by Kell Inkston
“Been having a good day, I trust?” The Captain asks the two.
Jim smirks, the stress on his gaze slowly relieving. “Cooking.”
Colette takes a seat, her gaze widened and blank. “Uh, there’s a really cool box in my room.”
The Captain looks over to Irefall, and she rolls her eyes. “Yes, Captain. Some of the rooms do have television.”
Just as the word “television” passes her lips, The Captain tilts his head an inch lower in the same movement of disapproval that both Colette and Irefall recognize flawlessly by this point.
“Ahh yes, the propaganda cube - used constantly by the state to misguide and misinform the public.” He turns to Colette. “What sort of degenerate waste did you endure, Miss Ketiere?”
Colette takes her seat across from Grancis, neither really in the mood to sit next to the other like they usually do. “So it is something from somewhere else, right?” She asks.
Miss Irefall nods while Jacqui serves up plates and Boris serves up bowls, with Cooking Minion tossing out silverware with concerning speed and accuracy, each spoon, fork and knife sliding perfectly into parallel position with one another. “Indeed. It’s footage recorded using something called a camera, then transferred through wires. A lot like how The Captain can talk to people from below decks, hmm?”
Colette’s brow raises at Irefall’s words. “Wow, so that’s how it works. Is it magic?”
Irefall smiles sweetly. “O-of course, dear!” She decided to give the easy answer.
“Well that’s…” Colette does her best to act unimpressed. “Interesting, I guess.”
The Captain shakes his head. “It would be my preference if you were to stay away from it, Miss Ketiere. It’s an unhelpful addiction at best and your intellectual demise at the worst.”
She waves it off as Cooking Minion distributes glasses of both water and some unknown white wine. “Bah, come on, Salt. It’s pretty cool. There’s like, fights and shit, and that Overlord Eternity dude looks like a badass.”
The Captain looks over to Irefall, and she answers. “Wreckwind only gets Overlordship channels. The O.E.L. stuff just isn’t fun at all.”
He hums. “Well, mindless entertainment would beat indoctrination, but they are often one in the same. My opposition will not change.” There’s a silence as Irefall motions Officer Vangair to sit with them, and Boris takes his own seat, being a chef, certainly, but also a guest. Of course, the seat instantly gives way under his weight, splintering and sending shards of expensive hardwood chair exploding behind him.
Miss Irefall, smiling like a good hostess, gains a spark of absolute hatred in her eyes. “A-ahh, Mister Boris! You understand I do have seating arrangements for… plus-sized guests, yes?”
Boris raises a claw in polite protest. “I AM OF THE WONDERFUL, PERTALAINE MEAT. THERE IS NO NEEDING FOR THE MAKING OF EXTRA CONCESSIONINGS FOR MYSELF,” Boris says with the authority of a king. “PLEASE BE OF THE EATING AND JUDGING!”
The Captain looks between the two dishes, a divine-smelling grilled fillet topped with some magical dressing, and a crude, but elementally-masterful soup made with an eldritch knowledge of taste, something that not all in the Omniverse are blessed to have a sense of. To the side of the two titanic plates is a much smaller, palm-sized dish heralding an unassuming, childish flan, a simple desert topped with a thin line of what must be chocolate and brown sugar. The Captain doesn’t need to ask who made what dish, as Irefall already made him well aware who her two great chefs were- but for their sake he’ll act as though he’s ignorant.
“Alright then,” Miss Irefall coos as she raises a glass of wine by the stem, “Let’s enjoy!”
“My compliments to the chefs,” Grancis says, shooting a kind glance to Jim, who shrugs.
“Eh, thanks.” He really has no idea how to deal with people, the poor lad.
Everyone takes up their utensils, Boris spits out a digestive enzyme onto his food, Martaine bows his head softly, Luisoix and Tidealane go right back to arguing, and Cooking Minion remembers, upon seeing The tall and silent Captain sitting at the burgundy-gold table, just the slightest memory of serving up his very first dish to his own overlord.
