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The sharp tang of scorched batter slices through the damp, mildew-tinged air of the cramped bunking quarters. Jackson Oz, hunched over a dented hotplate balanced precariously on a crate, flips a ragged pancake. Its edges are charcoal-black, its centre a suspiciously viscous yellow gel. Morning light, weak and grey, seeps through a cracked porthole overlooking a canal choked with rusting gondolas and the slick, unnatural sheen of mutated algae blooms. Venice, November 2016: a waterlogged tomb.
Under a threadbare blanket on a narrow bunk, Mitch Morgan stirs. A guttural groan escapes him, muffled by the thin pillow jammed over his head. He doesn't need sight; the acrid smell alone is a violation.
"Oz," he rasps, voice thick with sleep and instant displeasure, "is that incendiary device supposed to be breakfast, or are you actively attempting to gas me before dawn?"
Jackson jumps, nearly spilling the dubious batter mixture. "Morning, honey badger!" he chirps, too brightly for the gloom. He gestures with the spatula, dripping viscous goo onto the floorboards. "Trying something new! Found some powdered eggs in that flooded pantry near the Rialto. Bit clumpy, but protein!" His perpetual optimism feels brittle against the damp walls.
Mitch shoves the pillow aside, blinking blearily. His dark hair is a chaotic nest, his expression pure, unadulterated cynicism carved into early morning lines.
"Powdered eggs," he deadpans, swinging his legs out with a wince. The bunk creaks ominously. "Found next to the cholera spores and the expired rat poison, I assume?" He pads barefoot across the cold floor, stopping inches from Jackson. He sniffs theatrically at the offending pancake, nose wrinkling. "Smells like despair and digestive regret."
Jackson beams, oblivious or choosing defiance. "Exactly! Authentic post-apocalyptic flavour!" He nudges a chipped plate holding the least-burnt specimen towards Mitch. "Fuel for your charming disposition?"
Mitch stares at the offering, then at Jackson's hopeful, sleep-tousled face. A flicker of something almost soft crosses his features before vanishing beneath his usual scowl. He grabs the plate with a grunt.
"Fine. But if I projectile vomit before coffee, Oz, I'm billing you for emotional damages."
He takes a savage bite, chewing with grim determination, while Jackson watches, a tentative smile playing on his lips. The pancakes are terrible. The light is grey. Outside, Venice decays. But here, in the cramped, smelly bunker, something warm flickers, fragile as the steam rising from the hotplate.