The Financial Audit
The peace of the apartment was shattered by the sound of a very menacing  down the last cup of Freddie’s emergency instant ramen.
"We’re doomed," Freddie groaned, putting his head in his hands. "The water park money is gone. The car battery money is gone. Wozie’s Red Bull tab was surprisingly expensive. We are destitute."
"We require gold," Selena said, crumbs falling from her mouth. "I can go back to the arcade and defeat more children."
"No," Freddie sighed. "That was a one-time tournament. We need steady income. I need a second job, but with classes, I literally don't have the hours."
Robin finished her noodles, wiped her mouth, and leaned back. "Relax, baby brother. The solution is sitting right on the counter eating a Pop-Tart."
Freddie looked at Selena. "Selena? She can't get a job. She barely understands how doorknobs work."
"She’s hot, she’s athletic, and she takes orders literally," Robin counted off on her fingers. "That makes her the perfect waitress. And I know exactly where to send her."
Freddie narrowed his eyes. "Where? Please don't say Hooters."
"No," Robin scoffed. "That’s so 90s. I’m talking about The Pirate's Booty."
Freddie choked on his own spit. "The theme restaurant? The one with the... implies... butt stuff?"
"It’s a 'High Seas Adventure Sports Bar,'" Robin corrected. "I worked there last summer during my wild phase. The tips are insane, Freddie. I pulled five hundred bucks on a Friday night just for smiling and saying 'Arrgh.' She can do this."
"I don't know..." Freddie hesitated.
"Do you like electricity?" Robin asked pointedly. "Because this job pays for electricity."
The Loadout
An hour later, Freddie stood in the lobby of The Pirate's Booty, surrounded by fake fishing nets and animatronic parrots. He stared at the staff room door, dread pooling in his stomach.
The door swung open.
Selena stepped out.
Freddie stopped breathing. The uniform was... aggressive. It consisted of a leather corset that defied physics, a micro-skirt that barely qualified as fabric, torn fishnet stockings, and knee-high boots. A plastic cutlass hung from a belt on her hip.
She struck a pose, hand on the hilt of her plastic sword.
"Administrator," she announced. "I have equipped the Naval Unit armor. Though the defense stats are negligible, the mobility is excellent. Do I get to plunder?"
"You look..." Freddie’s voice squeaked. He cleared his throat. "You look dangerous."
"You’re hired!"
A greasy man in a cheap suit slid out from the back office. This was Barnaby, the manager. He looked at Selena like she was a walking pile of money.
"Fill out this W-2 later," Barnaby said, shoving a notepad into her hand. "We’re short-staffed. Table 4 needs grog. Go."
The Shift
Selena didn't just wait tables; she executed a mission.
She treated the restaurant floor like a dungeon crawl. She memorized the menu in thirty seconds. She calculated the most efficient pathing between the kitchen and the tables.
"Ahoy, customers," Selena said to a table of businessmen, her voice deadpan. "My sensors indicate your hydration levels are critical. Consume this ale or walk the plank."
The businessmen laughed, assuming it was a dedicated character bit. They tipped her twenty dollars instantly.
She moved with robotic precision. At one point, she carried six heavy steins of beer in one hand and a sizzling platter of "Cannonball Nachos" in the other, weaving through a crowd of screaming football fans without spilling a drop.
"She’s a natural," Robin whispered to Freddie. They were hiding in a corner booth, watching the spectacle.
"She’s terrifying," Freddie corrected.
The Recurring Villains
The front door opened. Three familiar figures strutted in, wearing backwards hats and pastel polos.
Trevor, Chad, and Kyle.
"Our usual booth, boys!" Chad announced, high-fiving Kyle. "Let’s get some wings and check out the new wench talent."
They slid into Booth 12. They picked up the menus.
A shadow fell over their table.
"Welcome to the vessel, Trevor, Chad, and Kyle," a voice chirped.
The three Bros slowly looked up.
Selena stood there, pen poised over her notepad, staring down at them with unblinking intensity.
