She’ll steal your heart,

She’ll make you cry.

But in the end,

She’ll send you off, just to die – Witch by Lazer-88

Operation Menu: Phase Lunch (D+10.2 hours)

A chill wind blew across the placid lake, its gentle ripples reflecting the azure sky. Atop the hill that loomed over the water's edge, nestled among ancient oaks and towering pines, stood a mansion painted chalk white. Its ivy-covered walls and liberal use of gentle curves imposed its presence over the valley below.

The branches of the trees swayed in response to the caress of the breeze. Down by the lake's shore, a group of teenagers had gathered around a set of straw targets, their laughter and excitement cutting through the peaceful atmosphere.

Fifty meters away, on the mansion's terraced gardens, a second group had assembled, their voices hushed.

T.C. leaned over to a young man with golden hair and inquired, "Hey, do you recognize any of those scouts? Think they might be from one of the big-league teams, Mags?"

Mags, still pulling out a throwing knife from one of the targets, smirked and replied, "Who would want to visit this second-rate training camp when all the top-tier rookies are up north?"

Standing next to them, a teenager with long black dreadlocks, deep chocolate skin, and olive-green tactical pants waved dismissively at Mags with a casual brush of his hand.

He then covered his mouth and turned slightly away from the second group before saying, “You two should really stay awake during the briefings. That woman over there with the white hair is the infamous White Witch of the Tower.”

T.C. and Mags exchanged puzzled glances, their expressions reflecting their lack of knowledge.

"You mean Estelle Thornewood?" the teenager continued, a hint of frustration in his voice.

"She's been the top 'Sin for two consecutive seasons."

Mags snorted and crossed his arms, retorting, "Pfft, the top assassin for season one was Mutilator, and for season two, it was Mabus, Dirty Jack."

“Uh sure, but you have to factor in the kill, death, and assist ratio,” Dirty Jack added and held up three fingers. “Count’em one, two, three deaths in two seasons. How many times did Mabus die last season?”

Mags intercepted Jack, and their voices rose in a heated exchange, the words flowing like sparks in the noonday sun. T.C., still adjusting to the brightness, blinked several times.

Meanwhile, the woman with the white hair shifted her gaze, her eyes tracing the ongoing dispute with a languid curiosity. She made no overt gestures, but T.C. sensed her subtle observation, sending a shiver down his spine. It was as though he were under a microscope, every detail of his being examined.

Memories of his hometown flooded back, and T.C. couldn't help but draw a comparison. The sensation of scrutiny was uncannily reminiscent of those days.

The fine hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end as he pondered, "I haven't felt this since I was home."

T.C.'s vision blurred, and he suddenly found himself in an empty dining room, its large windows overlooking the darkening evening sky. He absentmindedly tapped his fingers on the round table, his plate devoid of any food.

His gaze fixed on the half-glass of water, which he idly rotated with his fingers. Droplets of condensation trickled down the sides, forming glistening rivulets on the pristine white tablecloth.

From the open doorway that led deeper into the mansion, a clean-shaven teenage boy with a bowl-cut hairstyle engaged in a loud conversation with a teenage girl that carried across the dining room. She wore a drab black dress, in stark contrast to her raven-black hair, save for a single bleached-blonde braid that she absentmindedly played with as they conversed.

“Look I think that lil’ colonial boy is sad 'cause his loser friends ditched him and he’s all alone,” the teenager said laughing.

“Hello Clay hello Icepick,” T.C. said smiling as they approached. “Congrats to both of you on getting picked up!”

“Can you say first alternate for the Playboys?” Clay said in a mocking tone. “An’ Icepick got drafted for the Queen Pins. We are both going to Gold Teams, can you say elite?”

“I don’t need you speaking for me, simp,” Icepick said, her golden eyes drilling into T.C. was still spinning his glass.

“Sorry Mistress,” Clay replied quickly.

Icepick's ominous shadow began to fork, casting two distinct serpentine tendrils that slithered toward T.C.

"If you don't get selected," she uttered in an icy tone leaning closer to him, "you'll be left waiting for another season. What's your plan, then?"

T.C. remained in solemn silence, his thoughts consumed by the prospect of enduring another year of anticipation. The creeping shadows advanced, curling around the legs of his chair. Gradually merging with the dimness beneath the table, they ascended his leg. It felt as though the weight of all his painstaking efforts and training was about to crumble into an abyss of failure.

The shadow tendrils climbed up to his sides. His shoulders began to feel heavy. Sadness and loneliness filled his stomach and entered his mind. He heard Clay begin to laugh at him. The sharp steak knife was within reach.

