Believing in ghosts and dragons is as tempting as it is retarded. Like believing that everything
is gonna be alright just because. Claw your way out of autismo or enjoy thinking yourself
superior to everyone else. That's what this quest is all about.

Welcome to Soul Sister Quest. My bathroom is flooding so I'll be posting in an hour or so.

>>1824394
Cane is cool.
Later check if it has a sword in it.

Like a bell, Maki's snores mean that the class is over. She had just sat down to correct some
exercises, and now her head is laying on the back of the chair. Alone, Romina walks up to
her desk, grabs the decks of paper, and goes back to her place. The door opens and it's
Professor Walker, sweating visibly.

"Aight, yo," he blurts out loud, as everyone turns to look at him, "here da thing. Can't teach
shit today. Bad stuff. BAD STUFF, nigga." The "shhhs!" spawn from everywhere. After
noticing the rows and rows of lips under fingers, Umo finally turns to Maki. The Physics
teacher simply lets one out deep, powerful snore. As if making a point. "Damn," Walker
whispers out loud. He looks at the students. "Aight, no class today," he whispers, making
their eyes shine, "so shushu, outta mah swamp."

"Oh fuck yes," Ado whispers as well, barely holding back the excitement. "Ooooh so fucky
fucky yes-"

Slowly, veeeery slowly, everyone stands from their desks, taking the utmost care to not make
any sound. As if not even the air should shake. From the outside it might just look creepy,
seeing all of these guys slowly raising from their desks as if they were zombies.

"HAHAHAHA," you laugh out loud, "SHE'S DROOLING LIKE A BABY!" You yell, pointing
at her and looking around. Everyone stares at you in horror as a single silver line falls from
the commissure of Maki's lips. Your next word pushes back into your throat as if you were
made to swallow a baloon. It doesn't surprise you in the least when you turn and find Trish-
who's death-staring at you. Everyone turns back to Maki. Time halts until slowly, but finally,
she snores. You glance at Ado cleaning his sweaty forehead with the back of a hand. And
to Trish, whose hand is still firmly pushed into your mouth. As if trying to get into it.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o--oo--oo-o-o-o-o-o-

"Whyyy?" you loudly complain at Trish, who's simply giving you her casual stern glare.

"Because," she says, "it doesn't fucking fit."

You were positively gleaming at the chance to spend all that boring class time replaying
Hyperdimensional Neptunia. Were. Instead, you are at the school gate watching everyone
leave as Trish demands that you take off the coat.

"No," you declare, pouting.

Getting both hands behind her head, Trish smiles at you. "Fine by me. Valery said that if
you ran away again I wouldn't have to worry about you anymore." Now she's positively
gleaming.

"Why do I have to take it off?" you cry, shaking your fists.

"Becaaaause," Trish drags the word, "this is a school and you look like a pimp who fucks his
own whores."

"I look fancy," you state, "and elegant!"

"It-doesn't-fit," she says, and you can /smell/ the irritation. "That's the point. People here
look at you and think 'what the fuck is wrong with this guy, why is he wearing THAT
HERE?'"

(cont!)

"You can't read people's minds," you simply say as you look away from her.

"Nobody can," Trish says taking a step towards you. It makes you flinch. "That's why
you need to have a look at the damn clues. 'Why is he wearing that HERE?' 'What does he
want?' 'What is he trying to say?' 'What does he think he is?' are all things people will think
when they look at you."

"So what's the problem with that?" you say, puffing a cheek.

"That people," Trish says, taking another step towards you, "are afraid of the unpredictable.
Nobody wants to be with crazy people because they don't know what they can do."

"So?"

"Nobody wants to get hurt."

"I'm not going to hurt anyone."

"How would they know? All they see is motherfucking white Flava-Flav weaving a
fucking cane around school."

"But why should I care?!"

"Because," Trish goes on, relentlessly, "there are the people that make your food, build the
streets you walk on, make the games you like to play. By fucking them over you are fucking
everything you like that was made by people."

