"And you don't look a day over 687," he said with a playful grin, shuffling over to her from his seat. "May I?"

"This is Wheel territory, and I'm but a guest here," Estelle replied, her tone gracious. "But manners are always appreciated. Please, grace us with your presence."

Marko graciously shifted over to make room as Montaigne settled down beside him.

Montaigne rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, "If I recall, our matches kept ending in a draw."

"Anything less than a total victory is a loss," she retorted with a hint of competitive fire in her eyes.

“Spoken like a true Royalie,” Marko said. “Okay, so answer me this E, why should we risk our rep so you can claim some useless old mine?”

“Before I offer a proper retort, I require certain assurances that what is stated here, stays here,” Estelle said in a hushed tone.

Marko leaned back and nodded towards Angel Eyes, and he kicked the jukebox, and the next song began to play. Marko and Montaigne turned towards Estelle.

“Cowgirl by Underworld is sufficient,” Estelle said steepling her fingers. “As you are both aware, zones grant bonuses and skills.”

She picked up the newspaper and flipped the pages till she arrived at the map of Battle City.

“Residential zones grant bonuses to melee or defense skills, industrial zones can create equipment and so on,” Montaigne said.

“The same rules apply to rituals, opening gateways, and summoning,” Estelle said. “That’s why I need the mine under my control.”

Marko picked up a new piece of toast and began to crunch on it while Montaigne studied the map. A single circle of blue was in the middle of a Red’s territory.

“You’re talking about a base-level skill that any decent mage passes up because it’s useless to have right?” Marko asked as he snapped his fingers.

Angel Eyes nodded, affirming, "Exactly. We avoid picking the ritual magic skill due to its time-consuming nature, even with the aid of a temporal catalyst."

Estelle couldn't help but grin at the notion. Montaigne began rotating the map until he abruptly halted, fixing his gaze on a specific point.

“Fucking shit!” he said. “In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni, it’s a damned palindrome.”

“A what?” asked Marko.

"A palindrome is something that means the same backward and forward," Montaigne clarified. "But this particular one is in Latin and translates to 'we turn in circles in the night and are consumed by fire.' Supposedly, it was used to summon the devil back in the day."

Estelle chimed in, "At first, I simply saw it as something catchy to say, as fans often enjoy such intriguing phrases. However, after completing the Abramelin ritual, I began to notice certain skills showing significant improvement."

“Ah hell,” Angel Eyes said.

"Ah, Naraka-gati," Estelle began, her tone carrying a sense of intellectual curiosity. "The concept of hell, often depicted with fire and brimstone, is merely a glimpse of the multifaceted reality within that particular realm."

Meanwhile, Marko casually rolled up a pancake, expertly dipped it into syrup, and savored a bite, seemingly absorbed in the conversation.

Montaigne, his eyes darted back and forth studying Estelle, asked, "Assuming we decide to offer our support, which is indeed a significant consideration, how precisely does the Wheels faction stand to benefit from this collaboration?"

"Um…Battle City Stadium," Marko remarked, earning an immediate glare from Montaigne, who disapproved of such casual banter during their serious discussions.

As Angel Eyes observed Marko and Estelle, his toothpick dropped from his mouth. Montaigne shook his head, finding it hard to believe the direction the conversation was taking.

Nonetheless, Estelle, exuding a confident demeanor, declared, "Your terms are indeed acceptable."

Her smug tone hinted at her satisfaction with the negotiation.

Angel Eyes couldn't help but snort, mildly amused by the situation. Marko, wanting to maintain professionalism, extended his hand, and Estelle firmly shook it. She then gracefully stood, offering a half-curtsey to acknowledge the conclusion of their business.

"With our matters settled, I bid thee a good day," she stated politely as she gracefully exited the booth.

The old man nodded to Marko, and he returned the gesture. Marko jumped up from the back of the booth and intercepted Estelle before she could leave.

“If somehow you manage to pull off the impossible, I have a piece of advice for you Doll Face,” Marko said his face tensing.

“I’m fully aware the Council will be doing their best to bench me this season,” Estelle said.

"Not that jazz, somethin' else," Marko chimed in, glancing down at Montaigne. "Ya remember when ya hired me to be part of that Ninja-Team 7 show, and the stage crew cats started hatin' on me 'cause I wasn't no fancy actor?"

Estelle let out an exasperated huff, "As I recollect, they loathed me more than some punch-punch individual."

"Three-time world punch-punch champion," Marko emphasized with a grin, trying to hold back his amusement. "Every time those cats were givin' me a hard time, like magic, you'd show up outta thin air, and all the attention shifted to ya."

"Purely coincidental, I assure you," Estelle replied nonchalantly.

"The whole deal is, that show became the top show, highest rated for eleven seasons," Marko continued. "It was 'cause the stage crew and them actors had somethin' to bind 'em together."

"Like separate fingers, they're weak and all alone," Marko demonstrated, stretching out his hand in front of Estelle, fingers spread wide.

Then he dramatically clenched his hand into a fist, making a resounding pop.

"But when they come together, they can take down any adversary," he explained.

"Plus, I gotta say, you'd look absolutely bitchin' in a slick leather jacket or with a cool gang tag," Marko said with a grin.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Estelle said and exited the diner.

After watching her leave Marko asked, “This E has something up her sleeve?”

Montaigne replied, “Several things, so we better be prepared if she somehow manages to seize Gold Team’s headquarters.”

***