Chapter 188 B4. 3.1 – Not So Sweet Cake

It took us about an hour to reach the airport, which was surprisingly fast. We thought there’d be heavy traffic because of checkpoints added here and there due to the increasing frequency of Adumbrae attacks. It turned out that people stayed indoors, scared of getting eaten by monsters. Plus, it was the weekend.

Guided by her Guardian Angel, Deen navigated the streets to avoid the checkpoints with scanners. Mom was too busy working on her laptop to notice the circuitous route we took.

Our next problem was entering the airport—only a few entrances were opened, framed by newly-installed bio-scanners. The security was way tighter after the new wave of Adumbrae attacks. We could probably figure out a way inside, but Mom would wonder why we’d sneak in the vents or break through locked doors or whatever.

The only solution was not to enter.

“Look at the long lines, Mom,” I said, nodding at the window. “They only have like four doors open. Not sure if this is the normal number of passengers, or if there are more people than usual.”

“People understandably want to escape the city,” Deen said. “My sister’s friend was complaining on Snippet that ticket prices shot up overnight.”

“Good thing Mom already has a ticket,” I said.

“We have time before my flight,” Mom said. “Let’s have a quick lunch somewhere nearby. Then you can drop me off, and I’ll queue on my own. I don’t think I’ll have to stand out here for too long.”

“I can accompany you,” I blurted a second later than I intended. I was wrestling with how much I should push being a dutiful daughter.

“No need, dear. I know how much you hate being in a crowd. I’ll pass the time reading the quarterly sales reports that came in. Work, work, work. You should focus on studying. Don’t let this Adumbrae situation distract you, okay? Stay safe, you and Deen.”

“I’ll take care of Erind, Mrs. Hartwell,” Deen said, winking at me.

What was that supposed to mean?

“Don’t worry about us, Mom,” I said. “Deen and I have already talked about going to Vegas. This mess isn’t going to die down anytime soon.”

We found an old-timey café a few minutes from the airport. From the signs, the place claimed to be Italian, but wasn’t really authentic because the carbonara pictured on their menu had cream on it. And I liked it that way. I could never fathom how eggs on pasta were fine. Italians could sue me, but I’d never eat the ‘authentic’ style of carbonara.

I stirred my blue lemonade according to Rule #1, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as I moved the straw back and forth. I observed Mom in front of the display case next to the cashier, choosing which cake we’d have for dessert. She didn’t want me to pick because I’d go for the sweetest option.

“The bun suits you,” Deen said.

“You really think so?” I touched the back of my rolled ball of hair sitting close to my nape. “Or you’re just saying that because you styled it?”

“A little bit of both. You look quite mature and serious with a bun. A believable law student compared to a… um.”

“A high schooler?” I chuckled, bouncing the bun on my hand. “I still look young for my age, though the bun does help.” This getup hid most of my white hair, making me think that Deen had other motives beyond just having me try different hairstyles. Did she suspect that this was a sign of my seeding’s progress?

“Don’t reveal your palm,” Deen hissed, pulling my arm down.

“There’s no one around,” I whispered back, a bit annoyed. “And I know to hide it, okay?”

I wore a sweater with sleeves that go past my hands. This was a Christmas gift from Aunt Jemma, who had forgotten my size. Some people might question wearing a sweater in La Esperanza, but it was February. Not really cold. That was never going to happen in California. Not hot either.

This outfit wasn’t just for hiding the crystals on my palm. While changing clothes, I checked my skin for any changes. Sure enough, with the onset of white hair came patches of purplish, marble-looking skin. I’d have to take up USB Cecilia’s offer of help.

“Use your left hand,” Deen said.

I glared at Deen. “Yes, boss.”

She sighed. “I’m not being bossy. I’m sorry if it came off that way. I… I’ll get back to studying before we argue again.” She continued reading a thick book about Property Law.

My left cheek twitched as Deen dragged a highlighter’s bright yellow tip across printed words. I’d never get caught turning my books into a coloring project. Such a waste of time, and it draws the eyes into certain passages, inadvertently marking the rest of the text as unimportant. Most of the stuff written in law books was actually important! I’ve seen some students color everything on a page. Like, what was the point of highlighting then?

