“Okay,” I say, drawing the word out. “So . . . he’s not real?”
“He is very real.”
“But he’s not a player?” I clarify.
“Not anymore.”
I frown. “What does that?—”
“Welcome to AppleFrogs, where you’ll be eatin’ bliss in the Secret Abyss.Riiibbit. My name is Paddles and I’ll be your hostess this afternoon. Can I offer you a booth?”
I blink at the female frog folk standing at the door. “Uh . . .”
“Right this way.Ribbit,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her despite not answering. She’s wearing a short-pressed dress, her slimy legs with webbed feet on full display. Her skin is black with bright spots of blue and yellow. There’s bright red paint in the center of her lips, as if she’d painted them like I’d seen some of the working girls back in Dross do. The tips of her webbed fingers are painted red to match. As she walks, she makes the same ribbit noise every so often, as if she can’t quite help it.
I follow her into the table side and take a seat at the booth she gestures to. She hands me a plastic folder with words all over it and I stare down at it, confused. What the fuck is this thing for?
“That there is the menu,” Paddles declares. “You can order whatever food you want from it, the kitchen’ll cook it right up, and I’ll bring it out.Ribbit.It’s free in the safehouses, and you can order as much as you want. I’ll give you a few minutes, darlin’.Ribbit!Remember, my name is Paddles. Just call me when you’re ready to order.Ribbit,” she says, winking at me and going over to the bar where she stands and does absolutely nothing except look away from my direction. Apparently, she’s also an NPC.
There are more glass boxes like the one I’d had to put a coin in to enter the Harrow around the safehouse. They hang from the ceiling and play some sort of pictures across them I don’t understand. I’m staring at it, trying to figure out what the strange pictures even mean, when someone sits down on the other side of the booth from me.
“Locke!” I cry. “You’re alive.”
He winces and puts a hand to his head. “Barely. I think the bartender drugged me.”
“What?”
He waves away my concern and picks up the menu in front of him. “This all food?”
“Apparently,” I say, finally looking at it myself. “I don’t know what most of this is, but I certainly don’t want whatever a Bowl of Flies is. It looks disgusting.”
“The Bowl of Flies is our house special,” Paddles says, suddenly beside our table again.
We both jump in surprise, staring up at the frog folk. “What is . . . bacon?” I ask, not sure what to order. “Never mind. Can you just give me your biggest meal that doesn’t have any bugs?”
“No bugs?” she asks, surprised. “Honey, no wonder you’re so skinny.Riiiiibbit. You need some protein.” She pulls out a notepad and writes symbols I don’t recognize. “No bugs, but I’ll make sure there’s plenty of meat so we can fatten you up.” She turns to Locke. “And for you, sug?”
Locke blinks. “I don’t know. I’m really hungry though.”
Paddles smiles. “I’ll load you up, big boy. Big strong man like you needs his nourishment.Ribbit.” She winks and Locke frowns, but she leaves before he can comment on the obvious flirtation. I watch her walk away, frowning at the extra sway she adds to her hips when she thinks Locke is looking. A small flying insect comes buzzing in around her face, and as I watch, she turns toward it, her eyes tracing its chaotic flight path. I’m staring so hard, that when she opens her mouth and something snaps out of it to grab the bug, I nearly jump out of my seat. I gasp, and she looks over at me with a smile. She tosses me another wink and then goes back to staring at the wall.
Locke leans across the table. “Does this cost money or something? I only have three Harrow Coins.”
“Paddles said it doesn’t. She said we can order as much as we want,” I reply, looking around the AppleFrog’s. I realize the glass pictures have changed since the last time I looked at them. “Do you know what those are?”
Locke follows my gaze. “The bartender last night—he’s not here right now—called them televisions before I passed out. The moving pictures are recorded or something. I don’t know. I’ll be honest. I didn’t listen to the whole lecture he had ready to go on the subject.”
A little jingle echoes over the speakers overhead and someone at the bar, another Frog folk says, “Oh! Oh! Turn it up, Chrono. The Harrow News is coming on. I gotta see this.”
The bartender, Chrono, does just that. When he moves, his little cape swings around his body as he turns the television up with some sort of small black box until we can all hear. A man appears on the screen, his eyes blank and lifeless. He’s sitting at a table, professional looking in a pressed outfit of some sort that I don’t recognize.
“It is called a suit,” Cipher supplies helpfully. “It was a popular style of clothing when one wanted to appear professional back on Earth.”
My brows shoot up. “Good to know, I guess?”
The man on the television holds a bunch of papers stiffly in his hands as he stares out at all of us.
“Good evening, Players and Harrowfolk. My name is Ken and this is theHBS Nightly News.”
