Chapter One Hundred and Forty. Dave and Amanda.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty. Dave and Amanda.

"Are you ready, babe?" Dave called down the hall as he tugged on his shoes.

It was Friday evening, and they were preparing for their weekly outing to Denny's.

The tradition had started their first year at UCLA, meeting friends for a meal that wasn't the hot dogs and ramen most of their classmates lived off of. Dave and Amanda had continued the tradition after they'd earned their degrees, inviting friends, old classmates, and coworkers. They'd originally meant for it to be a way to keep in contact with everyone, to keep their friendships active and fresh.

Over time, it proved to accomplish that, with a little extra. Dave and Amanda became a sort of employment referral service amongst their friends. Someone would mention that the company they worked for needed a person with this skill set or that qualification, and Dave or Amanda would let a friend know.

It had been eleven years since that first Friday night dinner, and the weekly meals had secured dozens of positions for their friends, as well as Dave's current job.

So, Dave couldn't help but wonder what Bob had been up to. He hadn't known the man well, as he'd played a few weekends of D&D with the group before the class load and a new job had devoured his free time. He recalled that Bob had been very determined to finish his degree without a massive load of student loans. He'd seen him in the library, and they'd said hello, but he'd been driven.

He'd also been the most socially awkward person Dave had ever met. He wondered if that had changed over the years.

"Just touching up my makeup; I'll be out in just a minute," Amanda called from the bathroom.

Dave draped an overcoat over his arm and grabbed his keys as Amanda came out of the bathroom, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, loose tendrils framing her face. Dave took a moment to admire her as she walked down the hallway.

She was gorgeous, tall, lithe, with hair so black it seemed to drink in the light. "Hey, beautiful," he murmured as he reached out to pull her in for a kiss.

She kissed him back lightly for a moment before her hands sneakily slipped to his sides, lightly running up and down them as he pulled away with an involuntary gasp.

"No tickling!" He said with mock sternness, "remember the tickle treaty of two thousand and sixteen!"

"But you're so cute when I tickle you," Amanda grinned, putting her hands behind her back before leaning forward to kiss him again.

"Treaty," he muttered as the kiss broke, and they leaned towards each other, foreheads touching.

"Yes, the treaty," she laughed as she spun around him and opened the door, "now let's get going. I'm anxious to see what's become of the awkward, lanky kid we knew back before we could drink."

Dave smiled and pulled his umbrella off the coat rack, just in case it decided to rain on them. He didn't mind getting a little damp, but Amanda hated it. He locked the door behind him and walked to the car, placing both the overcoat and the umbrella in the back.

He sat down in the driver's seat, buckled up, and prepared to brave the LA traffic.

Bob was standing in the middle of his raptor pack, lashing out with his staff. He'd opted for an effect over time configuration this morning, which allowed him to train his melee skill.

Ducking out on Isabelle had been the only sane option. She'd insisted on showing him pictures of her grandchildren, all of whom were nearly his own age, and had suggested he should meet her second youngest granddaughter, who was going to UCLA and majoring in engineering, of what sort she wasn't sure.

It had been a relentlessly friendly assault, which Bob was entirely unprepared to rebuff. He didn't know why she was behaving as if he were somehow interesting, but he damn well knew how to get away before she could start in on him again.

He'd managed to be polite all yesterday afternoon and evening, but after she'd dozed off around nine, he'd gone to the restroom and ducked into his inventory.

Bob didn't plan on being caught by her in the morning, not when there were nice, murderous monsters to be slain.

He'd woken up at eight and would slaughter monsters until ten, at which point he'd have an hour or so before the train arrived in LA. A quick shower and he could escape the train and the overly friendly octagenarian.

WHACK!Bob smacked a bunnidillo on the snout. He didn't do any damage, but his melee skill was rather pathetic, so he didn't expect to. He'd grind it up eventually.

He hoped to make a good impression on Dave over dinner, at least enough to be invited to the D&D game. Bob didn't want to give a magic demonstration in Denny's.

Wedging himself in between a pair of UtahRaptors, he delivered another rap to another snout.The source of this content nov(el)bi((n))

It would have been easier if Dave had just invited him to their game, but he understood that he was some guy he'd known for a few weeks back in freshman year. Bob suddenly reaching out to him after over a decade had to have come as a surprise.

