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"Blegh," I mutter, trying not to gag as one hand pinches my nose together, and the other tosses the trash in the bin. I’m about to turn away from the smell, when my foot steps onto misfortune itself.
A dead fucking rat.
My leg slips upward, making me do a back-flip into the dump of trash. Frick! I forgot to close the lid.
"Mommy, who’s that?"
"Don’t mind them, sweetie," Coos some well-dressed lady to her son as they walk past this alleyway.
I grunt as I attempt to crawl out of the dump (I do NOT get paid enough as an art-class assistant) of arts-and-crafts leftovers—EW THERE’S PAINT IN MY HAIR—and hop out from the side, when my hand somehow finds a sort of lever which clicks all the way down.
"Huh."
And then I fall.
I shriek as the heap of pipe-cleaners, almost-finished paint tubes, broken brushes, and scraps of paper and other unfathomable objects of art fall beside me, the wind deafeningly screeching in my ears as I flail helplessly in blinding blue light.
THIS IS A NIGHTMARE. A very bad nightmare. Falling dreams are common! My brain has simply interpreted my muscles relaxing as falling and sent a signal to my MUSCLES TO CATCH ME OR WHATEVER—
Even as I am inevitably falling to my death, there’s a fun fact for you. If it’s correct. I don’t have time to Google whether or not my tidbits are accurate when I’m plummeting to my doom.
"Oof!"
I end up falling onto the bunch of trash bags which grants me a painful but not fatal fall.
"Great, now my ass hurts," I mutter, brushing my lap and dusting myself off as I wobbly make a stand. I send a prayer to anyone who’ll listen that I am eternally grateful they took back their decision that it’s my time.
I rub my eyes and … Oh. Oh my—
I stare at a colourful city, just as alive and awake as New York City, if not more. I spot eccentrically shaped vehicles—some of them in the sky—bright, colourful lights, the sound of chatter and beeping and other city-noises as I let out a breath I had no idea I was holding.
Wait. I’m underground. I stare up again. The sky is deep violet with streaks of lemon yellow.
Ohhhhhkay. What the fuck.
I snatch my phone out from my pocket and jam the home button. Low battery. Perfect…
I try to be optimistic. I love reading fantasy, I love watching fantasy, I love writing fantasy, I love drawing fantasy. Now I’m living in fantasy. Sure, I’m lost in a different world that’s foreign and confusing, but I’ll be alright … Right? I can just ask a local the way back. Surely they’d know.
What if nobody understands English? What if there is a specific reason we’re separated? What if they’re dangerous and had war with humans centuries ago, and my presence here breaches the peace treaty written, and now I’ve doomed humanity? What if the only way to prevent the second war is my imprisonment here forever until my death, and I will never see my family and “friends” ever? What if I get murdered? What if I get kidnapped and then murdered? What if I get kidnapped, robbed of my dignity, and then murdered? What if—
No! Shut up! I internally scold myself allowing such silly thoughts to control me. Everything will work out just fine, if I act smart, and stop being an idiot.
Procedure, make a procedure.
That’s right! With a method, I’ll feel like I’m actually doing something productive, and finding my way home.
First! Get to the buildings.
Second! Find a trusty tourist guide to lead me to the closest portal-or-whatever back home.
Third! Apply all common sense.
Wait, third should be first—Whatever!
Find a trusty tourist guide to lead me to the closest portal-or-whatever back home.
My knees buckle as I kneel back onto the trash bags and scraps, hiccuping with whimpers and tears. Portals aren’t real, and yet I just fell through one. This is real. Really real. My whole life is a lie! Magic is real! And normally, I think I would love that knowledge. But I really, really wanted to go home and take a five-hour-nap after a draining work day. I am exhausted, unmotivated, and terrified to do anything other than sit with my dump of trash and whine to myself.
I’m going to die here.
Oddly enough, the self-deprecating and pessimistic thought is what causes the awakening of my will (or, at least, motivation) to live.
Maybe it’s because of how stupidly whiny and clingy it sounds, and how I desperately do not want that to be me. Maybe it’s because I’m chill with dying just not here, where nobody will find my cold dead body, and if someone does they won’t care about it. And I would be a skeleton in that one cliché where the protagonist falls and lands on a horrifying crunch that ends up being someone’s skull.
I won’t die here. I won’t allow myself to. I’ll be right at home by tomorrow.