When I was a kid, I already knew highlighting was a huge scam to make people feel productive. I had an older cousin, in college at that time, who was an avid highlighter. She flunked her course. Highlighters couldn’t save her.

And so, Rule #18 was born.

My eyes wandered around the café. The wooden antiques were tastefully worn down by time, and the figurines of saints were beautiful despite their faded color. Mom was at the cashier, paying for three slices of a sponge cake. The woman behind the counter proceeded to decorate the slices.

Must be the olive oil cake that I had seen earlier. The name didn’t sound appetizing at all.

I looked up at the tiny TV on the corner showing the news. It was muted, so I couldn’t hear what Mayor Minnows, whom I’d like to call Mayor Fish because he looked slimy, was saying with a remorseful face to several microphones. Reading the caption below, he was mourning those killed by yesterday’s Adumbrae attacks.

How many people have died now? Sixty-three died last month, during the first Adumbrae attack. Not sure if those whom the 2Ms subsequently kidnapped and killed should be counted. The 2Ms also regularly had the gangsters like Overdrive kidnap the homeless for their experiments. Add in the kill count of the PCM. Like a few hundred people must’ve died due to Adumbrae-related stuff.

Of course, I didn’t count the people I had killed. For one, they were mostly bad guys. And two, I was the main character. No one cares about those killed by the main character, especially if they were faceless randos and extras.

The news switched to protests. Was there anyone angry about the Corebrings coming into the country?

Among the placard-carrying crowds were people sporting the PCM’s fist symbol. Were they actual PCM members, or people who just co-opted the sign for protest? I thought most of the PCM had either been killed, arrested by the police, or had fled the city.

I smirked when I saw a couple of people holding signs saying ‘Corebrings Go Home!’ There would be more of them once we spread this stupid video we recorded. But how would we do that on our own? We were going to avoid Auron, right? USB Cecilia better have a good idea. That kinda rhymed.

The TV cut back to the live footage of the mayor doing his little speech. The city probably decided to have a press conference instead of another memorial—that’d just be a bad look, and there’d be memorials to come if they stuck with it.  

The camera zoomed away, showing all the people behind the mayor.

“The mayor’s family,” Deen commented, looking up from her coloring book. “I’m surprised they’re still here.”

“They want to show their support,” I said with a shrug. “Come to think of it, if I were in their place, I’d already be on the run.”

Numerous cases had been filed against the mayor and the city. Even a small thing like the lack of maintenance for the train bio-scanners became a huge issue as badges of corruption were uncovered during the investigation. And I had learned from Four Arms that the BID was also investigating the tendrils of the 2Ms in the government system.

“The woman on the right…” Deen muttered, squinting her eyes at the television. “Vanessa Minnows.”

“I feel like I’ve heard that name before. Have you told me about her?”

“The mayor’s niece. She was present during the memorial. She disappeared from the usual circles for some time as rumors about a terminal illness spread.”

“Usual circles,” I sardonically repeated.

“She returned after a few months, dismissing the rumors as false. I didn’t think much of it at the time. But after our experiences…”

“You think that she’s a client of the 2Ms?”

Deen nodded. “Every rich person in the city is a suspect at this point. Her circumstances add even more suspicion.”

I nodded. Deen was right. All rich people were possible monsters, including her. “If the mayor’s niece is really an Adumbrae, then she should leave the city in a hurry.”

“Did you see what Adrian posted this morning?” Deen asked, referring to one of our law school classmates. This Adrian guy had a very obvious crush on Deen. She went out on a date with him a couple of times, but nothing came of it.

Deen must’ve ranted to me about their boring dates at some point, though I couldn’t remember. I probably went on autopilot. Her words entered one ear and out the other.  

“Post where?” I asked. “On Snippet? You know that I don’t post anything on social media.” That would be against Rule #17. A post was a manifestation of a face. It might contradict a future face I’d wear. As they say, everything was permanent on the internet.

Also, experts warned us about the harmful effects of social media. I was a role model that everyone should follow!

“Even if you don’t post,” Deen said, “you can scroll through Snippet to keep yourself up to date with relevant current events.”

“I don’t think Adrian’s life counts as a relevant current event.”