"You are not making any sense," you mumble, crossing your arms over the chest.

Trish sighs.

"Take off the damn coat," she finally says, as students from every class walk past you and
her.

>"No!"
>"Pppppppppffffiiiinnee!!"

>>1824735
>>"Pppppppppffffiiiinnee!!"
But look utterly dejected.

>>1824713

>"Pppppppppffffiiiinnee!!"

>>1824740
>>1825219

"Pffffffffffffiiiinee!" You take off the massive coat under Trish's stern glare. There is no point in
being angry at her, though. Some people just can't help being jealous. "Now what?"

Trish's glare got barely warped by a single eyebrow going up. Oh. She must have noticed
the clothes underneath.

You smile while turning round and round. "Like James Bond baby, hahaha!"

...she seems to mumble approvingly as she turns around and walks away. Oh, wait; that's
your cue to follow her.

You join the flow of students leaving the school under the humble chilly drizzle.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oo-o-oo-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The coat feels heavy over your shoulder as Trish goes through the clothes rack like it was
a deck of cards. It's a dark, humble clothing store. You notice, as you away from Trish, how
deep the darkness feels; this place must be way bigger than you think. You also catch a
stairway going down from the corner of your eye, so you must be right.

"You look like my mother," you babble in righteous anger as Trish finishes that one
stack.

She ignores you so completely that you wonder if she did actually hear you. Shortly
after starting the next stack, Trish stops. She pulls out a black and white shirt, more white
than black, with long sleeves and a subtle checkers pattern. It seems pretty loose.
Without looking she pushes it into your chest, and after you've grabbed and smelled it she
presents you another piece of clothing. It's a simple black t-shirt, with long sleeves too.

"White says "harmless," Trish says, now looking at you. "If it was pure white it would
mean either 'illuminated', 'sensitive', or 'fuckwit'- none of which fit you."

"I'm very sensitive," you state, offended.

"No. You are very emotional." Trish simply says, calmly. "Those two are different things.
Go get changed."

"Pffffffffiiine!-"

You close the curtain behind you and face yourself in the mirror. There's no way in hell
these third-hand clothes picked by Trish have a chance against your mom's finest and cane
(which Trish gave to Valery). More than reluctantly you take off the deep blue shirt and
struggle to bring the black jeans down. When it's all said and done and you are wearing
Trish's trash clothes, well... you don't look so bad.

The curtain flickers open and it's Trish, her gaze instantly twisting into a frown.

"Why, oh, why did you pull your jeans down?" she asks, softly.

"Why, oh, why did you open the curtain when someone's inside?" you retort, dryly.

"Try this," Trish says, now dryly as well. She hands you over some blue jeans very similar
to the ones you use to wear. Except that this one has no cuts over the knees. Right as you
are about to close the curtains and play angry Trish slips a pair of shoes straight to your
chest. She closes the curtain herself. You notice a ball of wool falling from your elbow;
those must be the socks.

(Cont!)

As the store clerk, a pretty lady with red hair, smiles at her, you witness Trish pay for your
clothes with your mouth wide open.

You'd check the pools and mirrors as the two of you walked side by side on the street, Sure
as hell, these clothes aren't better than the ones your mother gave you, but they aren't
that bad either.

"But why did I get clothes?" You blurt out at Trish, fully turning to look at her. "I already had
clothes and my clothes were ten times better than these."

Trish gives you another little cold glare that you can't put a meaning on. She looks away
towards the street up ahead. "You can't be wearing the same clothes every day. A healthy
fuck is capable of variation. Otherwise, it will seem as if you stuck to those because you
lack the taste to pick other clothes by yourself."

"I don't think it's as important as you think," you blurt out, puffing a cheek as you look
away."

"It's a proof of perspective," Trish says. "You are showing the world what you like."

"This is /your/ taste!"

