Chapter 8: Gimme The Deets

Part 1

Sera didn’t wait for Olivia to finish rummaging. She reached straight into the bag herself, her elbow knocking against a propped-up crutch, until she triumphantly hauled out the infamous dating guidebook. The cover gleamed under the harsh diner lights like a cursed artifact promising equal parts chaos and questionable wisdom.

Sera leaned in, her eyes sparkling with an intensity that was just a few degrees too high. “So let’s see what’s next on the menu?”

Olivia flipped through the pages with the theatrical flair of a priestess revealing an ancient prophecy, humming a low, dramatic tune. “Let’s see… Level 1 was done… Level 2 was successful… ah! Here we go.”

She cleared her throat, her voice dropping into a tone of solemn gravitas.

“LEVEL 4,” she read aloud, “Ask a Question That Reveals His Soul.”

Sera gasped softly, a hand flying to her chest. “A soul quest. That sounds pretty high stakes.”

Erika raised a skeptical eyebrow. “We didn’t even finish Level 3. Why are we continuing when we barely survived the tutorial.”

Olivia waved her off with the breezy confidence of someone who had never once read a manual in her life. “Technicalities, Erika. Grind the XP where you can.”

Sera nodded solemnly, though that frantic sparkle hadn't left her eyes. "Skip the tutorial. We’re going straight to the boss fight."

Olivia straightened her posture, gripping her crutches like twin battle-axes. “That’s right. So who goes first? Who wants to enter the fray?”

Sera pointed at her without hesitation. “That should be simple. You.”

Olivia blinked, her bravado flickering. “Me?”

"Exactly." Sera leaned back, crossing her arms. The manic edge had smoothed into a sharp, focused mischief—the Director back in the chair. "And since you’re already 'battle-scarred'—" she gestured to Olivia’s bandaged ankle—"no one will see you coming. You’re the vanguard. Our emotional tank."

Olivia’s chest puffed out. She looked at her crutches, then at the crowded mall walkway beyond the railing. The "King" was back in the saddle. "A vanguard. I accept the mantle. My injury shall be my shield, my garlic breath my aura."

"This is a logistical catastrophe," Erika muttered, but her hands moved instinctively to straighten Olivia’s collar anyway. "What even counts as a 'soul-revealing' question? Do we ask about childhood trauma or their stance on pineapple pizza?"

"We'll know it when the King returns with the spoils," Sera said. She gave Olivia a gentle, firm nudge toward the exit. "Go. Find us a soul to dissect."

And just like that, the tension that had been suffocating the table since yesterday loosened—not gone, not forgotten, but softened by the familiar, ridiculous rhythm of their friendship.

Olivia stood. Her chair screeched against the tile—a sharp, piercing sound that made three people at the next table jump. She didn't flinch. She planted her crutches with a ceremonial thud-clack and adjusted her stance.

She began her march.

Every swing of the crutches was purposeful. She bypassed a group of teenagers and a man in a business suit, her eyes scanning the horizon like a hawk hunting for a worthy spirit.

Erika pinched the bridge of her nose, watching the display. “This is a terrible idea. Statistically, I hope that this doesn’t end with just a lawsuit.”

Olivia ignored her, adjusting her grip like she was preparing for a mid-season finale. She inhaled deeply, puffing out her chest. The garlic from the pasta wafted into the air around her like a literal battle aura.

Part 2

Olivia scanned the room with narrowed eyes—slow, deliberate, and deeply dramatic. Her gaze swept past a group of loud teenagers, a couple sharing a fry, and a man wrestling with a stroller… then locked onto a cute, muscular boy with a soft, friendly face sitting near the fountain.

“There,” she whispered to herself, voice low and reverent. “A worthy opponent.”

Sera watched her go, the smile on her face finally looking less like a mask and more like it actually belonged there. She reached for another piece of Erika’s chicken, chewing slowly this time, her eyes tracking the "King's" progress.

She leaned toward Erika, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ten bucks she trips before she even opens her mouth.”

Erika smirked, adjusting her sunglasses like a seasoned analyst reviewing game footage. “Make it twenty. And five bucks says the mysterious boy has to catch her in a life-or-death romantic save.”

They shook on it, both leaning forward like sports commentators watching a high-stakes play in the final quarter.

Olivia limped forward with heavy gravitas, each step punctuated by the determined thunk of her crutches. Her braid swung behind her like a heroic cape caught in a phantom wind. She paused at the edge of the seating area, adjusting her grip and psyching herself up for the encounter.

“That girl is going on a trip,” Sera murmured, leaning in.

“She’s going to die,” Erika corrected.

But Olivia didn’t trip.

She didn’t wobble.

She didn’t even hesitate.

She approached the boy with the terrifying confidence of someone who believed fate had personally cleared his schedule for this meeting. She said something—the words lost to the diner's hum—and the boy laughed. Then she laughed. Then, impossibly, he leaned closer. She leaned in back.

Erika’s jaw dropped. “No. No. Absolutely not. That’s gotta be a glitch in the matrix.”

Sera’s eyes widened, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. “She’s… she’s actually doing it.”

They watched in stunned silence as Olivia pulled out her phone and handed it to the boy. He typed something, nodded, and handed it back. They exchanged bright smiles. He actually waved as she turned to leave.

Olivia began her return march, triumphant, her crutches clicking against the tile like victory drums.

Erika slumped back in her chair, defeated. “How? Seriously, how? How does a meathead who genuinely thinks she was a harem king in another life get a number before I do?”