Grancis is the first to express emotional gratitude. “Mmm… mmm!” it tastes completely unlike what’s served on The Nocturna. It’s like the food from her father, but better. As the others give their initial impressions of their chosen first dishes, Grancis hovers her spoon over to the soup, and takes a sip. She instantly recognizes Boris’ cooking without any input from her. Naturally, she couldn’t have expected Jim to be willing to be the taste-tester either. It is perhaps a satanic hell embodied in physical, edible form- food that is so bad, one would wish it were poison as to end the victim’s suffering; but alas, it is wholesome, healthy cuisine, and if Grancis’ mother were here she would most certainly have her eat it all. It’s easily the saltiest, bitterest dish she’s ever had the displeasure of trying, and unlike The Nocturna’s kitchen, this time she can’t puke it in the sink. With tears welling up in her eyes she grips the spoon like a lifeline, lest she drop it from limp disgust and insult Boris’ cooking.
“Why, this is quite something!” Irefall says, sipping from a spoonful of Boris’ monstrous concoction politely- she’s not even phased.
“Agreed,” The Captain says after absorbing a bite of the dessert. “This is all wonderful. You have some considerable talent working for you, my muffin. My compliments to the chefs.”
Cooking Minion smirks. “Thanks, g-”
“An absolute honor, sir~,” Jacqui cuts with a flowery bow and a twist of the tail.
Grancis reaches for her glass of water to ease the agony and downs the entire vessel as if it held the cure to her disease of disgust. Somehow, it only sharpens and accentuates the spiciness. She looks across the table red-faced, and spots Martaine, trembling in the same agony she is. She looks over to Colette who, having tastes as mortal as any, is also showing disgust, but only a mild discomfort. Is she just a better actor? Grancis ponders it a moment, and then realizes that Colette’s slipping bite after bite of the other two dishes into her mouth, each delivery taking her further and further from that plane of lobster-cooking torment. She needs no further consideration before slicing off a piece of the flan and then a bite of the fillet before feeling the warmth of relief - food made with a creature like her in mind. She better-realizes her worth on the ship, a stalwart protector of taste, the only thing dividing the men of the Nocturna from Boris’ untethered culinary creativity.
Grancis wipes a tear from her eye. “It’s all so delicious!” She says just before delegating another spoonful of the flan into her mouth. The flan is easily the best thing at the table, though a thin layer of brown sugar seems like a strange choice to Grancis- it would be perfect if it weren’t for that one unnecessary addition, as it adds a richness to the dish that is almost too much to bear.
Miss Irefall, having finished the fillet and flan with alarming speed, joins her hands together politely. “Wonderful! Boris, I do say your personal character has really come out with this dish, but I’m afraid I’m just too full to eat any more!”
Boris’ whiskers twitch, but only in the acknowledgment of her words. The Captain is keen-eyed enough to know when Boris catches on; the lobster’s tastes are obviously weird to the palette unrefined in eldritch recipes, and he can quickly spot someone who cannot truly appreciate hyper-horrific cuisine like Miss Irefall. Boris is not fool enough to see his cooking is not to her preference.
“I AM OF THE GLAD YOU WERE OF THE TOLERATING OF MY COOKERY, PERTALAINE MEAT. PERHAPS ON THE DAY OF TOMORROW I SHALL GIVE YOU MY VERY BEST EFFORTING WITH THE HELPENINGS OF GRANCIS MEAT.” His claws don’t quite clamp with that dense, fearsome ferocity as usual- it’s clear to The Captain and Grancis that he’s taken offense, but of course he’s a gentleman, so he won’t show it.
“A-absolutely!” Grancis says with a smile and a humble bow of the head.
Martaine smiles, he won’t spe
ak out of turn in a formal setting, but he’d love to try her cooking.
Irefall’s plastered-on smile only curves up further in condescension. “I just know that the two of you will be lovely together. So I suppose it was you, Jacqui, who prepared the fish and dessert?”
Cooking Minion raises a thin arm with pep. “Actually the dessert w-”
“It certainly was, your most inventive majesty. As usual I had my aid prepare the sides as best he could, but I of course kept a close eye on the overall quality of the dish,” he says with a twitch of the ears and a refined raise of the brow.
