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'This isn't so bad.'
Is Qually's answer whenever someone, anyone, asks about his current job. Not many would though, he learned that being a cook in a station in the middle of nowhere would not garner much curiosity about his experience.
He's not given much creativity in his dishes. Plain, ordinary meals consisting of the same rice, meat, fruits, and veggies makes most of his day-to-day cookings. Once—or was it twice?—he made an experimental dish made from exotic ingredients he still had from his home-planet. Which means, it would contain 80% bugs and 20% spices. Gopal was trusted as his first tester,
the boy spat it out once he found out the fried 'rice' was actualy fried ants.
Qually asked others for their opinion too of course, including the other cooks in the station.
They spat it out too.
And at one point, Qually just gave up.
Sometimes, you can't just force your dreams into reality. Or in Qually's perspective, he could never.
The lone chef stares at the brewing soup in front of him. There are only about ten cooks in his—their kitchen, six of them doubles as cover-agent for TAPOPS' laundry scheme—really tells you how under-staffed this establishment is huh? Tonight is his turn to prepare for dinner, his partner turned up sick so, here he is, alone. Only the sad bubbling chicken soup as his company.
Yeah.
"This isn't so bad." Qually mutters to the moldy floors.
He stirs the soup again to prevent the forming foams. He makes a disappointed sigh at the dusty recipe book tucked behind grimey pots and pans. His prided Gaharum's recipe book, eaten up by time.
A bang from the kitchen's main entrance jolts Qually awake from his musing. He instinctively turns his head to the opened door, expecting a janitor to bring another set of dirty trays.
A boy stands at the edge of the door, holding his unfinished meal.
The two stares at each other, both twinged with surprise. The boy cuts it, speedwalking to the sink and places his tray on top of a dirty stack of dishes—Qually cringes at the sight of wasted food.
Qually doesn't pull his eyes from the tangerine boy, watching as he pulls a stool and sits behind the kitchen's island. Then, he crosses his arms on the island and plants his face to the table's surface. Curious—and perplexed—Qually turns down the stove's heat, nobody would complain on a minute late dinner.
"Boboiboy?" Qually calls, as he take a seat across the boy.
Boboiboy lifts his head again, his eyes look tired, "Why did you stop?"
"Stop what?"
"Cooking," the boy puts off his cap, placing it on the island, "i like to be here sometimes, the sounds of cooking reminds me of my grandpa's cocoa shop."
"Oh." Is the only answer Qually could think of.
Silence wafts through the air again. Avoiding the awkward vibe, Qually offers a cup of hot chocolate. Boboiboy nods, "Could you also add coffee to that? I want to stay awake for the night."
"Sure," Qually walks to grab a small pan, filling it with tap water. As he does, he could almost swore that Boboiboy was staring at his back the whole time. He didn't dare to look back.
"What do you think of the news?" Boboiboy asks, out of nowhere.
Qually turns on the second stovetop as he answers with a question, "What news?"
"The one with the prisons'... massacre, they said."
Prisons... massacre... Qually thinks as he rummages a cabinet, looking for instant chocolate drinks and coffee. There is one he recalls, it started like, in the early month or so. But he didn't think much about it, and now Boboiboy's curiosity arouses his too.
"It's... barbaric, in my opinion."
He hears metal scraping against the floor behind him. Qually gulps, quickly grabbing the instant drinks when he founds it. He closes the cabinet—
"You think so?"
"AUAGH?!"
Boboiboy stands a foot right beside him, his hazel eyes bores through Qually's skull. His unkempt bangs strays locks of hair on his face, shadowing his expression. The shorter guy clutches the drink sachets to his chest, still recovering from shock. It doesn't help that he notices a pair of scissors in the boy's grip. Then with the most innocent tone, Boboiboy asks,
"Can i cut them myself?"
Qually looks at the boy, the sachets, back and forth until he gave them to Boboiboy. He waits for the water to boil, side by side with the boy cutting the little sachets.
"So you think they don't deserve it?" Boboiboy continues the topic.
Qually bites a lip, he dislikes moral provoking talks. He always consider himself as a rebel to some degree afterall. "I don't... think i'm the right person to answer that—"
Snip.
"Everyone has common sense, Qually." Boboiboy cuts the last sachet, "I believe you can differentiate what behaviour deserves to be punished and what's not.