"Do you like it?" Trish turns to look at you. It's a bit intimidating, even if it seems as if she's
trying to not make it so."

"Eeeeeeeeeeh is okay I guess." You shrug.

"Then it's yours as well," she says, leaning to the side to let an old man pass. He nods at her
in return. "People infer a lot by what we choose to wear. It's not the core of anything,
sure, and some guys rather wear plain and boring stuff. And that is fine. That is perfectly
fine," she says, glancing at you. "They might be great people even if they dress really basic.
They aren't saying anything to the world through their clothes. They have their
own means and rather not get anyone confused."

"I don't get it," you state, yet again puffing a cheek and looking away. The walk resumes
silently, and Trish subtly guides you by getting in front of you when turning a corner. You
catch up to her. "Why can't I pick my own clothes? I'm a big man!"

"Cuz you'd pick anime bullshit and nobody would catch the reference."

"So what's wrong with that?" YET again, you puff a cheek.

"It's wrong in that it shows," Trish says, quickly dodging a little running kid, "that you are being
selective of people."

A thunder roars even though there's only fog and drizzle. Subtly, umbrellas start sprouting
everywhere under the gray sky.

"I don't get it," you repeat.

(Cont!)

It's a hairdresser salon. There's a row of three big chairs in front of three big mirrors in front of
a wide empty space. The floor looks like fake wood, and it smells like incense just like your
mother's room. Actually, this place looks like a warm forest.

"Duh, no way," you start, glancing at Trish. "My hair will suck!"

"You already look like a hedgehog, so there's not much to lose," Trish says, then smiles at
the cashier girl as you both draw near her. You frown your lips wildly; that's /exactly/ the point.
"Your own sense of aesthetics is not developed, so you'll have to rely on mine for
now."

"But, you look like a guy," you point out, actually pointing at her.

Trish turns to you, opens her mouth... then closes it. "That should be a relief to you, then,
asshat."

"Oh," you nod, over and over. She's right.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o--o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Trish simply watches from afar as a fat bald man, wearing white clothes like a chef, slowly
takes care of your hair. Trish already told you what to ask for and you did. All that remains,
now, is to suffer the change.

"So," the barber man asks, "what's up with the young guys these days?"

You look at his dense beard on the mirror, right next to her head.

>"I'm a writer! I write Sonic fan fiction hahaha, Islam is really great isn't it?"
>"F-fuck you." You are a tough guy too.
>Stay in perfect silence. You didn't pay this man to talk to you.

>>1826785
>"Well, I'm planning to retake Jerusalem you know?"

>>1826807
Deus Vult

>>1826807

You don't really know much about your generation, now that you think of it. Your
internet pals are either older than you or from other countries (namely, your russian pal
Dietrich, oh you so crazy!) so pop culture (or culture in general) completely slides off from
you.

"Eh, well," you say, blinking a big as hair falls in front of your eyes, "I'm planning to retake
Jerusalem you know?"

"From the JEWS?" an ominous voice says behind your head as if God itself had
answered.

"Y-yeah, haha."

"Is that what you boys these days talk about?" the voice says, and another strand goes down.
"Fucking up the jews?"

You hesitate. "Y-yeah."

The man keeps doing his job in silence as you shiver every time the scissors cut.

"Can't argue with that," he finally says.

The barber man gets a small mirror behind your head so you can look at the back of your
hair. You lost... a quite a bit of hair. Your messy, friendly hair is now gone forever. The
sides of your haircut are slim, barely above the skin, but the top is dense yet short. You
grimace a bit as something very cold and fresh falls on your head. The bald man messes
around with your hair for a while, making some spikes here and there, then presents it to Trish
(not you!) who you notice through the mirror.

Trish nods very approvingly, giving a nice thumbs up.

"Old fart," she says, "please don't be a bad influence. I'm trying to make this guy /less/
retarded."

"You with the jews, girl?" the man retorts, standing with his full height in front of her, and
he's tall. "You got any of dem circle crosses tattooed to your butt?"