What if time passes different here—
SHUT UP. I silence the voice of worry as I stand back up, staying right on the spot until my knees straighten outwards, and I can actually feel my feet. I must look like a fawn with knobbly knees. Huh. Alrighty-o. I carefully extract myself from the dump, avoiding objects (such as stereotypical banana peels) I could slip on. Then I slip on a dead fucking rat (why is it always the dead fucking rats. These rat bastard bitches.)
I inhale deeply, telling myself it would be such a pity to waste all the courage I had built up earlier, as I sit up. Hey. Sped up the process to get out of the dump. I crawl a bit further before I stand, again with shaky knees, and with a gulp I promise I’ll get out of here. Somehow.
I walk, walk until my legs feel numb, for the sight of a mother, or somebody in some sort of law-enforcement uniform. Those sound like the type of people I could universally trust, right? Alas, I stumble upon nothing as I follow a trail that seemingly leads to the main City.
"Mmm… Tired," I mumble, shivering.
"Shut up," I hiss back scoldingly, "We’re almost there."
"Are we there yet?" I whine to myself.
"Die," I tell myself back.
Maybe it’s some sort of coping mechanism I’ve given myself. Either way, the command to die is looking mighty fine, which I’m pretty sure is supposed to be bad.
Maybe it’s some sort of coping mechanism I’ve given myself. Either way, the command to die is looking mighty fine, which I’m pretty sure is supposed to be bad.
I’m too enthralled by my endless back-and-forth argument between Me and Myself, when I screams at them to shut the frick up. I stare at the City, up close, with windows lit up with practically every colour visible to the naked human eye, music of all kinds, artificial city noises of all kinds, and…
English.
I hear the sound of yelling and laughter and screeching, and I can already tell it’s English, which does something to Motivation. It makes them hungry. Craving.
I walk—and soon, my exhaustion is completely ignored, and my legs are in front of each other, sprinting, desperate—as I find… Fantasy.
The inhabitants of this City is nothing like I’ve seen before, clearly. Some are of short stature, some of tall height. That’s cool and all, but what catches my eye is their forms. And the plethora of variety.
Some are fluid, built of slime or liquid. Some take the forms of anthropomorphic animals. Some have antennae. Some have tails. Some are skeletons. Some look more like zombies. I think a ghost of some sort drifts right through me.
Okay. Okay. None of them seem hostile. Lots glance in my direction, right at me, and don’t bat an eye.
I worried for nothing, I think to myself. I snicker—no, laugh—at my stupidity earlier. Heck, I was so idiotic then. My laughter turns into cackles, pure delight that I’m safe here, and the delight is maddening. I need to get out of here. This place is making me sound crazy.
I don’t feel crazy.
Well crazy people don’t know that they’re crazy, so shut up and find a way back home.
I wander the streets, keeping to myself, eyes wide, as I pay attention to every person I pass, waiting for someone who looks trustworthy to pop up.
They look like a criminal.
They look like they’d try to seduce me to murder me. And whilst others might find that attractive, it’s not really my type.
They look like my bully from the fourth grade.
I read signs, I observe appearances, from the way they stand to the way talk, I watch where I’m walking. I don’t ever remember being this attentive since the first time I watched a true-crime documentary when I six and got paranoia.
Bingo! In front of me, I spot a lady-like skeleton figure, wearing a dark grey dress, pushing a stroller. I walk up to her, and clear my throat, so as to not startle her.
"Excuse me, ma’am? Would you know the way back to New York, by any chance?"
She raises an eyebrow judgementally, and then walks off, muttering something about humanos molestas. I narrow my eyes, thoroughly ticked, but acting rude wouldn’t get me anywhere in this situation. I’d just have to try again with a different person.
I try again with a law-enforcement officer who appears to be an anthropomorphic Siamese cat, who replies that it’s not their shift. And again, with another mother, who apologises and tells me that she’s in a hurry. And again, with a teenage centaur girl (her horse part was an Andalusian horse!) who replied that her girlfriend didn’t like her talking to other people.
With every attempt, the delight I experienced earlier fades, and I’m yet again susceptible to such terrible thoughts.
They’re avoiding you.
Is discrimination against humans a thing, here?
Is something going on that I’m unaware about?
I groan as I back into a small alleyway that I quadruple-checked was empty, lean against the wall, and slide down to a sitting position, knees brought up to my face.
"I can get home, I can get home, I can get home," I repeat to myself. "I will get home, I will get home, I will get home."