There is no right or wrong in re-evaluating your compass, only mistakes that... sometimes... can be fixed."
Qually blinks, "Huh? What? Sorry, i don't get it."
"Nevermind." Boboiboy sighs, he leans against the kitchen counter, "You—Just answer my question."
"Okay...? If you insist..." Qually thinks as he speaks, "I think, the ones who truly deserve death penalties are well, those who commits murder themselves. Like 'an eye for an eye' thing, y'know?
That's why i see the person who blindly kills the prisoners as someone barbaric. Someone who's... immature, who could only see black and white and don't even consider to hear their story first."
"He did though."
"Huh?"
"Huh?"
Boboiboy clears his throat, "Nothing. Just talking to myself."
"No no no, i clearly heard you said that 'He DID though'. What does that—"
Snip.
The boy, with scissors still between his fingers, cuts the empty air. Qually shuts his mouth, even if he doesn't know why. Boboiboy did not just threaten him, didn't he?
Didn't he?
"What do you think of liars then? The kind where his lie would start the end of the world if he wasn't stopped?"
Qually chuckles nervously, "Yeah, as if that kind of person really does exist."
"What if i tell you he DID exist?"
...
"Then..." Qually stares at the boiling water, "...we... should give them a chance to tell us why he lied. He might have had good intent, but took the wrong action. With that kind of person, we could give them a chance... to redeem themselves.
Unless they did that for selfish desires, then,
i think they probably deserve a painful death."
Qually turns off the stoves, they bubbled long enough. He glances at the boy, looking for a response, a reaction.
There are none.
Boboiboy's eyes gaze far to nothing. Silently breathing, his mind wanders to wherever but this place. Qually pours hot water to the cup, stirs it for a few seconds, and slides it over to Boboiboy's side. The boy mutters, so quiet even Qually didn't notice.
"Was Kristal right, then?"
The boy picks up his cup of chocolate drink, he blows on the steaming hot liquid. "What about yourself, Qually?" he asks again, before sipping.
"Me? What about me?"
Boboiboy throws a side-look, "You were a thief," he blows, "a traitor," he sips, "a liar."
The half-empty cup is placed on the counter with a clink, "Don't you think you deserve some form of punishment for that?"
"But—but i APOLOGIZED!" still, Qually unconsciously takes a step back, "don't tell me you baited us to this conversation, just because you had some useless grudges?!"
"Why are you so offended, Qually? I'm just asking if you recognize your misbehaves—"
"Yes, YES! I DO! I said 'SORRY'! C'mon, that stuff was months ago, friend—"
"And you think a SINGLE apology is ENOUGH?!"
"LISTEN. We all got what we WANTED in the end! I—i got my recipe book, you got your Oakuat Seed--"
"YOU. LISTEN. TO ME."
Qually flinched at Boboiboy's risen voice. It was out of character to him. The little cook remembered the boy as someone who has the heart as gentle as silk. Not this... whoever this person in front of him is.
"Let us recount your sins, shall we?" Boboiboy starts, with a daunting calm. He lifts up his hand,
and starts to count,
"You stole the Golden Chili, sabotaged Fang's spaceship to steal the Sky Coconut for YOUR selfish desires, BETRAYED us, then MANIPULATED us to steal Blue Apiru."
Boboiboy holds up four of his fingers, "Would you look at that? Most of them are acts of thievery.
Hey, do you know that, cutting a thief's hands is a common punishment in my religion?
It was an ancient practice, and we're from different planets so you may not know—"
"P-please don't cut my hands!" Qually puts his arms behind him. He could have run, oh, he could. But he doesn't trust that person to be behind his back.
"Oh? Oh! Hahah! I was just messing around! I'm not going to cut your hands!"
Boboiboy bends over, lining his height to Qually's, "I don't need to cut your hands.
Do you want to know why?
Because you're already dead, Qually.
I remember your face, the moment you stepped into this kitchen.
Your dreams had died with you."
The boy smiles, safisfied. He turns back to his now lukewarm drink, gulps it down, and slams the cup down to the the counter so hard Qually's sure it painted some new cracks. Boboiboy picks up his cap, he was about to put it on, but stops mid-way and decides to just hold it.
"Don't stop cooking chef, we need that dinner."
And the kitchen door is slammed shut, leaving Qually in his cage of punishment.