"I bet she has," you add, mockingly.

"I can kill you," Trish reminds you quietly in the same vein a mother scolds his 2 years old for
the very first time.

"The Holocaust never happened," the man states firmly, resting a hand on your shoulder.
"It's all exageration so the people feel bad for the JEWS."

Trish sighs. "I don't agree or disagree, but I need him taking steps one and two before
going for the one hundred eleventh." She glances at you with a tired look on her face.
"Come on, move your ass, it's getting late."

The man pats your shoulder and sets you free. Your russian friend from the Internet is a huge
fan of Mengele. You wonder what that means.

(cont!)

The next stop is... the supermarket?

It's a big, sterile place that reeks of white. And it's colder than the outside, something you
didn't think possible. And dry-cold.

"Why are we here? Lettuce?" You ask quizzically.

"Basic shit you'll have to remember," Trish says plainly, "but mostly because you fucking
stink."

"Pfff, no I don't!" you protest, then smell your armpit. Yep, no smell.

Trish keeps walking in silence, suddenly staring at the white shelves intently. She
crouches and picks up a thick black can. Standing up, she hands it over to you then
keeps on walking.

"You get used to your own smell, so you can't really smell it," she says, strolling across the
aisle as you look at the carts and people. "There are too many things we can't become
aware of on our own. That's why we need feedback. People. Someone to tells us when
we fuck up,"

"Why the hell would you want someone that tells you that you fucked up?" You say in
anger, then notice the item Trish is pushing into your chest and take it.

As you glance around, you notice Snacks hiding behind a shelf. Even though the
phantom is hiding is pretty evident that she intended for you to find her. It's her way of
saying things. You sigh to yourself. Snacks did tell you when you fucked up, but she wasn't
/mean/ about it.

Trish grabs yet another item that ends up over your elbow. "Because" she resumes, "we want
to believe everything's gonna be alright. And if no one's there to tell us otherwise, we just
might."

"Duh, where did you read all that stuff?" You wonder, a bit solemnly. "Like, seriously."

Tr: "Seriously what?"

Em: "Seriously. I mean, seriously."

Tr: "What?"

"Nevermind," you say, as yet /another/ item lands in the nest over your arms. It's getting
way too crowded too fast.

"Go get a basket," Trish says, glancing at you. "I'm not done yet."

"This is the stuff my mother buys," you say as if trying to protest.

Trish simply ignores you as she gets absorbed into another shelf.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o--o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Trish was right; it /was/ getting late. It's exactly between day and night, yet cold and wet as
usual. You try to put on Lumina's coat, at least until Trish stares at you and you freeze in
place.

Trish sighs. "My bad. It /is/ cold. Let's go, I'll get you a sweater."

Em: "I'll put this on in the meantime."

Tr: "No."

Em: "Why?!"

"Knowing your place in society," Trish says, simply shrugging you off and walking away,
"means that a lot of the time you'll take shit just so you don't come out as ridiculous."

You wonder if you should reply. You do. "But that's stupid, I'm freezing!"

"It is stupid," Trish says as you catch up to her, "but it's more stupid to pretend people will take
it well." She firmly looks at you. It's oddly intimidating. As if it shouldn't have to be. "If
they think you are weird you'll be branded and bullied relentlessly. They'll take the oportunity
to show their rejection of weirdness by taking it out on you. So don't do weird things."

"What if I want to do weird things cuz I like them?"

"Do them alone."

"What if I don't care about what they think?"

"Then care."

"Why?!"

"Because," Trish says, fully turning towards you, "you can't afford to be happy and different
while shoving your joy into their faces. It makes doubt; it makes them feel insecure.
They'll want to see you suffer just so they can feel they are heading the right way."

You simply stare into Trish's eyes as drizzle escalates little by little.

"Duh," you finally say, "you say some deep stuff but I kinda dun get it."

"You'll get it," Trish says, still looking at you for once. "You aren't stupid."

