Chapter 8: Gimme The Deets

Part 1

Sera didn’t wait for Olivia to finish rummaging. She reached straight into the bag herself, elbow knocking against a precariously balanced crutch, until she triumphantly hauled out the infamous dating guidebook. Under the diner’s harsh lights, the glossy cover gleamed like a cursed relic promising equal parts chaos and questionable wisdom.

Sera leaned in, eyes sparkling with an intensity 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 unveiling an ancient prophecy, humming a dramatic tune under her breath. “Level 1… done. Level 2… conquered. Level 3… technically attempted. Ah! Here we go.”

She cleared her throat, voice dropping into solemn gravitas.

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

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. “Technicalities. Grind the XP where you can.”

Sera nodded, though that frantic sparkle in her eyes didn’t dim. “True Olivia style. Skip the tutorial. Straight to the boss fight.”

Olivia straightened her posture, gripping her crutches like twin battle‑axes. “Exactly. So who goes first? Who will enter the fray?”

Sera pointed at her immediately. “You.”

Olivia blinked. “Me?”

“Of course.” Sera leaned back, crossing her arms. The manic edge smoothed into something sharper — the Director sliding back into her chair. “And since you’re already ‘battle‑scarred’—” she gestured to the 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 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 instinctively straightened Olivia’s collar anyway. “What even counts as a soul‑revealing question? Childhood trauma? 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 nearby diners jump. She didn’t flinch. She planted her crutches with ceremonial thud‑clacks and adjusted her stance.

She began her march.

Every swing of the crutches was purposeful. She scanned the horizon like a hawk hunting for a worthy spirit.

Erika pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is a terrible idea. Statistically, I hope this doesn’t end with 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 around her like a literal battle aura.

Sera watched her go, a tiny, fragile smile tugging at the corner of her mouth — the first real one since yesterday.

Part 2

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

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

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

She leaned toward Erika. “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 says the mysterious boy has to catch her in a life‑or‑death romantic save.”

They shook on it, leaning forward like sports commentators watching a high‑stakes play.

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 phantom wind. She paused at the edge of the seating area, adjusting her grip, psyching herself up.

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

“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. She said something — the words lost to the diner’s hum — and the boy laughed. Then she laughed. Then he leaned closer. She leaned back.

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

Sera’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. “She’s… actually doing it.”

They watched in stunned silence as Olivia handed him her phone. He typed something, nodded, and returned it. They exchanged bright smiles. He even waved as she turned to leave.

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

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

Sera tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Well… she does give off a masculine aura sometimes. Like a retired war general trapped in the body of a girl.”

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

Olivia reached the table, beaming like she’d slain a dragon and brought back its head.

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

Part 3

“I've 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 secured a cute boy’s contact info in under five minutes.

Sera leaned forward, 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 buffering.

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

Sera’s playful energy hit 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. “Because we’re cosplaying magical girls together!”

Silence.

The kind of silence referred to as Existential Dread.

Erika’s jaw dropped. “Cosplay. Magical. Girls.”

Sera’s eye twitched. “Olivia. Sweetheart. Sunshine. The goal was to pick up guys, not recruit them into your… your… side‑quests.”

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

Erika made a noise like a dying modem. “Your auras—?”

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

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

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

Sera slumped back with a dramatic sigh. “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.”

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

Sera and Erika leaned in despite 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, even a transformation reel with suspiciously professional editing. In one clip, he twirled in a frilly skirt, looking more adorable than most girls.

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

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

Olivia beamed. “Exactly!”

Sera sighed — but a small, fragile smile tugged at 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 spiraling in opposite directions. And for a moment, Sera’s smile softened into something real. Something quiet. Something grateful.

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

The sun dipped lower, 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 it between her fingers.

“I think you need a mana refill,” she said, sliding the bill toward Olivia. “Go get some mochi donuts. 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 upright, leaving her crutches leaning precariously against the table.

“Olivia, wait—!” Erika started.

Too late.

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

She didn't scream.

She didn't flail.

Her instincts — the ones she’d clearly honed for no practical reason — took over.

She tucked her chin, rolled over her right shoulder, palms slapping the tile with a sharp echo. She transitioned into a low somersault, braid whipping behind her like a comet tail. With a grunt of pure willpower, she pushed off the floor—

Vaulted—

And stuck a lopsided, one‑footed landing directly in front of the register.

The cashier’s tongs clattered to the floor. A manager froze mid‑step.

Olivia didn’t look back. She 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.