Trevor made a noise like a dying balloon. Kyle tried to slide under the table.
"It’s... it’s her," Chad whispered, clutching his menu like a shield. "The Weapon."
"I am a server today," Selena said pleasantly. "I only inflict blunt force trauma on those who violate the terms of service. Do you desire the curly fries?"
"Y-yes," Trevor stammered, shaking. "Curly fries. And water. Just water. We need to be alert."
"Acknowledged," Selena said. "I will return with your rations."
She marched away.
"Dude," Kyle whispered, his face pale. "We have to leave."
"We can't," Chad hissed. "If we move, she’ll sense the motion. Her vision is based on movement like a T-Rex. Just eat the fries and tip her everything we have."
The Incident
The night was going perfectly. Selena’s apron was overflowing with cash. Barnaby was beaming from the sidelines.
Then, Captain Ron arrived.
Captain Ron was a regular—a sixty-year-old man with a wandering eye and too much cologne who genuinely believed the waitresses enjoyed his company. He sat at the bar, nursing a cheap beer.
Selena walked by to wipe down the counter.
"Here is your bill, Captain," she said, placing the slip of paper down.
"Thanks, sweetheart," Ron slurred. He laughed, reached out, and delivered a loud, stinging smack to Selena’s rear end. "Good job today, sweet cheeks!"
The sound echoed through the restaurant.
The chatter stopped. The music seemed to fade out.
Freddie shot up from his booth, knocking over his water. "Oh no."
Selena didn't scream. She didn't jump. She stopped wiping the counter. She slowly turned her head to look at Captain Ron. Her eyes, usually bright and curious, went completely dead.
"Physical contact detected," she said, her voice dropping to that scary robotic monotone. "User is unauthorized. Initiating countermeasures."
The Kick
"What's that, doll?" Ron grinned, leaning in.
Selena dropped the rag.
She spun.
It wasn't a slap. It wasn't a shove. It was a textbook, high-velocity Roundhouse Kick.
Her boot connected with the beer bottle in Ron’s hand, shattering it into a thousand pieces against the back wall, and continued its arc to stop exactly one millimeter from his ear, the wind of the kick knocking his " Dale Earnhardt" hat off his head.
Ron fell off his stool, scrambling backward on the floor crab-style.
Selena stood over him, leg still extended in perfect form.
"ERROR," she shouted, pointing her plastic cutlass at him. "DO NOT TOUCH THE BOOTY."
The Aftermath
"YOU'RE FIRED!"
Barnaby came sprinting out of the office, his face purple. "You can't almost decapitate the regulars! Get out! Get out now!"
Selena lowered her leg. She looked at Barnaby, then at the terrified Captain Ron, then at her overflowing tip jar.
"Understood," she said. She grabbed the jar. "Mission complete."
Ten minutes later, the trio walked to Robin’s car in the parking lot. Freddie was rubbing his temples, trying to process the fact that they had been employed and unemployed in the span of four hours.
"I can't believe you kicked a customer," Freddie muttered.
"He initiated a PvP encounter," Selena shrugged, still wearing the corset because she forgot to change. "I simply finished it."
Robin took the tip jar from Selena and dumped it onto the hood of the car. She started counting the wads of cash.
"Freddie, shut up," Robin said, a grin spreading across her face. "Look at this. She worked four hours and made three hundred and fifty dollars. That’s almost ninety bucks an hour."
"And I got fired," Selena reminded her.
"Who cares?" Robin laughed, handing a stack of bills to Freddie. "There are plenty of other jobs. And honestly? Watching Captain Ron wet himself was worth more than money."
Selena pulled the plastic cutlass from her belt and examined it. "I enjoyed the violence. But next time, I require a job with better armor rating. The fishnets offered zero protection against the draft."
Freddie looked at the cash in his hand. It was enough to keep the lights on.
"Okay," Freddie sighed, pocketing the money. "But next time... maybe a library? Or a nunnery? Somewhere with less... touching."
Selena smiled. "No promises, Administrator."