"Then why are we doing this?"

"Because you can be smart at something," Trish points out, "and seriously fucking
retarded at something else. If I didn't think you were smart at learning, we wouldn't be doing
this."

"Ok," you simply say, a bit out of your depth.

Drizzle feels heavier.

-o-o-o-o--o-o-o-o-o-o--o-o-o-o-o--o-o-o-o

It's the same clothing store from before, a bit darker, a bit colder, and it seems the clerk had
to make a run for the bathroom.

As for you? You are testing your new military gray sweater's pockets and feeling like a
badass. Sitting next to you, Trish takes out one item after the other.

"You have to put this on at least once a day every morning," Trish says with a Rexona on
her right hand, "and after you did sports or ran. Simply put, if you are sweating."

"K," you comply.

"This," she draws out a tube of light blue, with a feet drawn over it, "is foot powder. Same
goes for this one but under your feet, especially between your fingers."

"But that's such a hassle," you complain, pouting hard. "Do I have to do that all the
time? Does everyone does that?"

"Everyone that gives a damn does," Trish says, "or gives something else to compensate.
For now, stick to it."

"K."

"This is gel," Trish says, waving the strange green bottle in front of your face. "Put a little in
your hands, mix with some water, then try to make spikes out of your hair. Don't put too
much in or your hair will look like rocks."

"Like your bangs?" You point at the yellow spikes falling from each side of her face,
covering her ears.

"These are another story," she says, almost quizzically. She lightens up. "Anyway, the
general idea is to show everyone that you are trying your best to fit in without going
overboard. They've got an image to look after, so it's important that you look after yours."

"Why's that?"

"Cuz," Trish says, "they'll be measured based on who they deal with. If you spent half your
day talking to a former serial rapist and they knew it, the fucks would draw lines ten blows
away from where you are and stay the fuck away from them. Same goes for this."

Trish sighs... well, it was a yawn for the most part. Rain gets very easier to hear as Trish
goes quiet. You stir inside the little white bag filled with deodorant and gel and stuff, but
nothing catches your interest.

>Is there something you want to ask?

>>1827841
We got one of them weird asymmetrical haircuts didn't we?
And no questions for now.

File: lele.jpg (30 KB, 640x640)

30 KB JPG

>>1828033
Kinda like this, but spiky.

>>1828280
F

Of course, the school isn't going through its golden times. Or maybe it is since it has been
inaugurated barely twenty years ago, while still in construction. Which would be pretty sad,
since they added a roof to the principal's office just last year.

Governmental support was cut barely two years after the establishment was born. It was first
intended as an elite school, meant to produce top quality students for the country. Its
purpouse, through subjects like Law and Manners and Oratory, was to inculcate both a
religious belief and working culture. Attitudes against such perfect values of efficiency were
simply not tolerated. Pupils were monitored and had their priorities corrected at every
opportunity. Their wrongs would belong to the country and school, and that could not be.

A teacher from the school had gathered evidence for a whole year regarding the
treatment her students received. With the support from both them and massive amounts
of evidence and testimonies, she began a rally.

In order to kill two birds with one stone, the principal fired all of the current teachers.
Thus the rumors sank with the deviants and all he had to do was hire new staff.

That one teacher managed to get hired again... by cutting her hair, dressing like a
man, and speaking russian. This time, however, she took the opportunity and became
acquitance with the principal himself in order to blackmail him.

Which got her fired yet again.

This time, however, it was the students that made a stand. That teacher had made them
see. She had gone and said that the way they were being taught was /wrong/, and she was a
grownup just like their parents.

Tired of punishments and bleak haircuts, most students simply refused to go to school. They
were threatened and banned from their games. They preferred staying home with their
angry parents than going to school with their friends... and that simple fact spoke by itself.

