I don't own anything from the Uncharted series

srsly pls dont sue me

2

It was so classic Jared Kay to book the most expensive room in the most expensive hotel in Oahu. The marble countertops and high quality robes were really overdoing it, in my opinion, but Jared didn't seem to mind.

The price was stupid, but I'm not stubborn enough to not realize that the hotel room was beautiful. We had already walked through the room itself, passed the plush, silky bed, walking over the pure wood floors to the deck outside. It had plenty of floorspace and glass accessories, like the table I had my elbows on and the confusingly comfortable chair I was sitting in, waiting for Jared to get something.

When he did walk back in, he had lost the jacket and unbuttoned a couple of buttons and he was carrying what looked like an old book. He placed it down on the table, sitting down in the other chair at the table across from me. "The Oak Island Treasure by Charles Benedict Driscoll."

The book was worn around every single edge. It was an old book - simple as that. It looked a little thin, even though the hard cover protecting the delicate pages was weirdly thick. I opened the book, right away seeing a dedication in wispy letters written in pencil. I read it out loud. "To my dearest friend, this book will give you what you desire." I noted the signature below the words. "The signature is from Charles. He signed this book and gave it to someone - his dearest friend." I flipped a couple more pages, glancing up at Jared. "Where did you get this?"

"Does it matter?"

"Was it expensive?"

"Very."

I flipped through, back and forth, noticing one small detail that was a little off. Right at that place on each page, where there's a space between the words and the spine - the blank space - on one particular page, there was a small dot. It looked like pencil and it was right beside the beginning of a sentence. "The stone was shown to everyone who visited the Island in those days. Smith built this stone into his fireplace, with the strange characters outermost, so that visitors might see and admire it." I took another glance at Jared. "The Smith are the original owners of Oak Island."

He turned smug. "I thought you didn't care for this one."

"I've done a little research," I admitted. A long time ago, I had invested all of three hours into researching Oak Island before I was convinced it was a mass hysteria. Anyway, I kept reading. "Many years after his death, the stone was removed from the fireplace and taken to Halifax, where the local savants were unable to translate the inscription."

"What stone?"

"In 1862, they found a rock with some mysterious markings on it. No one's been able to translate the markings, even to this day," I informed him, continuing to read in my head.

"Well, how does this fit into your mass hysteria-hoax theory?"

"Simple; a worker could've planted the stone to keep up the hysteria or even just the funding for the excavations." I met Jared's eyes, giving him the same challenging look he gave me earlier. "You know, something a shady business man would do."

He didn't like that. "Just keep reading."

"It was then taken to the home of J.B. McCulley in Truro, where it was exhibited to hundreds of friends of the McCulley's..." I skipped ahead a little bit, uninterested by some of the information. "Somehow the stone fell into the hands of a bookbinder, which used it as a base upon which to beat leather for many years. A generation later, with the inscription nearly worn away, the stone found its way to a bookstore in Halifax, and what happened to it after that I was unable to learn. But there are plenty of people living who have seen the stone. Nobody, however, ever seriously pretended to translate the inscription."

"Plenty of people living who have seen the stone," Jared repeated back. "That book was published in 1930. Has anyone seen it past then?"

I read on, mentions of the stone suddenly stopping. "There's no mention of the stone past this point."

"Great." Jared Kay aka Never Satisfied. "So, no one has any idea what happened to the stone after it got to this bookstore?"

"I don't know," I said, making him even less satisfied. "I'll have to read the book."

"You ever researched anything about the stone?"

Honestly? "The bookstore closed down in 1919 and there's no trace of the stone after that. I mean, this Charles guy who wrote this - he's just saying everything that anyone who knows how to work google could figure out." I looked down at the book. "What's weird about it is that someone wanted that sentence to stand out from the others. And this hand-written dedication in the front -" I flipped back to the front, standing up and making my way to be next to Jared as I pointed. "To my dearest friend, this book will you what you desire. If he wanted to say treasure, he would've said that the book would give him the treasure. If not the treasure..."

"The stone?"

"Maybe." I sighed, looking down at the fine writing. "But if Charles Driscoll is just a writer, he wouldn't have any means for the stone. He wouldn't know what to do with it." The gears in my mind constantly turned, putting thoughts together. "Whoever he dedicated this book to had to be some sort of treasure-hunter or someone working first-hand with the excavations - someone who would have use for the stone."

Jared nodded, keeping notes in his mind. "So, they find this stone in 1862 with markings that no one can decipher. It somehow ends up at a bookstore and come 1919, the stone just disappears. In 1930, Charles Driscoll publishes a book, personally signs one and sends it off to an explorer-friend, suggesting that the book will give this person what he desires, which is, presumably, the stone - the same stone that no one knows the whereabouts of." He leaned back in his chair, his shoulder grazing my arm. "Sounds like an important stone."

I thought back really hard. "I did hear something once about a decipher, but -" I paused, wondering if it was even worth saying.

"But?"

I stood up straight, shrugging my shoulders. "But no one knows who claimed this was the decipher of the code and there's no evidence to back it up. It's an empty claim."

Jared looked interested to me, and he proved my observation correct when he asked, "What's the claim?"

"Ten feet below are two million pounds buried." I still remember seeing those words on my computer screen as a kid. It never sounded right.

"Did anyone investigate?"

"Of course. They dug deeper, but when they got to ten feet and there was nothing but another obstacle, they kept digging. And then ten feet turned into twenty and still nothing." I looked out at the beach, just noticing how hot my skin felt. "Like I said, it's an empty claim. We have to find out who this dearest friend is, and maybe we can find the stone. I'm thinking without the stone, digging into the Money Pit will be useless."

Find the guy. Find the stone. Find the treasure.

Jared stood, his tall frame causing me to take a big step backward. "Charles Driscoll died in 1951 and his son died in 1970, but he does have a grandson who's still alive."

I spun around, walking back into the air-conditioned room. "Do we know where he lives?"

"Already got someone on it. They should get back to me soon."

I didn't stop once I got into the room. I kept walking, ignoring the glorious feel of cold air hitting me. "Then I'm leaving. You can call me when you find out. We'll go right away."

"Are you going to pick up this time?"

I opened the door of the hotel room, spinning around to see his lean body standing still in the doorway to the patio. "Of course."