Work Text:
Just keep making eggs.
Nothing bad can happen to you as long as you keep making eggs.
You have a purpose now, something beyond languishing in a lavish palace and looking important. You have a whisk and a bowl and a stove. Right now, in this moment, it’s not your job to save your world. It’s not your job to protect Gnosis. It’s your job to make eggs.
You break three into the bowl. Real eggs, not the powder substitute stuff. Real and solid. They crack in your hands, jagged edges, fragile shell. Into the trash. Maybe you should talk to Margaret about getting a compost bin going on the ship. It’s a more efficient way to deal with waste, and then you can use it for energy or for fertilizing your own plants. And that would be helpful, too, growing something here on the ship, starting an herb garden, a hydroponics lab where you can grow the herbs and ingredients you need.
But you’re getting ahead of yourself. First, make the eggs.
Whisk them in the bowl. Don’t think about home. Don’t think about your parent opening fire on rebels. Whisk, whisk, whisk.
Add a little water to make the omelet fluffier. You’re not the greatest chef in the galaxy, but you know enough to get by. You knew enough to find the utensils, and that seems to put you ahead of the rest of the crew.
Sprinkle in some garlic powder you found in the cabinet, plus salt and pepper. You can get fancier with it, but not everybody wants fancy. Sometimes simplicity is key.
(Simplicity is something your parent has always stressed. “There are no kings on Rubian V,” they liked to say, as if lacking a gender binary automatically made a place equitable and free.)
Once the eggs are thoroughly whisked, pour them in a frying pan over medium heat. Listen to the sizzle. Watch the bubbles form and pop.
It looks like you’re making an omelet, the voice in your head says.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
Do you need some help with that?
“No. I’m fine,” you say.
(Maybe it’s a lost cause, lying to somebody over a psychic connection, but Gnosis doesn’t push back so you let it sit.)
Add shredded cheese to the eggs in the pan. Raymond likes cheddar cheese, spinach and mushrooms. Let the cheese and the eggs cook for a little bit before you add in the spinach and then the mushrooms. You’re being helpful. You can trust these people, probably.
Use a spatula to fold the omelet in half. Press down to make sure it’s fully cooked. You can flip it. (You can flip it; you’re getting better at that part. The omelet even comes out fully intact instead of looking like a hot mess. You’re learning.)
Plate the omelet and send Raymond Zam a message over the comms to let him know that his breakfast is ready. You’re working on resisting your instinct to reach out psychically— it comes off as rude and disconcerting, you’ve been told. So you make sure to use the comms.
“Thanks, Zortch!” he sends back. “Be right there!”
You stare at the completed omelet for a moment, watching the steam rise off it and curl in the air. You do not think about going home. You do not think about going home.
You reach for the carton of eggs to start on the next Jib-Jobber’s order.