I sound so naïve. And insane, like I’m trying to fool myself. Who am I kidding? I will die here, lost, and never get back home to my decent (especially in this economy) apartment and well-paying occupation. And my whole life will go to waste, and my face will never be seen by another human being again, unless it’s on a ‘Missing! Have You Seen This Person?’ poster.
I whine to myself more. It’s because I’m a human, isn’t it?
That has to be the reason, right? It’s the most logical one I can think of. I indignantly whinge and complain at the unfairness of my situation to whatever divine deity had sent me here in the first place. Or maybe just myself, I dunno.
"Donatello Hamato! You have been issued a quest to complete one Good Deed and to submit proof of the Good Deed to complete your journey of the privilege to burden Witch Town with your presence!"
A voice calls out from somewhere, a bit afar, the sound amplified by what I can tell is a sort of microphone because of the feed, and also because I will admit I flinched when I first heard how loud it was.
"You meant to say ‘grace,’ not ‘burden,’" A masculine voice corrects the feminine, fancy voice with a dash of irritation and a pinch of cockiness.
"Whatever, man," The feminine voice switches up, "Just complete the quest."
I shake my head, forcing myself to engage with my actual surroundings. I don’t have time to be distracted by irrelevant and issued quests when I have a home to return to.
A Good Deed.
That’s IT! I’ll find the Donut-Jello guy, and tell him how I need to return to New York. He’ll have to help me, so he can enter Witch Town, and I’ll have to rely on him, because evidently no-one wants to help me. For some reason.
I don’t let my hopes up. I’ve done that way too many times in the period of time I’ve been here, which just leads to even greater disappointment. Instead, I’ll think logically about this decision:
It’s a solid plan.
It might fail.
If so, I can form a new plan.
Right. I inhale deeply. And then I sprint out of the alleyway.
I have a Donor Nutella to find.
…
"I could rob somebody who already is corrupt and then return their items back to them…" The anthropomorphic turtle, with an incredibly noticeable purple addiction murmurs to himself, clearly in deep thought. Truth be told, if I was in his position, and I’d probably also pull a twisted Robin Hood. "I can feel you watching me, by the way! I’m a trained and experienced ninja."
I squeak, and then immediately repress all thoughts of worry as I clumsily rise from my hiding spot behind a large trash-can.
I have nothing to hide, or lie about. So I have nothing to worry about! We are just two beings who have tasks at hand which can be solved by solving the other’s task. So shut up and have a normal conversation, you dummy.
"There’s not many humans in the Hidden Mystic City," He observes, eyeing me up and down, which I interpret as judgemental. I almost hiss, but I bite back the snarky remark I was planning. "And there is even less the amount of people stupid—or brave—enough to attempt to sneak up on me. I’m curious. Who are you? Why are you here, and what do you want?"
"Who, what, where, when, why, and how," I mumble to myself. A good guide to making someone explain themself, or if you’re in my situation... Explaining yourself. "My name is Reader, and I’m… Well, evidently a human. I sorta got, ah, lost from New York to wherever this is, about an hour or two ago. I fell into a dump, and it made a portal and brought me here. I heard that you need to do a Good Deed to get into Witch Town, or something? And nobody else’ll help me for some reason, and I was thinking maybe you could show me a way back to New York to complete your Good Deed, and I … really, really want to get home. And that’s two really’s."
He mulls it over. "How can you assure me that you’re not a lesser-known member of the Purple Dragons, or the Foot Clan, or somebody I can’t trust in general?"
"The who-wha now?"
"That’ll do," He says, satisfied, as he walks over. "Alright. I’ll show you the closest way back to New York City with the small fee of a picture with you before you leave through the portal, as the proof I completed my Good Deed. Deal?" He holds out his hand, staring into my eyes with his own pair of dark brown ones expectantly.
I almost get lost in them, before I hold out mine and shake his, "Deal."
He checks the wrist-gauntlet (a metal sort of cuff that runs from his wrist and almost to his elbow) and uses his three-fingered green hand to type something into it. "Alright. You should be home by nine post-meridiem EST/EDT."
[A/N: gang just pick whichever time-zone correlates to what season you want it to be, it’s like 12AM as i am writing this part]
I know I should use my questions scarcely, and save them for the utmost importance, rather than supposedly pissing off my guide, but … I really like knowing shit. "Does time pass differently here?"
"No, of course not."
I wrinkle my nose as I follow him, because now he’s walking, and quickly too, whilst not looking up from his tech-gauntlet, "I think I fell in here around three. That’s when my shift ends. I figure I’ve only been here for an hour or two." I raise an eyebrow.
