100 Bad Days

1

The sky was black as Frankie led Joel and Paelen into the small Fremont Street diner. The young hostess who seated them paid no lingering attention to Joel's now-exposed metal arm or to Paelen's blood-soaked head wound. Working the Fremont Street night shift had likely desensitized the restaurant's employees to any strange occurrences, but this assumption did nothing to calm Joel's paranoia. His eyes scanned the narrow establishment, sizing up its few patrons.

"Joel, what are you looking for?" Frankie searched in the direction of Joel's gaze.

Joel passed around the menus. "Anything that could cause us any more trouble tonight."

Frankie eagerly inspected the breakfast section of the menu.

"Pancakes?" Joel raised his eyebrows. "Frankie, it must be close to midnight."

"They always make them for me when I can pay," Frankie insisted. "Even when John and I can't swing take-out food, they'll sometimes give me leftovers anyways, too."

Joel read the description of the triple chocolate pancakes Frankie was hailing. Honestly, he would've taken anything edible at this point.

Joel lifted his eyes across the booth to see that Paelen had not touched his menu. His friend stared out the window, but he didn't appear to be looking at anything.

"What do you want to eat, Paelen?" Joel prodded.

"Hmm?" Paelen's attention returned vaguely to Joel and Frankie. "Oh. I...I will have what you are having."

Joel frowned.

"Can I start you folks off with something to drink?" A short, red-headed waitress asked.

"Actually, we're ready to order." Joel responded, gathering their menus. "We'll have three orders of the triple chocolate chip pancakes. And three chocolate milkshakes."

As the server took her leave, Joel continued to eye Paelen. Frankie's eyes had lit up at Joel's words. "John always just gets us water; he says we need to save money so we can buy a real house."

Joel nodded sympathetically. "I would normally agree, but Paelen really needs sugar right now; it'll help him heal."

Frankie raised his eyebrows skeptically. "Aliens normally eat people, though. Or ingest the CO2 from the atmosphere, I heard."

Paelen rolled his eyes, then winced at the action. "We are not aliens!"

"You said yourself you aren't human." Frankie insisted. "How can you be neither humans or aliens?"

"I am a human," Joel insisted.

"I've never seen a prosthetic arm like that on a human," Frankie reasoned. "And I've seen a woman at the Four Queens that's got a fake leg."

"You're right," Joel ceded. "The technology is alien, but I'm not. When I lost my arm, one of my...alien... friends created this arm for me."

Paelen's hand fell from where it supported his head. "Alien?"

"I knew it!" Frankie bounced in his seat.

"Frankie, shh, we don't need any more attention!" Joel said, surveying the room. The two scattered diner customers were decidedly unfazed. "Paelen, if you have a better explanation, feel free to share it." Joel said, pointedly.

Paelen sat back with a sigh. Joel wasn't very keen on referring to Vulcan as an alien either, but revealing the truth likely wouldn't do any good. They couldn't be sure that Frankie had any knowledge of Roman mythology, so an accurate explanation may have confused him further.

"Alright. I guess I believe you, Joel," Frankie yielded.

"Thanks."

He turned his attention to Paelen. "How long do aliens live for?"

"Frankie, must you-" Paelen gritted his teeth before he was cut off.

"I just want to know how old you are!" Frankie pouted.

Joel watched the interaction with a mixture of amusement and concern. Frankie's extraterrestrial accusations had grated him, but he was no longer a target. Paelen was not from Earth, nor was he a human, which meant that by most definitions, he was an alien to Frankie. He was also, however, very pale at the moment.

"I do not know." Paelen frowned. "We do not celebrate birthdays on Oly- where I am from."

Joel watched as he swayed slightly in his seat. It had already been some time since the Olympian had access to ambrosia and nectar, and Joel almost wanted to push some of the artificial sweetener packets adorning the table towards him. It couldn't be too long until their food was out, Joel thought, thankfully.

"I will be right back," Paelen muttered, sliding out of the booth.

Frankie and Joel watched as he disappeared into the diner's men's restroom. "He's still bleeding." Frankie gestured toward a smear of fresh blood left on the edge of the booth.

Joel glanced between Frankie and the blood. "I'm gonna go check on him. Just stay right here, okay?"

Frankie nodded. Ordinarily, Joel would not be keen on leaving a nine-year-old alone, but Frankie had proven himself to be extremely adept at survival, not unlike Joel himself as a child.

Joel slipped out of the booth, making his way through the desolate diner past the surprisingly bustling kitchen. Music echoed through the half-closed metal doors, and Joel was suddenly reminded that to these people, there was no other world to deal with. No clones, no shady government organization, and no trigger-happy Olympian leaders to deal with.

He pushed open the restroom door to find his friend's pale form braced against the counter. His eyes were shut, and he did not appear to notice Joel's entrance.

"Paelen?"

Light brown eyes snapped up, and Joel frowned. His friend's usually vibrant eyes appeared fatigued and distant, slightly unfocused as they met his own. "Are you alright?"

Paelen smiled weakly, but it didn't reach his eyes. A half-hearted approximation of his usual crooked grin did nothing to reassure Joel. "I will be fine, Joel."

"Let me take a look." Joel gestured toward his head, tentatively stepping forward.

Paelen blinked, then tilted his head down, reluctantly offering his wound for Joel's inspection.

There was no need—he was squarely a head shorter than Joel. Still, Joel made quick work of unwrapping the bled-through makeshift bandage barely secured around the olympian's head.

The sight of the bare wound made him grimace. No human could have survived the gunshot. Although Joel knew his friend was far from human, Paelen's appearance—his same age, younger even, wiry frame—sometimes made him forget how much more resilient he was than himself.

"Has it healed at all?" Paelen asked, and Joel realized he'd been staring dumbly for some time.

"Honestly, not much, if any." He admitted. "We really need Emily, or at least some ambrosia and nectar." Paelen didn't respond. "Let's go eat our food; the sugar should help a little. Then we can go back and wait for Emily, Pegasus, and Alexis to return."

Joel re-bandaged his wound and led him back to their booth. Frankie had already cleared half of his plate and was demolishing the other half with syrup.