Only those sorry little kids dragged by force remained at school. The rest, sooner than
later, ended up at a deserted dojo the teacher had rented by herself in order to do her job.
Sometimes that teacher would come dressed like a woman, and sometimes like a man.
Given her antics and how much raw effort she put in maps and silly physics gadgets, it came
as no surprise that others would soon join her to share the burden.

And this was because of the almost silly lack of alternatives. The other schools were private
and their fares ran high.

The school born from the old dojo was scorned and badmouthed by many, but it was by no
means illegal (as the teacher, a lawyer in its own right, never failed to demostrate). It was a
public, free service; it kept no tabs, took no evaluations, handed no diplomas.

Yet the kids learned.

It allowed anyone in. It held no expectations. The new school was concerned with teaching
and not with evaluating. It never intended to label their students; it intended, however, to
turn teaching into a show of magic.

Of course, the parents were overly-concerned with the assistance of their children to the
actual school, and the bureaucracy involved in the state of affairs of sons and daughters. No
diploma means no entry, and that had them scared.

Mainly the principal.

He was successful in shutting down the dojo by means of talking to its owners. Yet the
teaching continued- in a plaza under broad daylight. And under the supervision of some of
the parents that were off work hours.

That's when the government fucked up.

Someone up there was quite pissed about the whole thing and decided to blackmail the
teacher- in terms that regarded her family and personal well-being. She, instead, threatened
the government to make their threat public.

While the details are unknown, the deal was simple. They were to completely forget about
the school yet to validate the worth of its diploma. Their plan was simple; they
surrendered the school, then cut off the funds and had her starve.

Nobody in their right mind would have expected her to open a gym inside that same
school.

That's when she became the Principal.

It's pouring. Again.

A thunder echoes. It seems you both are stuck here with the shop clerk... wherever she is.
You look through the entrance gate which is almost entirely glass. It's tarnished, and big
drops of water slide off it.

You glance at Trish. The blonde seems tired, her eyebrows arched down.

"Shitty weather, huh?" you say. "Wonder why it rains so much, huh? Must be the season,
right?"

"It always rains around here," Trish says before letting out another heartful yawn. You
wait her up to talk; it doesn't happen.

"S-so," you go on, "what kind of books do you like? I mean, games are-"

"Are you afraid of awkward silences?" Trish asks as the store clerk returns, only to sit down
and focus on the old tv at her side. "Is that it?"

"Eh... aren't those, like, bad?"

"Only when you are expected to say something," Trish explains. "It's the realization
that there might now be anything in common. Like when you ask a girl out and you suddenly
realize you two got nothing to talk about."

"So this is not a date then?" You ask, quizzically.

"Let's just call this an appointment."

"Oh, ok."

She's looking through the icy gate, so you do so too. Water splashes so hard into the
floor that it evaporates, resulting in this dense fog. It's like walking on clouds sometimes.

You let yourself relax. Trish is not going to hit you and you don't have to talk. And you can't
do homework or grind; you can't do anything right now. It's so odd; you've always found
ways to keep your head or hands busy. Right now, you don't even feel like daydreaming.

Like sand, time flows through your fingers.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o--oo-o-o--o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o--oo--o-

>>1837657

Next morning it's still raining as FUCK.

Face and hands glued to the window, your red eyes stare down at the clouds enveloping the
streets.

Brusquely, you look away. "MOOOOM," you shout, desperate, "ISN'T THERE LIKE AN
ALERT OR SOMETHING? A METEOROLOGICAL ALERT?"

"NOT THAT I KNOW OF!" your mother shouts back from somewhere near or far, you can't
tell.

You sigh. Man, you'll need a fucking boat this time.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

But you make it... somehow. Well, it's not that much of a miracle when the whole town spans
like fifty blocks or something. Yet, here you are, and there she is.

"What is this? Why so early?" You ask, letting the cold wake you up.

"First off," Trish says, "you have to GREET ME."

Rain flashing between you and her, you slightly shake your head. Trish walks up to
you then takes your hand and shakes it up and down.