"It is exactly five P.M, in fact," He confirms.
"So… The nearest exit is a four-hour walk?" Oh no. That is a really long walk. And my adrenaline from earlier is fading quickly. Maybe I should just die here, that sounds like it’ll take less effort.
"I assure you, it’s not," He answers.
don’t piss off the nice guy who’s helping you don’t piss off the nice guy who’s helping you don’t piss off the nice guy who’s helping y—
"May you please elaborate?"
He mutters, "Such lovely manners despite such pestering questions."
"Thanks!" It appears I have in fact mastered the art of being a pain in the ass but sounding polite while doing so.
"I’m here for errands. Getting Witch-Town entry privileges is one of them. But I have other close-deadline tasks, so you’ll have to accompany me while I complete them until I take you home."
I don’t have much of a choice, really. Nobody else’ll help me. And, it doesn’t really matter if I arrive home late, it’s not like I have my own activities to attend. And I’m not in any immediate danger…
"Hurry up. Our first stop is a ten-minute walk from here," He says bossily, looking up from his wrist-gauntlet. He stops in his tracks so I can catch up to him.
"If you make me accompany you on your chores, do I have the right to ask you a bunch of questions at spontaneous intervals?"
He considers it out loud, "I suppose it is only fair. And I do like explaining things to idiots… Alright. Ask away."
"Why the fuck is it that humans don’t know about this place?" I ask, fiddling with my fingers.
"IS THAT NINJA APPROPRIATE LANGUAGE??"
"I’m not a ninja," I retort.
"Sorry, habit." He mutters.
"Yeah, m’kay, but like the questi—"
"You understand how messed up society is, as a human yourself. They’d only try to take advantage of magic and yokai and mutants. Don’t try and deny it," He bites out, with a hissy tone.
I nod, "Okay. That I can get. Next, do you have any idea why people have been ignoring me? I’ve been going around asking for directions, and nobody’s tried to help me, like they’re avoiding me or something."
"Pause," He says, and I immediately stop at the spot. He stares down at me, and begins to circle me, and I realise that he’s inspecting my appearance or something.
"Uh…?" I prompt for him to explain himself.
He stops right in front of me. "You’ve got a bit of paint on your forehead. In a rather inappropriate symbol."
"WHAT?!" I exclaim, as I lick my thumb and rub it aggressively against my forehead, "Is it off? What was it? Was it offensive? Gosh—"
"Calm yourself," He replies, as he turns and continues walking, and I start to follow him, "It was coincidentally in the shape of something that is considered unlucky here. Not offensive, but some yokai are incredibly superstitious and must’ve refused to help you because they saw you as some sort of bad omen."
"Oh," I say. "That’s not so bad. Could’ve been something terrible."
"It could’ve," He agreed. "Your eyes are quite red and puffy, too. Have you been crying recently?"
"That’s none of your concern," I mutter with a snarky snap, without really thinking. He doesn’t reply.
We continue walking.
"So… Any, uh, landmarks here I should know about?" I ask, trying to keep to conversation going so I can have something to concentrate on instead of stupidly turning my head every few seconds to look at a flying jellyfish, or an anthropomorphic being who I really want to ask about their anatomy. I also hope that he takes my initiation at conversation as an apology.
"You want me to be a tourist guide?" He asks in return, and I can hear the way it’s less of annoyance and more of baffledness. If that’s a word. Which it isn’t, because it came up with a dotted red line. Confusion? Confusion doesn’t fit as well as whatever is the noun-version of “baffled,” but whatever. Being baffled is better than being irritated.
"I asked my question first," I retort. He huffs.
"I feel stupid not knowing anything about this place! And you seem… really smart." I mumble sheepishly. "Okay? So don’t blame me for not wanting to sound like an idiot."
Do I need to sound informed?
Do I hate sounding stupid?
Should I probably not have fed this guy’s ego, even if he does deserve it?
Do I probably sound very whiny right now?
Yes to all of the above.
There’s silence as we keep on walking. I’m starting to think I’ve pushed too many buttons and gotten on his nerves, and I’m considering apologising but—
"And to your left, you’ll see A Very Fancy Sculpture, which was created in 1431 by an artist known as Cassius Jones, who’s incredibly famous in the Hidden Mystic City. It was crafted in seperate parts before being glued together, rather than all at once. Cassius Jones is also the late ancestor to a friend of mine."
