Week 1 | Saturday

[concasse]

[Where else is a chef going to find solace if not in the kitchen?

He's not even hungry, to be honest, but that doesn't stop him from pacing around and letting his hands distract him -- probably tea or some shit. Maybe a few biscuits on the side. Comfort food he won't take much comfort in.

It'd been a long day, okay?]

Comments

[concasse]

[Let him fuckin guess, they were destroyed because they weren't perfect to the original and thus disposed of because we can't have faulty products on the market!

Fuckin heck.

He has to put down his knife.]

Just in case no one's ever told you this before:

Being a replica does not make you invalid as a person, got it? That's a... a shitty way to be born, being honest, but you were born into this world, for whatever purpose you want. No one gets to take that away from you.

[TURNING BACK TO THE STOVE. GOD HE HAS A HEADACHE.]

[fragileprophet]

[Ion falls into silence. He closes his eyes, leaning forward to rest his head in a hand. It's such a nice thing to hear. It's such a nice thing to think. It feels so fake. He's had to lock this away for what feels like so long, even though it really wasn't all that long ago at all, because it always brings forward so many more questions, so many more wants.

He thinks about Sync. He thinks about his Original. He thinks about Mohs. About Van. He thinks about how it should be so simple, but it isn't. How he's so afraid. How it feels so pointless. How he can't imagine being anyone else other than who he was forced to become, but at the same time wouldn't he love the chance to be anyone else? Anyone else, anything else, as long as it was his own will?

Ion realizes that he hasn't said anything.]

Thank you...it's nice to hear those words. I'm still learning what it means to be me, I suppose, so it's difficult to process. I know it isn't meant to be.

[It seems like it should be the easiest thing in the world.]

[concasse]

Of course it's difficult. That role's the only one you know, ain't it?

[Grabbing the knife. There's no purpose for it, but Sanji needs to feel the weight of it, staring blankly at the frying pan while the vegetables sizzle.]

You've probably have people tell you what you have to do, when, why -- the whole shitty spectacle. Clones are supposed to be a tool first, a person after. Maybe. If they're lucky.

[God, he's so tired.]

That's why I'm telling ya. Because it's... probably gonna take a while before it feels any different.

[fragileprophet]

[He wants to tell Sanji that unfortunately, for him, there isn't the luxury of time. Ion buries the impulse. Things are bad enough.]

How...do you know so much about this?

[concasse]

[...]

My shitty father by blood -- [by blood, he says, with almost cruel emphasis, and doesn't turn around] -- was a scientist before he was a king.

He built a nation of modified clones, all of whom will put down their lives for the royal family.

[fragileprophet]

A whole nation...

[Just like what Grand Maestro Mohs wanted, to put the world back on track for damnation: because that's what was written in the Score. He gulps.]

That's...

[There are a lot of words for what it is, and none of them are kind.]

I'm so sorry.

[concasse]

Tch. Bullshit, ain't it? I can't believe I'm related to fuckin' monsters...

[Anyway... back to this omelette. It's time to break some eggs and whisk 'em.]

But yeah, that's why I know all about ... this. Didn't mean to startle ya.

[fragileprophet]

No, it's alright. It's actually a little comforting to know that someone understands.

[If not from his own perspective, than...perhaps how his own friends felt, to learn some of these things.]

I feel a little less embarrassed about all of the things I haven't had the chance to learn. Please don't tell anyone--I think if it got out how old I really was because of my origins, I'd be treated much differently.

[It's a bit of a surprise that nobody has mentioned how it says "allegedly" next to his age. But it's been easier for everyone to call him the older Ion, and he's gone along with it, even as his Original laughed at the sentiment.]

[concasse]

'Course I won't tell.

[It wasn't Sanji's business to begin with. He doesn't have the right.

...]

If you don't mind me asking, how old are you actually?

[fragileprophet]

[Ion smiles sadly down at his hands, well aware that there's no joy in this admission.]

I was created two years ago.

[concasse]

[...

Suddenly shifting over, closer to the counter. He points to the spot he was just standing in]

Well, get over here then.

[fragileprophet]

[...What?

Ion slides off the stool and plants himself where directed, too confused to ask questions.]

What do I do next?

[concasse]

[Just.

Casually hands him the bowl of whipped eggs]

Pour it into the pan.

[CHOP CHOP, LET'S GET TO IT.]

After that, grab a spatula and wait for the eggs to solidify.

[fragileprophet]

[!!!]

Oh!

[He takes and regards the bowl with gentle hands, careful to pour without spilling, and then continues to follow instructions, finding a spatula and holding it in both hands as he stares at the pan, transfixed.]

Is it time? Now?

[concasse]

Not quite, but--

[he points to the outer circle of the egg, which has cooked faster than the rest.]

I want you to gently scoot the spatula under a side, then lift it up. After that, tilt the pan in its direction. That way the liquid in the middle can hit the pan and cook. Otherwise you're gonna have an omelette that's soggy in the middle and overcooked at the edges.

[fragileprophet]

Ah!

[Everything they'd talked about, all the pain and the heartache and the bad memories all seem to recede as Ion timidly tilts the pan and watches the uncooked egg rolls to the bottom. His face lights up, happy and warm, every bit the child that he hides behind that practiced softness, and he laughs.]