“It’s so close,” he thought as the pit of emptiness grew in his stomach.

He didn’t want to kill himself, maybe a few slices in his arm or leg would take the edge off. Just a few cuts here and there, nothing too extreme. The shadows thinned to the side of worms and inched along his shoulder.

The sharp chisel-like blade was so close, maybe when Icepick and Clay would leave T.C. had planned.

"A chisel," T.C. exclaimed with a bright smile. "You know, if I don't make the cut this season, it just means I'll have to double down on my training, work twice as hard, like sculpting stone. Thanks, Dad!"

With a flick of his hand, T.C. absently mindedly brushed the shadowy tendrils away, as if swatting at a bothersome fly.

"I'm willing to bet that I can complete my apprenticeship and become a skilled stone mason," he declared, springing up from the table. He flashed a peace sign toward Clay and Icepick. "I'll grow bigger and stronger than any guardian and faster than all the 'Sins in Battle City, combined!"

Icepick, her face turning a fiery shade of red, retorted, "Whatever, Colonial trash," before storming out of the room.

“You’ll never make it to the big leagues,” Clay said and chased after her. “Wait…my queen.”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“What a fickle couple,” T.C. said scratching his head.

He exhaled deeply, the once-tempting urge to cut himself, was now firmly in the past. Content with his newfound relief, he carefully folded his napkin and placed it neatly on the table. As he glanced out the window, he noticed the lake, and decided to take a stroll on the balcony.

Stepping outside, he was greeted by the refreshing embrace of the cool, crisp evening air. A contented smile graced his face as he gazed down at the water below.

T.C. absorbed the peaceful atmosphere, listening to the soft, rhythmic lapping of the waves as they tenderly caressed the shoreline. The boats, their sails lowered for the night, swayed gently in harmony with the gentle waves of the water. He casually stared at the snow-capped mountains in the distance, his thoughts wandered to the woman with the white hair.

“White Witch of the Tower,” he muttered. “I wonder if you pick out a name like that or does someone give it to you? I bet the AI system that runs Battle City picks something like that out…”

"Some names are earned," spoke a voice as chilling as Icepick's, yet precise and razor-sharp, "I do have to admit that I'm impressed. So few individuals can resist mind worms, let alone dismiss them as a slight inconvenience."

The air chilled and T.C. the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He heard someone lightly breathing behind him. A finger tapped him on the shoulder.

"Oh, that?" T.C. inquired, spinning around, but he found no one in sight. "Icepick has been trying to manipulate my mind since the very beginning...oh."

He quickly scanned left and right, confirming that there was no one present. With a surge of urgency, he activated his witch sight, but there wasn't a trace, no lingering trail, or residual image nearby. Just then, the woman with the white hair emerged from the doorway.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," she greeted him with a graceful curtsy. "I'm Captain Estelle Thornewood of the Blue Team."

Estelle extended her hand towards him, her fingers pointed downward.

"Umm, yeah, it's great to meet you," T.C. responded, shaking her hand. "Oh, should I, like, kiss it or something? Or maybe I'm supposed to bow, right? Honestly, I'm not entirely sure what I’m supposed to do when meeting a Royalie."

"What gives you the impression that I have royal ancestry?" Estelle asked.

He scanned her, but his witch sight didn’t register her life force or aura. Seeing the blank look on her face, he bowed deeply.

“I guess you kinda carry yourself like the ones I’ve seen on the telecrystal,” he said bowing again.

Scratching the back of his head T.C. said, “You are pretty good, I didn’t even feel or see the air currents when you move. How did you sneak up on me, is that a ‘Sin skill or something?”

“It’s referred to as Thoughtful Steps,” Estelle replied.

T.C. inquired, "So, how does it work?"

Estelle let out a sigh and raised her hand towards the sky, then slowly turned it over, palm up.

"It latches onto emotions directed towards the practitioner," Estelle explained, her hand returning to her side gracefully. "With practice, one can follow that emotional connection back to its source."

"I bet you could counter any sniper aiming for you," T.C. said, his grin widening. "That was amazing. No wonder you're the top 'Sin. Do you think you could teach me that or something?"

"Alas, it would be of little use to you in Battle City," Estelle replied. "The officials consider Thoughtful Steps to be too overpowered for sanctioned matches. Furthermore, there’s a slight drawback. If one doesn't have a direct line of sight or knowledge of the surrounding area, a careless hunter might find themselves embedded in a wall or the floor. Plus, there exists the possibility of a counter, there’s always a counter, and one must find it."