"Why was it made in different parts?" I ask, eyes widened in curiosity.
"Nobody knows, actually. Some theorise that it actually broke whilst being transported to the Market Place, and the paste was used to fix it, rather than it originally being made this way. I, personally, am against that theory because I’ve been up close and there are NO cracks whatsoever—and also don’t ask how close and why for the sake of your mental health. You ever watched The Magic School Bus? Ahem. Also because my opinion is entirely objective and non-negotiable."
I laugh, amused. Maybe this whole ordeal won’t be so bad.
"Nerd," I tease.
"Hey, you quite literally asked for it," He says before abruptly stopping in his tracks. "We’re here."
The information that we’ve arrived confronts me to the present, and I’ve only realised just now exactly how absorbed I’ve been by the conversation and distracted from reality. I turn to look at what he’s looking at.
A tall, towering structure, the roof obscured by the fluffy clouds above. It has rectangular windows, illuminated with golden light. Lanterns are hung and vines are strung from the frames, and it looks like a hotel that walked out of a Studio Ghibli movie.
"Wow," I murmur after I release a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. "It’s gorgeous."
"I know," He replies, in a way that doesn’t sound egotistical, but rather just as impressed as I am, just more used to the sight. "Come on. I have a meeting in ten."
We walk through the revolving doors, and he nods at the anthropomorphic animals (it feels wrong to think of them as animals when they’re just as sentient as me. Let’s call them… people!) dressed in sage green uniforms. They all nod back, before glancing at me and winking.
What?
"A meeting, huh?" I ask, curious.
"’A meeting, huh?’ indeed," He says as I follow him into the elevator. A metal arm (with three fingers, like him) pops out of the black metal backpack on his back and clicks a button. Winter from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons plays as we whir upwards.
"Human music," I murmur, comforted by the idea of something human in this nonsensical world. Even if it’s something like classical music. I tap my foot.
"’Human’ music?" He asks, raising a thick eyebrow. I decide not to question what he means by that. The elevator door opens with a mechanical hiss and we step out.
"Any… way," I say, changing the subject. "Do you want me to just wait outside for your meeting? How long will it take?"
"I’m estimating around two and a half hours," He says as I follow him to a indigo metal door. He presses a card against a screen and inserts some numbers and I follow him in. "And you may take a seat and watch if you want. I’m getting changed in the CR."
"TWO HOURS—?"
I enter, and choke on my words. The long, wooden table and fancy tall chairs are beautifully gorgeous, but I run up to the windows that run from the floor to the ceiling and let my knees drop to the floor as I press my hands against the glass, careful not to leave my breath on it.
Below are fluffy clouds, and above is a gorgeous violet sky with bright streaks of lemon. And around are winged people, like angels, peacefully going about their business. One of them waves to me. I limply raise my hand and wave back, awestruck by the sight.
"Two hours doesn’t seem that long anymore."
He chuckles as the bathroom door swings open, which is the first sign of humour I’ve heard from him. I really need to ask for his name. "Are you just going to sit there like a child for two hours and a half, staring out the window?"
"And a half?"
"Yeah, I literally just said that," He drawls. I turn and see him in a suit and tie, yes looking like the type of person I’d point out to a friend walking down the street, and yes making me wonder how he got changed so quickly.
"What’s the meeting for anyway?" I figure that if I’m allowed to witness it, I’m allowed to ask what it’s about.
"I’m an entrepreneur," He explains, smirking cockily. "I run a successful business called Genius Built with five outlets currently in the Hidden Mystic City, and right now, I’m meeting up with the managers of each one to see how the economy is treating us." He mutters the last bit, "The meetings are only supposed to be around half an hour, but they won’t stop rambling on and on…"
"You’re guilty of being a yapper yourself," I reply, trying to unwrap the grape-flavoured lollipop I found in my pocket in vain. I keep picking at it, "But anyway, was that an Amazing Digital Circus reference?"
"It was one word. Entrepreneur. It was NOT an Amazing Digital Circus Reference."
"Never mind. Anyway, I might have an idea to get them to cut to the point, but you’re going to have to call in sick, get rid of all the chairs, and let me wear your suit."
He narrows his eyes, "And why would I do that?"
"Because I am doing this for my own gain, not yours. Why would I mess up your meeting when I have nothing against you, and my current priority is getting home."
"Valid. Elaborate on your plan."