"Hey, good morning, how's it going?" Trish says in a tone so eager you just /know/ it's
fake. She lets go, a bit too roughly. "That's how you do it."

You puff a cheek. "I know how to greet someone, you stupid fuck."

Trish little glare proves enough to make you realize what you just said.

"Then do it," she warns and turns around towards the door.

"Hey, so, what is this place?" you ask pleadingly as you follow her. It looks cheap
and smells a lot like pizza.

"Your new job."

"Eeeeehh-WAIT!" You manage to get her to stop and look at you. It's a calm, cold stare.
"D-do... eeeh... am I really ready for this?"

"Nope," Trish says, eyes a bit wide. "You are not. That's the point."

Your eyes widen as well.

"They are ready for you," she says simply, turning around and knocking on the door.
"You'll be paid in shit after all."

(cont!)

A powerful breeze of warmth and smell splashes so hard into your face that you get a
hand in front of it. Through your fingers, you notice a petite blonde girl... no way. It's
Romina.

"Emil, are you hiding from me?" Romina laughs warmly as you lower your hand.

You look for Cold Horns out of habit; she isn't here. "Oh," you mumble, then walk up to
Romina with a hand extended. She looks at it and blinks. "Hello I'm Emil good morning how's
it going," you say looking at her straight in the eyes, hoping not to seem too worried.

"It's Toasty you fuck, she's already used to you," Trish's voice may have sounded a tiny little
bit mocking right there... "Anyway, if you got any questions this is where you go." Trish
points at Romina with determination, as if she was a life boat. "Feel free to annoy the fuck
out of her, y'hear me?"

"Bye bye, Trish," Romina rumbles, smiling as she does.

Trish leaves with another word, smashing the door shut on her way out. Romina sighs. Then
she turns to you, stands like a maid with both hands behind her back, and gives you one big
warm smile.

"Welcome to my bakery!" Romina blurts out, maybe a bit more excited than she should be.
"Now, follow me!"

Romina walks like a toy robot behind a corner, out of sight. You are left with the lonely view of
an empty aisle with aluminium walls, spanning just a few feet until it arches into the unknown-
from where the light comes from.

The door behind you opens slightly, croaking an annoying sound.

>Follow Romina.
>̶Q̶u̶i̶e̶t̶l̶y̶ ̶f̶u̶c̶k̶ ̶o̶f̶f̶.̶

You feel Snack's scolding glare glued to your nape.

(Cont!)

>>1837973
>>Follow Romina.
Bakeries are awesome, all that fresh bread, rolls, and other foodstuffs.

Your mouth curls in surprise as you walk around the corner. A massive wooden table
spans across the whole room, buried under dough and devices, surrounded by a brown
athmosphere. It's almost as if you just came inside a lone wooden shack in the middle of
Russia, surrounded by bears and trees. Ignoring anything else, you study the place
intently. A single, big fan spins like a grandfather would inside a cage that goes
across the wall; you can see the foggy street behind its blades. Around the wooden table
and stuck against the wall are other, small tables made of steel. Some have boxes over
them, others bags, eggs, knives, things... You get startled by a friendly fiery sound, and it's a
big oven, right next to you. Walking away from it, you admire the black, sturdy thing; it's like a
humble dragon. It roars gently at you, again. You feel a hand on your shoulder and it's
Romina, the little blonde trying to push you aside with the power of love. You step aside.
Romina opens the dragon's maw and, wearing two dense, fingerless gloves, she pulls out its
tongue. Over it rests a silver tray. And over the tray are dozens of woody-looking muffins
neatly arranged next to each other.

"Emil," Romina looks at you. "Could you help me put this over the big table?"

You nod absentmindedly. When you are about to grab the tray from below, Romina grabs
your hand. She's smiling at you.

"Gloves," she says, waving hers in front of her face "or you'll burn your hands and it won't be
nice!"

