Chương 49: Warhol's Favorite Restaurant

WARHOL grunted. He was going to be late. How long would it be now until he had to go and pick up Lance from the academy? Too soon, no matter the time.

"What about the artifact?" Signet glared at him.

"Come on, Warhol. You know. That thing can't stay here."

"Oh, that's good, because I intend on taking it with me... why would you think I was going to let you study it?" A true question, too. He had never said once that the artifact would be theirs to examine.

"Because the artifact is in our territory, Warhol..." That was true — to an extent: "That are of local space-time was in your territory, yes, but not the Eldritch Horror and the contents within it. That could've come from any part of the universe."

"Don't play games. The Horror was within our territory, so anything inside of it is ours by proxy. If you disagree, I believe you are familiar with the proper channels to lodge a complaint." Signet remarked with a flurry of his antenna.

'The proper channels.' Yeah, right.

'Up their arse,' was the only channel he cared about. Proper or not, he needed the Neons cooperation. As much as he would like to give them the bird and tell them where to shove it, he couldn't afford to alienate his only space-faring allies at the moment. He sighed.

"Signet, what do you want? Can you help me out? On one hand, you're telling me this artifact can't stay here. On the other hand, you're telling me that this artifact is yours, which I don't agree with. Regardless of who 'owns' the artifact, you think stuff like this is hocus-pocus fairy tale silliness. So, what are you trying to tell me?" Signet strode toward Warhol and looked as if he was going to punch him. He snarled, chittered, really, and was about to growl.

"What I am saying is that you are free to take OUR artifact off station, for now, but you should be on the lookout for when we want it back!" Warhol put his hands up in a mocking gesture.

"Fine. But how about you lodge that complaint for me, hey?" More chittering.

"I will, friend."

"Okay, well... I'm glad we got that figured out."

"Indeed..." An awkward, painful silence passed them both by, a silence matched only when, as a young man, Warhol once mistook his girlfriend's mother for her daughter and, oh boy, touched her in a way a young man shouldn't ever touch an older woman.

"Well... if that's all, then, I will be on my way as soon as recharge my mana. I seem to be a touch short at the moment." Signet left him be, no longer wishing to continue the conversation. Fine by him! The hour or so which came after the awkward and frustrating exchange was the longest hour of his life thus far. He was on a station filled with life-forms which thought little of him at the best of times, even as he directly helped them, and he was waiting for his mana to replenish.

He felt a little like a failure, even though he knew that was impossible. How many other people in existence could go and face down a Horror and live to tell the tale, much less snatch an artifact from under its nose? That's right, not many! None, in fact! The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. His mana reserves were far from full, but when Warhol felt a tickle inside of him telling him that he had enough mana to [Teleport] back to his home planet, he did so without further blabbing.

In a furious wave of his fingers, he drew up the various incantations he needed and let them fly; he stepped through the portal and walked directly into his favorite planet side restaurant, Uncle Chuck's Barbecue Grill. The portal closed automatically behind him; he needed to bring his son along for training, yes, but he needed to restore himself, his mana, again, running precariously low. And as any mage knew, delicious food was the easiest way to restore mana — that and some rest in a comfy bed!

One little problem, the restaurant, was closed. Why was it closed? Where were the delicious smells and the melodic bardic singing?! He sniffed. He found the smells... in the far back of the building, with a little input of mana into his nose to enhance his sense of smell, he found the meats of the day slow-cooking. Yet no one was inside the restaurant. Again, why? Warhol didn't have long to wait before he understood. It was the earliest rungs of the morning! That was right.

He had told Lance he would pick him up in the morning, the bad part of the morning, too. Why had he told them that? Because that was before he knew he was going toe-to-toe with the Horror, that's why. He groaned. His notifications alit with alerts. Just the usual, low mana. Which was a problem... he wouldn't be able to train Lance if he was low on mana. It ended up working out last time but that was only because Murder Island was such a gutter trash place.

He looked around the restaurant and saw the usual sights: solid oak tables and chairs, an immaculately maintained stage to the right of the widest bar he ever had seen, and a floor racked with peanut shells, as the ceiling kept Tabacco and herb smoke from days prior. Upon seeing the bar still stocked with all manner of liquors, Warhol formed a plan, his gold pouch itching to be used. LANCE waited for his father in his dorm room. The sun had yet to rise and neither had his eye lids, for that matter.

Though he stood fully prepared with his combat gear, backpacks, satchel, and tools, along with some schoolwork, even, he was as tired as ever... his stamina crash hit him hard in the late afternoon and though he slept like a rock, the twelve or so hours of sleep he got wasn't enough when he woke at the crack of dawn.

"And now he's late..." he couldn't believe this. Had his father forgotten his word? Unlikely, but still, what could make a man like him late? It wasn't as if he was fighting the Horror by himself, so why had he said to be prepared at low morning but then— His words caught in his chest. A portal opened in front of his door; though it could only be one person stepping through, the thought of some alien other popping in to wallop his ass was a persistent paranoia ever since he learned of portals existence.

It was his father who stepped through, though. Not some alien titan who wanted to tear him a new shitter.

"Son!" his dad said.

"I'm sorry for my lateness. I was fighting the Horror by myself, and, well, time got away from me." He sighed. Of course, he was fighting the Horror by himself, for gauging purposes, obviously!

"It's fine, dad. I wasn't waiting long. Where are we heading to today?" He did wonder. There were many dangerous, horrible places in the world, and he was sure Warhol would take him to all of them. His father chuckled.

"We're going to the most dangerous place of all! Hold on to your cape, son!" Lance stepped through the portal not knowing what to expect. Bad, obviously, but just how bad would be a question that could only be answered once his healing factor got in its miles. When he and father emerged into a restaurant, his favorite barbecue restaurant, he was taken for a fool.

"Dad? Why are we here?" In a split second, he thought that this had been some trick. Maybe the restaurant was an illusion? Maybe they were actually inside some terrible monster's gullet or some god's twisted machine gone mad? He drew his sword just in time for a server from the back to enter the room and scream upon seeing his drawn blade.

"Son, calm!" his father yelled at him.

"Ma'am, it's okay, you can come back! My son was just putting away his weapon!"