[…]
"Where is Mr Hamato?" Asks a lavender-skinned lady with curled ginger hair and drooping antennae. I smile as I spin in the office chair I’ve been given.
Is that his name?
We’ve had to roll up the sleeves multiple times on both the blazer and pants, and it took several tries to get the tie to fit properly, but we managed to make me look like I’m wearing the suit rather than drowning in it.
"At home. He’s fallen incredibly ill, and has requested that I run this meeting in his place," I say smugly.
If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s being an insufferable know-it-all.
She sniffs, chin raised, as four others dressed in equally ridiculously fancy attire walk in.
"Where’s the chairs?" Asks a tall rabbit, his ears tied back like a pony tail. He puts his hips on his hands expectantly.
"The chair factory died out," I say simply, leaning back in my chair seat. "And so will Genius Built if we don’t get down to business, mm?"
They all hesitate before standing around the table, and I watch as they anxiously sort through the thick pile of papers in their manila folders, delete files off the computers, and the ladies kick off their heels and the gentlemen kick off their boots.
This is gonna be fun to watch them squirm.
[…]
The meeting ended in fifteen minutes.
[…]
"We killed, like, two hours off!" I grin, wiggling my eyebrows to the mirror, as I change back into my previous attire.
"Mm-hm," He replies back from outside the CR. "Now that we have another hour and forty three minutes until my next appointment, we have more than enough time to get you home."
"Huzzah," I say, and I pass him the pile of folded clothes. He thanks me as another metal arm comes out of his weird backpack and shoves it in there.
"And onwards," He says.
[…]
"So, where are we heading off to, to get me back home?" I ask as we, again, walk through the streets of the Hidden Mystic City. My legs are grateful for the fifteen minutes of seated rest, but I’m still pretty tired.
"The nearest portal back to New York is a close walk from here. It’s right beside my father’s laboratory, so I use it often."
"Does being a mad scientist run in the family?" I smirk.
"We’re not biologically related, and my brothers are solely the ‘fuck around’ part of science, without the ‘and find out’ part. Sooooooo…. No."
"Brothers, mm? I pity them, must be hard having a genius brother who won’t stop bragging."
"I think you meant “preaching,” and I pity them because they’re all dying of envy at my intellect, but sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Reader."
I snicker.
[…]
"And that right there, folks, is your destination," Donnie grandly announces, as a metal-arm whirs out of his battle-shell and points dead ahead to a tall structure, not too far away.
"And you said you didn’t wanna be my tourist advisor," I tease.
He mutters, "I suppose I will admit that this has been quite entertaining for me."
"Is that the closest to humbleness I’ll get from you?"
"Intelligence like mine," He grumbles sarcastically, "Isn’t supposed to be hidden, sweetheart."
I huff. And not because he’s pretty handsome when he calls me that.
"DONNIE~!"
"DEE?"
So thaaaat’s his name.
"Those’r your brothers?" I ask, digging my hands into my pockets, as two figures come rushing out of the door, trying to tackle each-other and get to Donnie.
"Unfortunately."
"Ugh—No BITING, MICHAEL!"
"Stop pulling on my MASK TAILS, LEO!"
Donnie sighs and stops at a brick wall. Just a plan brick wall. Standing there. Right in front of us. Immobile. Forces balanced. Just. Very still.
"How’s this gonna take me home?" I ask him, raising an eyebrow.
He tuts. "Selfie first."
"Right, I forgot," I mutter as a metal arm mechanically comes out of his battle-shell holding a purple phone horizontally. I shuffle closer to him and throw up the peace sign, looking up into the camera of the phone. It clicks and I shuffle away as he mimics throwing a coin, the cool thing being that when he took his right hand off the back of his left, he did have a coin.
A weird purple holographic looking one with an “M” shape that had a small horizontal line on the bottom of the fourth line.
"Michael is much more skilled at this than me," He informs me and he holds up the coin-looking-object-thing-whatever and traces the shape against the wall, leaving the weird glowing “M.”
"Farewell, random stranger—"
"MY BEAUTIFUL BED HERE I COME—"
"Wow, that first date must’ve gone well," Leo teased, Mikey grumpily piggy-back riding him.
"Wh—FIRST DATE?" Donnie spluttered. "No!?"
Donnie did a short retelling of what happened.
"Oh. Thought you were finally getting some action," Leo sighed melodramatically, using the back of his left hand against his forehead in a mimic of a princess fainting or something. "Nerd. They were kinda cute."
"And mean…" Donnie muttered.