Nodding, you look around in confusion. Romina points you to the corner under the big
fan; a pair of thick gloves lays there, forgotten. You go there, put them on, rush back, and
copy Romina in the way she's holding her hands under the tray.

"Ready?" she says, and you nod. "Go!"

The tray is lifted. It's... a lot lighter than you expected, to the point of drawing a smirk out of
you. Well... maybe she's just that weak. Carefully, you help her place the tray over the
table. Once it's over and done, Romina does this little bow to you.

"Thank you!" she says, smiling. "I swear, It's a lot easier than it seems!"

"Duh, I can tell," you say almost mockingly, yet suddenly feeling bad about it. You scratch your
head in confusion.

"There won't be many customers thanks to the rain," Romina says, looking at the big fan as if
scolding the sky, "so today I'll teach you all about this!"

You nod. Romina turns to look at the fan, towards the heavy rain and foggy streets... and
sticks her tongue at it. It draws a toothy grin from you; she always acts so correctly. This
must be her natural habitat.

You grab a muffin and shriek- it ends on the floor.

"My, are you okay?!" Romina asks, rushing to you with a worried look on her face. She grabs
your hand from below and looks at it. Then, she puts it on your chest.

"I'll be right back, put it under water!" Romina says as she rushes away into a corner.

(Cont!)

Once she's gone, you open up a water tap; it blasts your hand full force so hard it smashes
against the bottom of the sink. Shaking your hand as you mumble in rage, you find yourself
completely alone in the bakery.

Huh.

>Test the knives; those are way biggers than the ones your mother has.
>Pick up that muffin and cool it down somehow. You won't get away with this.
>Take off your clothes.

>>1838183
>>Pick up that muffin and cool it down somehow. You won't get away with this.
Then devour it, consume it and absorb it's strength and power.

>>1838196

The five seconds rule matters less than revenge. You are very willing to make a
sacrifice for justice once you find the muffin on the floor. Mostly because it looks tasty. You
grab the thing, stand too fast, Then consider ways to cool it down before Romina comes
back. Nobody is going to save you, muffin. Nobody.

You hold the muffin in front of the fan briefly. Piercing its puffy meat with a finger proves it's
still hot inside.

You find a fridge and put it inside briefly. Once out, it's /still/ warm.

Finally, you blow into it over and over to the point of getting dizzy. Then you hear footsteps
and stuff your face with the muffin without hesitation, devouring it in a flash. When
Romina comes back she finds you smiling somewhat too widely.

"Hold your hand out," she says. As you do, crumbs rain over the palm of your hand.
Romina looks at it, then at your mouth, then focuses her stare on you intently. "Emil, did
you eat one of the muffins?"

"Duh, no," you lie.

"You can eat as many as you like," she points out, "but the chocolate ones need an hour to
cooldown before we can sell them."

A single, brave tear falls from your eye, startling Romina. Duh; you can tell.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The bathroom is as tidy and friendly as you expected. It even has little animals scattered
over the light table. You browse the newspaper with mild curiosity, wondering what's this
"economy" people get so crazy about.

"Are you alright?" A voice echoes behind the door. "Sorry! I should have warned you!"

"Nah duh, it's ok," you reassure the more-than-slightly-worried Romina. "Mom always said not
to eat too fast. Guess that's why."

"Let me know if you need anything," Romina says, and her voice does convey some
concern. "We've got a customer! Be right back!"

"Don't hurry," you manage to say, wondering if she heard you. Talking so loud is a pain; you
never know if you are over-doing it or not. And sometimes you keep on talking loud even
after. Well, whatever. Maybe working isn't that bad. You even got a muffin for free.

(cont next time cuz busy! :D)

Nope, can't post shit today either. Man, feels so lonely in here.

>>1842504
No problamo.

File: helloooo.jpg (63 KB, 438x392)

63 KB JPG

>>1842695
Maaaaan, I'm so fucking busy ;w:
Tomorrow I'll scrap some time for sure. Here, have a Valery for your patience.