Stepping back, Bob pulled out his phone and checked the clock. Five minutes until ten. He dropped a portal at his feet and fell through it into his inventory, heading for the shower. He wanted to make a good impression, so he'd head into the mall near the station in order to pick out some new clothing. Which he would summon, not purchase. He didn't have limitless funds.

As he lathered shampoo into his hair, he wondered if there wasn't some way for him to pick up a cell phone signal from inside the extradimensional space of his Inventory. It was attached to him and thus should technically be adjacent to Earth, in a very quantumly entangled sort of way. He was fairly committed to living out of his inventory, as he didn't have the funds to rent a place where he was likely to spend little if any, time.

Bob peered at the mirror consideringly. His stubble was getting to be a bit much, so he picked up his razor and started to carefully scrape his face clean. He'd have his haircut at the mall, he decided. He didn't want to look like a hippy.

Dave pulled into Denny's parking lot, slipping into a parking space upfront marked as 'Reserved - Manager on Duty.' He'd had a sort of arrangement with a string of men and women who'd managed this Denny's over the years. They didn't use their parking spot on Friday nights, ensuring that he had quick and easy access from the door to the car, and in return, he tipped them twenty dollars and kept his eye out for any employment opportunities they might take advantage of.

He'd only placed two of them in ten years, but those two had become a sort of urban legend at this Denny's, a story passed on to each new manager and employee. When it came to the employees, he'd helped several navigate the dark and turbulent waters of obtaining federal financial aid to attend the local community college. One of the young women he'd helped had later transferred to UCLA, and was now an administrator at Harbor UCLA, and was always eager to consider anyone Dave recommended, which had further allowed him to place several of the servers who were working at Denny's to pay the bills while they made their way through nursing school.

After carefully backing the car into the parking space, Dave sprung out, retrieved his umbrella and coat, then rushed around the car to open the door for Amanda before handing her out of it.

She responded to his gallantry with a kiss on the cheek and a wink.

The hostess was holding the door open for them as they approached, a smile on her face. Mildred had been the hostess at this Denny's for as long as they'd been coming. She only worked Friday and Saturday nights, although she'd been doing so for almost twenty years. She'd told Amanda that she'd taken the job so that her granddaughter, who was working as the hostess at the time, could have the weekends off.

Thanking Mildred, Dave and Amanda headed back to their booth, where they settled into the familiar seats.

It was fifteen minutes until seven, so they sat back and relaxed, sipping on ice water.

Five minutes later, a tall man approached their table.

"At least Vera will have a target other than me," Amanda grumbled.

Dave grinned. Vera, despite being the youngest member of the gaming group at twenty-three, suffered from a compulsive need to mother people. She insisted on cooking a family-style dinner every Sunday for game and had decided that Amanda was too thin and needed some meat on her bones.

Amanda loved her cooking but was also very self-conscious about her weight, so she tried her best to dodge the second helpings that Vera was determined to feed her. The rest of the group found their antics highly amusing.

"Do you think I should tell him about the bonus XP for dressing up?" Dave asked.

Detective Hanson sipped his coffee carefully. He was carefully balancing the desperate need for caffeine against the dangers of scalding his mouth.

He'd been woken up this Saturday morning at seven a.m., a time normally quite unknown to him as he liked to sleep in on his days off. But his phone had rung, and the truth was when you were on the job, you were always on the job, even when you weren't.

So he'd answered and been told that he needed to be down at the house at eight. He blew on the coffee before taking a sip, wincing at the heat, then swiveling to enter his office, where three people waited for him.

Hanson could peg two of them for lawyers straight away, although not the lawyers he normally dealt with. His lawyers tended toward his own attire, cheap, off the rack suits, with stained ties. These two men were wearing bespoke suits if he wasn't mistaken, and given the passion his ex-wife devoted towards fashion, he was far more well educated on the subject than he'd ever wanted to be.

The woman between them was also well dressed, wearing a black pencil skirt, white blouse, and black blazer. All of them were of an age, over fifty, below seventy, and taking care of themselves.

He was well aware that his suit was wrinkled, his tie loose and sporting a fresh coffee stain, and he hadn't shaved in three days.

He also did not give a single solitary fuck.

"Well," he said as he thumped down into his chair, "I'm Detective Hanson, although I'm sure you either knew that or read the name on the door," he gestured for them to sit, which they did not, "so who are you, and what do you need?"

