The God of Pranks' Unlikely Servant

Chapter 3: Santiary's Suspicious Glare

The rain of the sprinkler system finally sputtered to a halt, leaving the alleyway humid, smelling of expensive floral perfume and aggressive lemon-herb mayonnaise. Noob stood there, dripping, his left arm locked stiffly behind his back as if he were hiding a live electrical fire.

Santiary took a half-step back, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the scene. She plucked a single, coagulated glob of mayonnaise off her silk sleeve with the tips of her manicured fingers, grimacing as if she were inspecting a dead bug.

"Performance art," she said, her voice dropping into a register that sounded like expensive velvet draped over a razor blade. "I’ve seen some avant-garde street theater in the city, but this? This is essentially just public assault involving a condiment bottle."

"It wasn't an assault," Noob insisted, his face heating up so fast he felt like he was running a fever. "It was... an expression of the duality of man! You know? The, uh, the crusty sourdough of society versus the creamy, chaotic filling of our hidden desires. It’s deep. Or maybe it’s just lunch. Who knows?"

Pffffft.

The sound was loud, wet, and undeniably suggestive of a malfunctioning gastrointestinal tract. Noob froze. He clapped his right hand over his mouth, his eyes widening in horror.

Santiary blinked. "I’m sorry, did you just… make a sound effect with your mouth?"

"No!" Noob squeaked, his voice cracking. "That was, uh, the drain! The pipe behind me. It’s, um, very old. Plumbing issues. The whole city is falling apart, really."

Pbbbbbt-thwack.

The sound was even louder this time, reverberating off the brick walls like a bass drum in an elevator. Noob looked at the wall, then back at Santiary, his soul attempting to physically exit his body through his ear canal.

"Is the pipe," Santiary said slowly, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline, "making flatulence noises? Because that is a very specific architectural flaw, wouldn't you say?"

"He’s doing it, isn't he?" Noob whispered through his teeth, his jaw clenched so tight his molars were crying for help.

Oh, lighten up, Noob, the God of Pranks chimed in his skull, sounding delighted. She’s clearly intimidated by your raw, gaseous charisma. Keep going. Tell her you’re a professional wind instrumentalist.

"Listen, I’m not—I swear I’m not doing this on purpose," Noob said, sweating profusely. "I’m having a really, really weird Tuesday. And my left arm is currently having a seizure, which I’m sure you’ve noticed because it’s vibrating like a jackhammer."

Santiary took a bold step forward, ignoring his frantic posturing. She peered at his hoodie sleeve, which was indeed pulsating with a faint, rhythmic violet light that flickered like a dying neon bulb.

"You're shaking," she observed, her voice losing some of its ice and gaining a sliver of genuine curiosity. "And that light isn't a shadow. What is under that sleeve, Noob?"

"A skin condition!" Noob shouted, probably a little too loud. "It’s, uh, luminescence dermatitis. Very rare. Very contagious. You should probably stand, like, ten feet back. For your own safety. And your wardrobe."

Tell her you’re radioactive, the God suggested. It’s a classic move.

"I’m also slightly radioactive," Noob blurted out.

Santiary stared at him for a long, heavy moment. She didn't look terrified. She looked like she was observing a particularly interesting lab rat that had somehow learned how to tie its own shoelaces.

"You are arguably the most pathetic person I have ever met," she said, not unkindly, but with a clinical detachment that stung more than the mayo. "You're covered in dressing, you’re making noises that would embarrass a toddler, and you’re spinning a lie so transparent it’s practically glass."

"I’m not lying!" Noob protested, waving his right hand. "The mayo was an accident! I was trying to... I was trying to make a point!"

"A point about what? That you’re a menace to brunch?" She let out a short, sharp sigh and reached into her purse, pulling out a small, pristine pack of wet wipes. She extended them toward him. "Here. You’re dripping on the pavement."

Noob took them, his hand shaking. "Thanks. You know, you’re surprisingly nice for someone I just, uh, accidentally assaulted with a condiment."

"I’m not nice," she corrected, watching as he started frantically scrubbing at his face. "I’m bored. And you are, against all odds, the most interesting thing that has happened on this street all week. Which, I suppose, is a sad indictment of the neighborhood."

Noob finished wiping his face, feeling less like a disaster and more like a humbled, soggy idiot. "I’m usually not like this. I’m a gamer. I have a 2.5 K/D ratio. I’m a respected individual in the digital realm. This... this current situation is... anomalous."

"Anomalous," she repeated, tasting the word. "Is that what we're calling it? You’re hiding something, Noob."

"No, I’m really not," he said, trying to stand up straighter, though his left arm gave a violent, involuntary spasm that caused him to jerk sideways. "I’m just, uh, having a bit of an identity crisis. And a hardware malfunction."

"I have a very good sense for people who are lying," Santiary said, stepping closer until she was well within his personal bubble. She smelled like expensive vanilla and something sharper, like ozone. "And you are currently vibrating with nervous energy. Your left arm is doing something that isn't biologically possible. And you’re claiming to be a 'performance artist' despite the fact that you clearly have no idea what your next move is."

She’s got your number, kid, the God chuckled. Sharp one, this. I like her. She’s got that 'I-would-definitely-betray-you-for-a-promotion' energy. Very aesthetic.

"Shut up," Noob muttered.

"Excuse me?" Santiary tilted her head.

"I said... shut up, you... you critic!" Noob panicked. "I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to my inner critic. He’s very harsh. He’s, like, a total jerk."

Santiary looked at him for a long time, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw and then lingering on the glowing sleeve of his hoodie. The flicker of violet light seemed to sync with her heartbeat, a slow, hypnotic pulse that made Noob’s own chest feel tight.

"You’re a mess, Noob," she said finally, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But you’re a fascinating mess. I think I’ll walk with you for a bit. See if you decide to explode or turn into a frog."

"Wait, what? You're going to follow me?" Noob asked, his heart doing a panicked flip. "I don't think that's a good idea. I’m, like, a social hazard right now. You’ll get collateral damage on your shoes."

"I enjoy living dangerously," she said, turning toward the street. "Besides, I want to see if you can make it to the next intersection without starting a small war with a condiments bottle."

"I promise, no more mayo!" Noob shouted, scurrying to catch up.

Oh, don't make promises you can't keep, the voice hissed. Look, there’s a guy selling hot dogs three stands down. Mustard. Think of the contrast, Noob. Think of the colors!

"I swear, if you touch a mustard bottle, I’m going to personally throw myself into the nearest storm drain," Noob whispered to the air.

"Talking to the air again?" Santiary didn't look back, but there was a hint of a smile in her voice. "Come along, performance artist. Let's see what else you can ruin."

Noob hurried after her, his left arm twitching like a caged animal, the violet glow beneath his sleeve pulsating rhythmically, as if it were counting down to something. He had no idea what he was doing, and even less of an idea of how he was going to survive the next ten minutes without causing a major incident. But as he looked at the back of Santiary’s elegant coat, he couldn't help but feel that his boring, solitary life as a gamer was truly, irrevocably over.

"I hate this," he whispered to the universe.

"You love it," the God corrected. "And so does she."