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?]

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[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.]