Cooking Minion lowers his hand in disgust. “Right. I did my best,” he says, wondering, just for a moment, how well fox meat would translate to some of his other recipes.
Irefall hums as if impressed. “Well! I feel our cute little intern has finally earned his chance to strike out on his own. The dessert was wonderful!”
“Yeah,” Jim says. “Easily the best thing he-”
“With my lady’s permission,” Jacqui interrupts promptly. “It’s worth noting that, without my help, his dessert would have been utterly flavorless.”
Cooking Minion’s little antennae perk violently. “You were the one that screwed it up with-”
“Not bad, just bland.” Jacqui says with authority and volume. “Of course he is showing considerable improvement under my care, so I would not argue that tomorrow he should indeed have a bit more freedom to experiment with his personal style,” Jacqui adds.
Cooking Minion, on the verge of losing control and procuring new ingredients through force, suddenly loosens his rigid, adorable frame in the realization that he’s just been granted a chance to, finally, take full credit. “I…” he clears his glowing throat and opens his jaws with surprising poise. “I graciously look forward to the opportunity. Thank you, Mayoress!” The little gentleman says as the majority of the table finishes their meals.
Irefall gawks at the small chefs. “Aren’t they just precious, Lewis?” She says, gracing The Captain with a glance.
“They are, though I never expected you’d gain a chef of this caliber- no offense intended, of course. I simply mean to say I never took you for a gourmand that would put so much effort in her cuisine.”
Jacqui and Cooking Minion both puff up, as both are under the impression The Captain is talking about them.
Irefall coos. “Would you believe he actually came right to my doorstep? I suppose he won’t be around too long, but it’s no lie that I’m excited to see what he’ll come up with next,” she says with a smirk.
Of course, Jim and Boris know which of the two she’s referring to, so they’re in on the joke, but the girls are a different matter.
Colette, silent for the entirety of the dinner thinks to ask but decides, as usual, that to present herself as not knowing would be embarrassing- though we can all agree she’s been showing her ignorance about the outer workings of the other realms quite clearly today.
“It’s a very welcome surprise, but far second to the enjoyment of spending this evening with you, my muffin,” The Captain says as he adjusts his glasses as she looses a long, heartfelt, “aww!” he knows a thing or two about appearing rather than being.
She nudges him softly while taking a sip from her glass. “You dasher. You’re really too kind, Captain.”
Colette rolls her eyes as The Captain nudges her back with his elbow. “And you, my little macaroon.”
The Mayor draws to full height in her chair and hums in a way that only Boris would consider innocent. “Well then, I for one feel it’s time to play our little evening’s game and then retire for the night.”
The Captain pours another sip of wine in between his bandages. “A game?”
Grancis smirks. “I like those.”
Irefall giggles softly and with a snap of the fingers brings forward from the background a masked servant with a single die. She takes it up between her thumb and forefinger, and looks over the group. “Now, as is tradition, shared quarters in my manor can only make the night more exciting.”
The Captain’s “degeneracy meter” pings right to the red zone. “…What?”
“So I thought it would be a nice spin to have each strapping young gentleman to roll for the room number of his choice- of course, Boris has his own arrangements prepared.”
“I AM OF THE HAVING OF MY OWN ROOM?” Boris says this so much like an excitable five-year old that for a second Grancis ponders just how old Boris is in eldritch lobster-man monstrosity years.
Irefall nods sweetly. “That you do!” She snaps her fingers, ushering a pair of servants to approach Boris. “This way, sir,” the masked starfish seasort says with a bow.
Boris smacks his claws up to the sides of his face as if they were cheeks. “I AM OF THE SUCH EXCITEMENT!” He tears off from the wreckage of his chair and turns out into the now dreary lantern-lit halls of the manor.
Everyone listens to him step off for a moment more before The Captain turns to Miss Irefall. “Shared quarters with another gender, my biscuit?”
She coos softly with that perpetual, sultry guise of superiority on her face as usual. “Of course, Lewis. How else could you and I spend the night together without making the others jealous?”
“This is absolutely ridiculous! I refuse to let my crew be threatened in any way by your…” The Captain slows his speech in consideration.