"I'm Charles Hardinger," the man on the left began, "with Walther and Peirce," he gestured towards the other man, "and this is my colleague Arthur Bennington."

"We are representing Fermilab," Charles continued, "of which Mrs. Nalenthal is the Dean."

"I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you," Hanson replied, "but I have a personal policy of never lying before eight p.m.," he sipped his coffee again before continuing, "you're all important people, and this is my day off, so none of us wants to waste any time; what do you want?"

Mrs. Nalenthal stepped forward. "Detective, you've submitted a report, which was relayed to the University, indicating that a Mr. Robert Whitman is not, as was previously documented, deceased," she paused, then continued, "As he is now available, we would like to arrange to a meeting with the man, as he holds the answers to several rather vexing questions."

Detective Hanson blinked. "I have his number," he offered hesitantly, "I can call him if you'd like."

"Please," Mrs. Nalenthal smiled coolly, "it's rather important that we speak with him."

"You have determined that the man claiming to be Robert Whitman isn't someone attempting to steal his identity?" Arthur asked suddenly.

Hanson turned his head and gave the man a long look before responding sarcastically, "No, I just took him at his word," he grumbled. He raised a hand to forestall further comments and continued, "His fingerprints match those we have on file, which was provided to us by your University," he nodded to Mrs. Nalenthal, "and while I'll admit he looks better than his driver's license and university photo, it's definitely the same man," he shook his head, "oh, and his blood type matches."

"Short of running a DNA test, I am absolutely certain that the man I spoke with is Robert Whitman," Hanson finished.

Mrs. Nalenthal waved a hand, silencing the retort on her lawyers' lips. "I'm not seeking to cast aspersions on your work, detective," she began, "however, you must understand that the original investigators had determined that the amount of blood found was definitive, in that no one could survive having lost that much."

"I did find myself curious as to how he survived, but he wasn't willing to discuss it," Hanson admitted, "and having proven his identity, I didn't have any recourse to do more than ask."

"It is unfortunate that there are no charges that could be leveled against Mr. Whitman," Mrs. Nalenthal, "but we do have other levers," she mused.

With an immense effort, Hanson was able to stop himself from commenting. Instead, he pulled out his cellphone and scrolled through his contacts, tapping on Robert Whitman.

The phone rang twice before the man picked up. "Good morning, Detective," Whitman said, his voice far too cheerful such an early Saturday morning."

"Morning," Hanson replied, "I've got the Dean of the University in my office, and she'd like to meet with you."

"Why?" Whitman asked, his voice sounding surprised.

"You came back from the dead," Hanson responded, deadpan, "they'd like to ask you a few questions, although I don't know if that is their primary interest or not."

"Do they have any legal right to demand my presence?" Whitman queried.

"None that I'm aware of, although the Dean is accompanied by a pair of attorneys from Walther and Peirce," Hanson said as he kicked back in his chair a bit, "look, I hate playing the telephone game, can I give them your number?"

Whitman was silent for a moment. Hanson knew the line was still open, as he could hear traffic in the background. "Detective," Whitman began, "I don't like the fact that you've been put in this position. I do not want to have any contact with the University or those representing it, and I know you've read my file, and you're good at your job, so you know why."

"Please relay to them that I'm not interested at this time and that any further pressure upon yourself will result in increased antagonism towards them from me," Whitman finished.

"I hear ya," Hanson sighed, "and I appreciate the caveat. You take care."

"You as well, Detective," Whitman replied, then ended the call.

Hanson looked over at his guests. They weren't stupid. They'd gotten quite a bit from the context of his side of the conversation. "He's not interested in meeting with you at this time, and he doesn't want me to give his number out," Hanson raised a hand, "further, and I appreciated this, he said that any additional pressure on me would result in him becoming antagonistic towards you."

Mrs. Nalenthal frowned while Arthur let out a growl. "It's regrettable that he's chosen to take that tone," Charles said thoughtfully, "although I can assure you, we hadn't any ill-will towards either of you."

"Great," Hanson grunted as he heaved himself out of his chair, taking a drink of his coffee and then draining the cup, having found it to have cooled to the perfect temperature.

"In that case, as I said, it's my day off," Hanson gave them a dismissive wave as he walked around them and out of his office.