“Oh,” T.C. said, his mind buzzing with the new prospects.

“While this discussion is entertaining, my motives lie in examining the possibility of you joining the Thornewood household,” Estelle said.

"Maybe there's a way you can modify it and... wait, what? You mean join your crew, an actual crew, not just some reserve or second-string backup gladiator?" T.C. asked skeptically.

T.C. scratched the back of his head, his gaze drifting away from Estelle's unwavering stare.

"But... why me? Why not someone like Dirty Jack or Ice Pick? They're way faster and stronger than I am," T.C. voiced his doubts.

Estelle moved in a slow circle around him, taking her time to ponder his question.

"Tunnel Cat, you possess a unique set of skills that the Thornewoods find invaluable. Firstly, your natural affinity for caves and narrow spaces," Estelle explained.

T.C. interrupted, “Umm, last time I checked Battle City isn’t overrun with mines. I think they only have three at most.”

"Two," Estelle corrected. "One shouldn't limit oneself to the understanding that advantages lie within the realm of the obvious. For example, cities have underground sewers, and buildings require air ducts."

"Huh," T.C. said when he realized that he had never considered these possibilities.

His mind filled with endless opportunities, and he took a step back, rubbing his chin.

"From what I understand, you possess additional skills that can't easily be quantified on a gladiator scorecard, such as the ability to relocate important items or build improvised devices."

Estelle gracefully rested her hands upon the stone railing, her posture exuding an air of contemplation. With a gentle lean, she peered over the edge, closing her eyes momentarily to immerse herself in the ambient atmosphere. As her eyelids fluttered open, the moonlight cast a subtle, ethereal radiance.

"In my understanding of your past is correct, not only did you manage to procure an ECG generator amidst the chaos of a war-torn environment, but you employed it effectively to dispatch a squad of Fomoire," Estelle remarked thoughtfully. "Such a feat is by no means trivial, even for those well-versed in the art of monster hunting."

“Oh that, ECGs are really common in mines cause they don’t emit any gas or…wait,” T.C. said pausing and studying Estelle carefully. “How…did you know that? The entire event was classified by the government.”

Estelle said softly, “Your expertise is relocating equipment. I have a knack for acquiring information.”

She pinched her fingers together and flicked her hand around, producing a business card. T.C. took the card and turned it over. He ran his fingers across the raised gold lettering.

“Please consider my offer and let me know by morning,” Estelle said.

She turned away and headed towards the door, going back out into the dining room.

“Mistress errr Captain Estelle, can I ask you something?” T.C. asked, catching up to her and bowing again.

“You just did,” Estelle said meeting his eyes with hers.

T.C. could feel a shiver coursing down his spine, and a single, nervous bead of sweat traced a path down the side of his forehead.

"Um, I'm sorry, may I ask you something?" T.C. stammered, his voice tinged with anxiety. "I mean, do you only want me on your crew because of my tunneling experience, or is it..."

Before he could finish his question, Estelle gently silenced him by placing her delicate fingers on his lips. A sense of calm washed over him, transforming the tempestuous storm of doubt in his mind into serene clarity.

"To become a member of Thornewood, one must possess the ability to devise unconventional solutions on the spur of the moment, regardless of the odds, embrace challenges, and foster a familial bond of protection," Estelle explained, her finger withdrawing from his lips. "Your tunneling skills, my dear, are merely an added asset."

T.C. couldn't help but return the smile, his heart swelling with a profound warmth that seemed to chase away the emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Unbeknownst to him, tears welled up at the corners of his eyes, silently tracing their path down his cheeks as memories of his father's encouraging words flooded his mind.

With a deep sense of humility, he bowed once more, deliberately keeping his head lowered, praying that Estelle wouldn't notice the glistening tear tracks on his face.

His voice trembled as he spoke, "I've thought about your invitation. I give you my word that I won't let you or the other Thornewoods down, and never give up."

As T.C. blinked away his tears, his focus returned to Triumph, who continued to engage in spirited conversation, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

“And I asked, what about the monkey?!” Triumph said. “And the proctologist said, ‘the monkey watched!’”

“Thank you,” T.C. said hugging Triumph.

Triumph rested his head on T.C.’s shoulder and asked, “I hope my little inspirational story helps.”

“It did,” T.C. said unsure of how to answer. “I think I got a plan, but first we need to steal…errr relocate some equipment.”

Triumph barked, wagging his tail, “What are we going to do?”

“We're gonna hunt some rabbit,” T.C. said.

***