“Now, Lewis, you don’t have to play the game, but these four are the only bedrooms in the manor that have locks.” She smiles, and Colette could swear that Irefall’s teeth just became a sharp as a carnivore’s. “I obviously wouldn’t stop you from doing otherwise, but I can’t be held responsible if one of my experiments were to… accidentally escape.”
The Captain draws back. “And for what reason should we not simply pair these rooms with males and females separately?”
She joins her hands and puts on an sheepish expression. “So you mean to say you’d like to share the bed with Officer Martaine?”
The Captain and Martaine share glance that is both violent and awkward. The Captain relents. “Fair enough, but I’ll have no fraternization in the slightest, you hear me?”
Irefall nods, her features returning to normal just as quickly as they had transformed. “Why, of course! This is only for the sake of a more diverse conversation partner while wiling away the exciting night hours before the morning of the ball!”
No one believes her, but not everyone minds the idea.
The Captain strokes his bandaged chin. “So I suppose we’ll be choosing room-mates with a toss of the die?”
She passes the six-sided cube between her slender fingers with assassin-like dexterity. “Mhmm! And with four rooms ready for guests, that would show everyone an interesting evening, to be sure. Now then…” She blows on the die and displays the sides. “Numbers six and five will be Tidealane, number four will be myself, two and three will be Colette, and one will be Grancis. Are you ready, gentlemen? No spoilsports, everyone will simply have to do with whoever is their partner, yes?”
The Captain begins tapping his chin with his index finger, a sign that he’s actually being pressed to think.
She passes it across first to Luisoix. “Pretty sure I’m just going to kill myself tonight anyway,” he says blandly as he jostles the die in his hand.
Irefall huffs. “Well don’t keep us waiting you morbid little man, make your ro-”
“Actually,” The Captain says.
All eyes turn to him. “What is it, my beloved sir?” The Mayor raises a brow.
“Might I see the die?” The Captain extends his hand, and Luisoix shrugs as he places it on the table and slides it perfectly to The Captain’s area. He picks it up, and begins inspecting all the sides.
“I assure you, Captain, I would never cheat. It’s absolutely ordinary,” Irefall says, tapping her wineglass with her long, mocha-colored nails.
The Captain brushes the die between his snow-white bandaged fingers. “Of course not. I understand you o
nly play fair, my dear,” he lies, passing the die back across to Luisoix.
Cooking Minion, whose white eyes are good for spotting more than just prospective ingredients, begins watching the die carefully once he sees something very, very small hanging onto the die from inside one of the number holes. He squints as Luisoix takes up the die.
“We good now, Caps?”
The Captain sprawls out with perfect, in-control dignity. “We are good now.”
Without another word, Luisoix throws caution to the wind with the die, and it rolls to let fate decide. It spins about in anticipation before it lands. Be it by fate or The Captain’s treachery, it lands on the number five. Luisoix looks up with a content, void smile. “I fucking knew it.”
“Gods dammit,” Tidealane adds.
“I just know you’ll love keeping on with your little chit chats in your private room!” Irefall slides a gilded key to Luisoix’s hand. “Toodles,” she adds with a victoriously small smile as she makes a tiny shooing motion with her forefingers.
Luisoix chugs the rest of his wine. “Gonna need it.” He gets up from his chair and turns to the door. “Let’s just get this over with, y’bitch.”
She joins him as they leave. “You’ll fall asleep the second you hit the pillow anyway, so I guess it’s not that bad.”
Luisoix groans as they start down the hall. “Sonofabitch, for the last time I was tired that night.”
“There’s no better indicator for future behavior than past behavior.”
“You should’ve been an archaeologist instead of an engineer, kiddo.”
Tidealane scoffs as her voice trails off into the distance. “Yeah?”
“Cuz’ you keep diggin’ up the past like a classic bitch,” Luisoix says, now just a whisper of a voice.
“I assume you dug up your fucking bleak sense of humor too, geniu-” At that, the people at the table can hear them no longer.
Awkward silence.
“Well!” Irefall cuts in like the skilled hostess she is. “Who’s next?”
