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Your stomach growls loud enough for passerby to stop and stare. Harper’s grin tilts, quiet amusement flickering in his eyes as your face <span class="mu-i">burns</span>. You damn near rip the tray out of his hands and begin shoveling into your mouth…
…the food.
The world narrows only to the tray in your hands.
The food tastes…
…it tastes like <span class="mu-i">food</span>.
Tears sting your eyes as flavor explodes across your tongue - real flavor, not the miserable, chalky blandness of survival rations or nutrient bricks. For once, the voice in the back of your head is silent, leaving you in peace to contemplate the miracle of taste buds.
This is not merely nutrition to survive.
It is food that makes you feel <span class="mu-i">alive</span>.
“I…suppose it would be too much to think this is regular?”
“Afraid so,” Harper says with a rueful grin. “Guy I got ‘em from is more miserly than Scrooge. Burned a favor just to get this much.”
The tears of joy blur, burning hot with frustration, rage and despair at being given a taste of real food, only to return to soulless, tasteless blocks of hyper-processed beans.
“I did manage to get this though…” he rummages in his pocket, and produces a can. “Lime-flavored pop.”
<span class="mu-i">The cryo-surfactant rises like bile, choking you from the inside as your fists bang against a cold, sealed coffin.</span>
You’re not sure what kind of face you make, but it must have been hideous. Harper recoils, pulling the can away with wide eyes. “Guess…that’s a no, then?”
The heat in your cheeks shifts to mortification. “…sorry. I didn’t mean…” You exhale, suddenly feeling very small and petty. “…the cryo-surfactant. Lime-flavored.”
“Ah.” Harper’s eyes soften, bright with sympathetic understanding. “No need to apologize.” A beat of silence, then a wry grin. “I think I can still trade this in for a grape cola.”
Breakfast is a quiet affair after that.
>Line Break
The command tent is just as lively as it had been yesterday.
Some of the faces are different, rotated out as shifts end and begin, but the same bone-deep exhaustion dogs their movements. The air hums with terse voices, clattering keyboards, and the ozone bite of overworked electronics. Someone’s drawn blackout curtains over the entrance, trying to make the holotank more visible as the morning progresses; the result is an artificial dusk that leaves screens and interfaces illuminating haggard faces.
Their only saving grace seems to be a communal pot of synth-coffee, and even that is rationed out by a hawkish quartermaster. His eyes twitch at every newcomer approaching for another drink, glaring at them with the same energy a dragon might a thief approaching its horde.
(cont.)