Sera tapped her chin thoughtfully, her analytical brain whirring. “Well, I have noticed once in a while that she gives off a masculine aura. Like… a retired war general trapped in the body of a girl who can’t chew her food properly.”

Erika groaned, rubbing her temples. “That’s not comforting, Sera. That’s an insult to the laws of attraction.”

Sera shrugged, a genuine spark of mischief in her eyes. “It’s the only logical explanation.”

Olivia reached the table, beaming so hard it looked like she’d just personally slain a dragon and brought back its head.

“Mission accomplished,” she declared, slapping her phone onto the table like a trophy.

Part 3

Olivia stood before them like a conquering hero returning from a bloody campaign—chin lifted, crutches planted triumphantly, chest puffed out with the smug, golden glow of someone who had just defied every known law of social physics.

“I have obtained his number,” she announced, as if declaring the fall of a rival kingdom.

Sera and Erika just stared at her, still processing the reality that Olivia—the same Olivia who once tripped over a stationary ottoman and blamed it on “an unseen assassin”—had just secured a cute boy’s contact info in under five minutes.

Sera leaned forward, her eyes dancing. “Okay, okay, gimme the deets. When’s the date?”

Olivia beamed. “Next month!”

The table went dead.

Erika blinked. Once. Twice. A third time, slow and mechanical, like her brain was stuck in a buffering loop.

“Next… month,” she repeated, her voice flat with pure disbelief.

Sera’s brow furrowed, her playful energy hitting a wall. “Why next month? Why not this weekend? Why not literally any time that isn’t thirty days away?”

Olivia puffed out her chest proudly, gripping her crutches like ceremonial props. “Because we’re cosplaying magical girls together!”

Silence.

The kind of heavy, pressurized silence that could be bottled and sold as “Existential Dread.”

Erika’s jaw dropped so hard it nearly hit her plate. “Cosplay. Magical. Girls.”

Sera’s eye gave a tiny, frantic twitch. “Olivia. Sweetheart. Sunshine. The goal was to pick up guys, not recruit them into your… your… side-quests.”

Olivia blinked, looking genuinely wounded. “But he’s a cosplayer! A very passionate one! Our auras literally said that we were perfect for a mid-air magical girl transformation sequence together.”

Erika made a noise that could only be described as a dying modem. “Your auras—?”

Sera buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. “That’s not a soul-revealing question, Olivia. That’s just a hobby.”

Olivia shrugged, completely unbothered. “Hobbies are just the soul’s accessories.”

Erika stared at her. “That is the least comforting thing you’ve ever said.”

Sera slumped back, exhaling a long, dramatic breath. “Level 4… failed. Absolute zero.”

Olivia raised a finger, eyes shining with righteous conviction. “Correction. Level 4… transcended.”

Erika groaned into her palms. “The world is doomed.”

Olivia, oblivious to their despair, pulled out her phone and proudly turned the screen toward them. “Look! He sent me his Instagram!”

Sera and Erika leaned in, unable to help themselves.

The boy’s feed was a shrine to high-budget chaos. Elaborate magical girl poses with sparkly post-processing. Full-plate armor builds with dramatic lighting. There was even a transformation reel with suspiciously professional editing, featuring him mid-twirl in a frilly skirt, looking more cute than any human had the right to be.

Erika’s soul left her body for the second time that afternoon.

Sera rubbed her temples like a mother who had reached the end of her rope. “Maybe reincarnation is real. Maybe Olivia was actually a harem king in a past life.”

Olivia beamed, taking it as a compliment. “Exactly!”

Sera sighed, but a small, fragile smile finally tugged at the corners of her lips. “At least you got a number.”

“And a cosplay partner,” Olivia added proudly.

Erika muttered, “This is why we can’t have normal missions. We don’t have a party leader; we have a liability.”

Sera leaned back, watching them—Olivia defending her new "guild mate," Erika lamenting the death of her sanity. Both of them were spiraling in opposite directions, and for a moment, Sera’s smile softened into something real. Something quiet and profoundly grateful.

The trio was back in motion. Chaotic, ridiculous, and broken, but moving.

The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, golden bars across the diner. The high-level danger of the morning had been traded for the low-stakes comedy of Olivia’s new alliance.

Sera reached into her bag and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, snapping the paper between her fingers.

“I think you need a mana refill,” Sera said, sliding the bill toward Olivia. “Go get some mochi donuts. The strawberry ones. The Hero deserves a victory feast.”

Olivia didn't just grab the money; she lunged for it. In her manic greed for sugar, she scrambled to her feet, leaving her crutches leaning precariously against the table.

“Olivia, wait—!” Erika started.

Olivia took two heavy, oblivious strides toward the counter. On the third, her brain finally remembered the sprain. Her left ankle gave way with a sickening, rubbery wobble.

She didn't scream. She didn't even flail.

As she began to plummet, Olivia’s instincts—the ones she’d clearly spent years honing for no practical reason—took over. She tucked her chin, rolled over her right shoulder, and hit the tile in a fluid, circular motion. She transitioned from the roll into a low somersault, and with a grunt of pure, unadulterated willpower, she pushed off the floor.

She vaulted. Her sneakers let out a sharp, high-pitched squeak against the tile as she stuck a lopsided, one-footed landing directly in front of the register.

The cashier’s tongs clattered to the floor. The manager three yards away stopped dead, hand hovering over his belt.

Olivia didn't even look back. She just slapped the ten dollars onto the counter and exhaled. “One strawberry ring. Make it legendary.”

Back at the table, Erika and Sera sat in stunned, absolute silence.