Without any waitstaff here to direct him, Ash took his place at a small booth next to the front door he came in from to gather his thoughts. He took the seat where he’d be able to see the door without turning around, just in case Gray or Abbey came in after him. He looked to his right, expecting a window that might expose him to the outside, but there was nothing but a tempered black sheet that didn’t let anyone see in or out. Up above him was a singular hanging light that almost every booth in Gatsby’s great expanse had, and he resisted the urge to give it a light tap to watch it swing.

  “Alright, first things first,” he thought to himself, “let’s take inventory.”

  Ash brought up his right hand, a little relieved to see the star was still there on the back of it. If he was stranded in a diner desert, at least he’d have a weapon, or so he thought. He recalled that he actually didn’t know how to summon it again, Gray never told him, possibly because no one expected the mark to show up again as quickly as it did.

  He thought for a minute, recalling the heat and the flames that appeared when his gun first vanished, and the sparks that he saw when Forin’s ability manifested. He held out his arm, hand outstretched with his palm outstretched like he was waiting for a high five. He concentrated on the sensation he felt before, a burning that didn’t hurt, but warmed him and made him feel safe.

  Other than what felt like a small cramp in his ring finger, he didn’t feel much else. He thought back to Forin, and if there was some kind of trigger, like a physical action that made it easier to summon your bond. As he was racking his brain for something to try, his eyes sat on the hanging light again, noticing it was actually swinging, ever so slightly. When his eyes locked onto it, almost by instinct, he pointed two fingers at it, at least mimicking a gun if he couldn’t summon his.

  The moment his fingers locked into place, he felt a surge of heat at his fingertips, as if blood was suddenly rushing to his hand. In a spark of flame that illuminated the booth more than the hanging light could ever hope to, the revolver he had only shot once appeared, heavy in his hand. With all the restraint he could muster, he didn’t make his second ever shot at the swinging bulb, he instead let his hand fall, resting the revolver on the table with his fingers still locked around it.

  “Could take weeks, huh?” Ash said to himself, a small but proud smile appearing on his face. He quickly wiped the smile away, attributing it to luck, a fluke, or some kind of environmental influence as he reminded himself to not get cocky. While he still felt relatively safe, or at least not under active threat, he decided to test a couple of things.

  With his hand resting on the table, he let go of the revolver, making sure he had no contact with it. After a second of it resting on the table, with a small burst of flame, the gun vanished from sight completely. He touched the spot where it was once resting, and it felt a little warm, but it definitely wasn’t there anymore. Then, to confirm if it wasn’t a fluke, he made the same two finger gun gesture. Just like before, as soon as his fingers locked into place, his gun quickly found its way back in his hand.

  Next he thought about firing it for a quick test, but just as quickly decided against it. “There’s no telling who or what is around here, I can’t just start making a ton of noise and shooting randomly.” Satisfied with at least being able to make his bonded weapon appear twice, he relaxed his hand, letting the gun disappear as he thought about his next move.

  Next he looked at the table he was sitting at, noting that it didn’t look very different from the last time he was here. There were two bottles sitting near the edge of the wall, one for mustard, one for ketchup, and a napkin holder that was half empty. A menu was tucked behind the napkin holder, and with his hands on autopilot he reached out and plucked it free.

  The menu was a single laminated sheet with less than appetizing pictures of different breakfast combos on display. His eyes went straight to the pancakes he had ordered the last time he was here, seeing a stack of three buttermilk cakes sloppily placed on top of one another. He remembered it being pretty cheap, shockingly cheap, but when he looked at the price he noticed that there wasn’t a dollar value anymore. Instead of a few dollars tacked onto the end of the description there was a time: 2 hours and 30 minutes.

  He continued looking down the list. There was a pile of anemic looking sausage with a single egg listed for 45 minutes, with a side of bacon adding another 30. Each and every item followed the same trend with similar times listed as the price, and after he scrolled through it all he put the menu back where he found it. As strange as the menu was, he thought his environment was the more pressing issue.

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  He was in completely uncharted territory, despite it looking like familiar territory copy pasted a thousand times, so he prioritized finding either Abbey or Gray. He remembered after that the reason they came here in the first place was because of a ping from a Diver around this location, named Ren.

  “Did he maybe get lost in here?” Ash thought to himself as he looked around the Gatsby desert again, not seeing a single sign of life in the messy sea of booths and tables. He got up from the booth, thinking that waiting here at the door wasn’t very helpful, but getting himself lost might be worse. He got up from the table, sliding out of the booth as he thought about a way to help, and as he did his eyes landed on the condiment bottles sitting next to the napkin holder.

  He looked at other tables nearby, seeing the same pattern, so he got an idea as he grabbed both bottles. He squirted a bit of ketchup on the ground, leaving a small red line, and then felt the weight of the bottle to gauge how much was in it. “It’ll be a little messy, but a trail’s a trail.” he thought to himself before he picked a direction, leaving a mostly consistent line of ketchup and mustard as he went, hoping no one would get mad about the waste.

  -/- -/- -/-

  After a few minutes of walking, and occasionally swapping out his bottles with fresh ones from other tables, he was wondering to himself if he was actually making any progress. Nearly every table looked identical, and the booths that lined the wall he started from were a long ways away now. He looked behind him, noting that his line was still there, so he could walk back and follow it if he wanted. When he thought about taking a seat at a table and considering his options, he heard a gentle electrical humming above him. He looked up, seeing every gently swinging light rock with a little more intensity, before suddenly the entire diner was plunged into darkness.

  He dropped his trusty condiments and reflexively pointed his fingers to summon his bonded firearm with a flash of new light. His surroundings were illuminated for only a moment, just long enough to see that tables flanking him were still there. He held his revolver with both hands as he did his best to control his breathing, staying motionless as he pricked his ears for anything that might approach. Seconds passed that felt like minutes before he heard another gentle hum that flipped all the lights back on, revealing the same Gatsby diner in all its lonely glory.

  He took a breath, relieved at least that the lights were back, but as he studied his surroundings again he noticed the trail that was once behind him was now in front of him.

  “Did I turn myself around?” Ash wasn’t sure of many things, but he was positive he had been walking in a straight line all this time; the straight trail of red and yellow proved that. It was starting to make more sense how someone could get lost in here if other forces besides a bad sense of direction were at play.

  Ash picked up a new set of bottles from the table that was closest to him. Aiming at the table’s smooth surface, he painted a big number “1” in ketchup, and then circled it in mustard. “I’ll leave one of these every time I run out and have to switch”

  He refilled on trailing condiments and started off again, and every few minutes the lights flickered off and on in the same pattern. Each time the lights shone again, his trail was in a different spot, but the line at least remained as a guide. He stopped counting the steps or the minutes, and eventually started counting the refills.

  2…

  3…

  4…

  5…

  6…

  7…

  8…

  As his ketchup ran dry when it came time for the ninth refill, he stopped and sat down at the nearest table.

  “This isn't getting me anywhere,” he voiced his frustrations aloud. The sea of tables never seemed to get any smaller, and without an actual destination or landmark in sight, it started feeling pointless to continue.

  “Need another refill?”

  “That'd help a lot,” he replied, lost in thought.

  A saucer was placed on the table he was sitting at, followed by a small cup on top. It took until someone started pouring coffee into it for him to realize something was wrong. When he looked up from his now full cup he was face to face with the normally yelling waitress from the Gatsby diner, and her blindingly orange uniform.