“It’s not. But he posted pictures that he was on a plane. He and his two other siblings left La Esperanza this morning, likely using their connections to get last-minute tickets. It’s as your mom predicted.”

“Speaking of Mom…” I moved aside our glasses and plates to make space on the table. Mom was here with a tray of lightly browned cakes; each slice was topped with a little swirl of whipped cream and some berries.

“Olive oil cake,” Mom said. “They used olive oil instead of butter. It’s also not too sweet, so it’s a healthier dessert compared to what you usually eat, Erind dear. You should watch your sugar intake.”

“Look at how thin I am, Mom. If anything, I should eat more sweets. Just inhale sugar.”

“And get diabetes like your Uncle Ruthford? I don’t think so. You also don’t want to ruin your teeth. A root canal will be worse than getting tortured in hell. That was what Rutherford told me.”

I’ve experienced worse pain, I thought. I had a Corebring weapon burst out of my chest and slowly disintegrate my body. Not sure how a root canal treatment would compare to that. And no way I could get diabetes with my superhuman body. Becoming an Adumbrae was a blessing in disguise because I could eat sweets to my heart’s content.

I cut the triangular tip of the cake slice with the edge of my fork. This was really soft. Looks moist too.

I scooped the piece into my mouth and… it wasn’t as sweet as I’d like.

But it wasn’t bad. I thought it’d have an overpowering olive oil taste, which would be weird. There was a slight herbal hint. A citrusy taste smoothened everything out, though.

“Is there lemon or something in here?” I asked.

“Yes. Lemon,” Mom said. “How is it?”

“It’s fine.” I scooped a portion with the whipped cream. “I hoped it was sweeter, though. Cakes aren’t supposed to taste healthy. This is like an old people’s cake.”

“I’m not that old, dearest,” Mom said, waving her tiny fork at me. She made her bionic eyes flash red. I know she wasn’t really angry—just mother-daughter things.

“You look young for your age, Mrs. Hartwell,” Deen said. Fucking suck-up.

Maybe Deen planned to make me look like a bad daughter. Then, she’d murder me and comfort Mom, eventually taking my place. I had seen a movie like that before, but forgot the title. It might happen because Deen seemed to like my mother more than her own.

“You don’t even know Mom’s age,” I muttered.

“How old are you, Mrs. Hartwell? If it’s alright to ask.”  

“I’ll be forty-eight this April,” Mom said. “I’m not one to hide my age. We’ll all become old someday.”

Deen ticked off her fingers. “If you’re forty-seven now, and Erind is twenty-three… You had Erind at twenty-four. You were a year older than Erind when you became pregnant with her.”

“That’s some amazing math work, Deen,” I sarcastically said. I knew what was coming next.

“There’s your deadline, Erind,” Mom said with a chuckle. “I expect a grandchild by next year.”

“I’m too busy to find a boyfriend,” I said, turning grouchy. How typical of Mom to do this. “Law school and stuff. Even Deen here, the most beautiful girl on campus, doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

Deen looked away, her cheeks flushing pink. “Studies first, as they say, Mrs. Hartwell. Most guys are intimidated by female lawyers anyway. Didn’t you say your birthday is in April? Would you be returning to the country?”

How odd that Deen changed the topic. Was she seriously embarrassed by my compliment? It wasn’t even a compliment; I was just stating a fact. Maybe Deen was tired of relationship talk. Or was she planning to make me look bad, preparing a birthday surprise for Mom while trapping me in a cave so I couldn’t attend the party?

“I’ll strive to free my schedule by then,” Mom said. “Usually, it’s only Erind and I having a dinner somewhere nice. You can come along, Deen.”

“I’ll be delighted to, Mrs. Hartwell,” Deen ecstatically said, as if she had won the lottery. She probably wouldn’t care if she did win it. “Erind and I will shop for a nice present for you. We’ll pick one, and it’ll be from both of us.”

What the fuck…? Deen was behaving like she was my sister. I was pretty contented being an only child, thank you very much.

“How lovely,” Mom said. “Speaking of presents, I have something here for you, Erind. I saw this yesterday at a quaint boutique shop.” She took out a small object from her purse. “A glass slipper keychain.”