Illian emerged with his new servant garb. Just like Boros all over again. Zlav fancied their common ground noticeably. With a nod, it called the boy to action near a searing pot of that horrible stew. When Illian crossed a certain distance, however, the boulder chef wrinkled its brain.

“Earth boy,” it said. “Cewld ya fetch me somethin’ from the spices?” Illian turned to a steel-faced cabinet on his left. Zlav was quick to override, “No. To tha right.”

Illian stammered in his steps, buckled to Hide Zlav’s wishes. This better be good.

“Right, now. I need yew ta grab Pavi peppa off the litt’l spinner.” He did a mock measurement with his index and thumb digits. “Sho’ld be about this big.”

Helpful or otherwise, Illain nodded. The boy opened the hatch door with a strong jerk of its handle that’s seen far too many Raktar swings to be considered anything pristine. A cylinder aperture on the ceiling housed a holographic pinwheel full of spices ready to be called.

Strange how it resembled nothing close to standard issue, nor harkened to any primitive Raktar tech. Overcomplicated haptics demanded too squirrely a swipe to navigate its menu. Oval horns circled the milky gold finish to create an aluminum sheen every spin. It took Illian two whole rotations.

The boy was already flushed with sweaty pores, but these agitated motions only served to solidify a new patch of acne come next week. He swore vengeance as he finally snagged Pavi Pepper.

Finally, he trekked far and wide (less than a yard) to Zlav, who was two tones of ash red from the back; shell-like curds of rock then dropped from a blanket of tissue membrane in between its legs.

That was the very moment where Illian found out Raktar genital sacks, like charred oysters, contracted into their bodies. Except in extreme heat.

Vomit encroached on Illian’s mission. Blowing chunks here was the difference between success or humiliating failure. Fortunate for him, he was able to swallow it back. He dare not look Zlav in the eye when he produced the canned Pavi pepper. Zlav then unleashed a venting breath which expelled through his entire body.

“Ahh, dat’s what we needed.” Zlav swerved to meet Illian. He was perceptive, picked up on the boy’s prudish nature quickly. “Apron in da front, Jones. I’m decent!” Hide Zlav snatched the pepper without looking, adhering to some invisible, all-knowing force. Its had to have made this dish more than it’s seen its own bed.

Illian turned, banking—desperately—that this smarm boulder wasn’t lying.

It wasn’t. Thank you, Gaia!

“Now, watch closely,” said Zlav with a summoning wave. “We’re gonna gnash dis till she’s roomin’ da whole pot. Then. Thats’it.” It glazed over Illian’s face which lined with revulsion near his nostrils. “Your turn, Jones.”

“So soon?”

“She’s a simple dish, and we’ve got time for a spoiled batch’er two! I tell ya”—Zlav cloaked his words, hand-walled from the counter—“Kale are all ridg’d bugs. Always come by on da clock. Easy customers.”

As much as Illian should protest such profiling, he’d be doing so with hypocrite emblazoned on his sleeve. He agreed with a nod and began assorting the essentials to prepare. “So … What do you call this soup?”

“Muju Special,” said Zlav. “It’s a home recipe.”

“On Corova, I presume?” Illian splayed raw Pavi cadaver on a cutting board; he was gloved and ready to dice its slimy, coarse exterior.

“’Sumed well, Jones. Ever been?”

No.

… “No, I haven’t. But I wouldn’t mind.” Something in his first cut, something about Zlav spurred truth from the boy. He wasn’t quite used to this feeling: catharsis? Comfort? Regardless, he chopped and chopped and chopped.

In a blink, Hide Zlav heard echoes call, a sullen pain overtaking its charred stare. Illian’s process faltered. Chop, chop into the cadaver. Chop into board, then once more. Illian had to stop. There was now a chill among the boiling pots.

Zlav spoke, possessed, “Can yew withstand air flushed in embers, scalin’ over 200 degrees in the peak of Darksun?” Its tone mirrored its eyes. Illian’s heart skipped. He regressed to dicing again. The rough clap against plastic the only sound left alive.

The boy froze to the bone; were he jogging the boulder’s memory of something buried far below his membranes? He increased his resolve and butchered what was already dead like it was going to get back up again. Needless. But he couldn’t stop, the coward! He wanted this sluggish second to speed up so bad.

A meek “no?” escaped Illian.

Zlav shot an amalgamed grimace, crazed. It lumbered closer, its horrible stench now hostile, insisting it could be the last thing Illian ever smelled. “I’d wear shorts.” It grinned, erupted with a mighty laughter.

But it still smelled like shit. If it weren’t for the retched odor, Illian would swear he had just had an out-of-body experience. Zlav began to turn around, parting as a sage: “Brush up, now!—we’ve got mouths to feed.”

By the second pot, Illian was sick; by the third, he sprouted some wings and got over it. They took their breaks on a booth in the upper echelons of the cafeteria. Zlav was fair on his word and pointed out some “Ol’ small one lining tha pavilions like overwatch.

“Not tha most curious, but this particular bug’s very keen on a secret profile.” It huffed, smitten. “Miss Quella and Shaintro needin’ some privacy; didn’t feel tha need ta squeal, yew get’it.”

I bet.

“I appreciate it, Zlav.” Illian looked up. “Thanks.”

“Just remember ta keep your fire lower next yew need something.” They parted ways. Illian kept the apron.

One step closer.

Illian appraised what he was becoming in the mirror. He was fitting a harness under a button-down Guayabera shirt not out of place in a bowling alley. While the boy did so, his coat loomed on its mantle as to admire alongside him; what a gleam the floors reflected—freshly sheened and ridded of cola stains. Tomorrow, he swore to gets answers at the Maiorian Sanctum. The best part was, he’d get them with an audience.

Illian peered over. His chamber vista culled, clacked to raise copper-face shutters to the vastness of space. System B-3’s glow, along with several twirling belt comets and neighbor galaxy arms, always somehow reminded Illian of home—kicking and screaming. It had an allure only a Maiorian savant could hope to fully poeticize. It sought to unearth his deepest fears, yet could not touch them directly. It, the one who’s impartiality is both boon and bane.

Though unbeknownst to Illian, something always stared back.

Acting funny, but I don’t know why.