After that, all of them go their separate ways; Vita back to the office to do paperwork, Anis back home to do coursework, and Leon back to whatever bar he played bingo at (to play more bingo). And me… nowhere special, doing nothing special. 

“What a nice bunch of people,” Lysander tuts. “Surely you have affairs of your own to attend to?”

“Not really.”

He side-eyes me with those dark irises of his. “I suppose you shall be attending to my affairs, then.”

“Something you want me to do, or…?”

Out of nowhere, Lysander grabs my shoulders, his metal gauntlets rubbing coolly against the skin under my shirt.

“I’m famished! Please, sir Clark, take me somewhere I may eat!” Something like shame creeps into his voice. “I… can’t read your language’s writing…”

“Oh, shit, really?” I should have guessed. Our translators can only do so much — realtime audio is already pushing the limits of technology, and interfering with sight isn’t allowed without consent due to ethics… “I can, uh, teach you how to read some if you want—”

“Yes, I mind not, but that can wait until after I replenish mine energy.”

I nod. “Okay then, I’ll take you to a nice place. It’ll be my treat.”

I lead him through to one of the less crowded areas of the Central District — walking past haute cuisine places and fast food joints alike, passing store after store after store of anything anyone could ever want. Concrete, neon signs, brick facades, and the night sky above… There’s not as much vibrancy here as his village had, but I’d say my city sure beats it, in variety and sheer size at least.

We traverse an alleyway lit by warm lanterns, small shops and savory smells jostling for space. I turn back every now and then to check if Lysander’s still with me; he’s there, yeah, but he’s got the look of a man who’s died and gone to heaven on his face. Hah, I’d be in awe too if I were him, seeing all this for the first time — tasting it, no less, which is what we’re going to be doing soon.

Through an inconspicuous green door I take him up a couple flights of stairs, up to the top floor. The building’s too old to have an elevator fitted in, which I resent; the food’s good enough to make up for it, but I’d rather have good food and an elevator than no elevator.

“We’re here!” 

Once we reach the top floor, I turn around to see how Lysander’s holding up. Thankfully, he’s still there, but his silence the whole way up had me worried he got lost or died or something… Usually, people I take here complain about having to walk up flights of stairs just to get lunch; most buildings have elevators now, and I wouldn’t want to be physically exerting myself this late at night either…

Neither would most people; there aren’t many customers in here tonight. Good, means they’ll be quicker with the food. We snag a table near the entrance, sitting across from each other. Its surface is vinyl “wood”, plasticky and slightly sticky. 

The place itself — “Tasty Noodle House” — is fine. It’s a semi-decent mostly-cheap joint, decorated with faux wooden furniture and polyester upholstery. The walls are plastered with signed and framed photos of the various celebrities that have eaten here before, and the tables are barren save for their full-to-bursting utensil holders and laminated menus. I feel myself smiling — it’s just as cozy as all the other times I’ve been. 

Not cozy for Lysander. That guy’s moving around like an anxiety-ridden bull in a pricey antique shop. I’d be worried too, if I were him; all that bulk he’s carrying around might crush him at any moment. He’s still in that whole… golden suit of armor… thing. How do I break it to him…

“This place is pretty small, man. You should take off some of your armor.”

Lysander doffs his bulky gauntlets much smoother than I expected, but I guess both taking off and putting on get easier over time. He doesn’t remove anything else, though. Surely eating at a small table in that getup would be uncomfortable; he probably can’t bend down enough to do anything…

I unfold the laminated menu pamphlet, glossing over the variety of dishes available. I know what I’m getting; spicy pork noodles as usual.

“What do you wanna get, Lysander?” 

“Oh…” He looks over the pictures on the menu. “I don’t mind.”

Beef noodles it is. No idea if he can handle spice or not, so I’ll just play safe and get a non-spicy.

I call a waitress over to order. “One spicy pork noodle and one beef noodle, no spicy for the beef.”

My food arrives in a flash. As soon as the waitress puts it down, I attack it like a starving dog with the chopsticks provided. The rich, oily broth helps the noodles go down (not like they need the help, I’d be slurping them up even without the soup). Fatty chunks of meat in the savory broth melt in my mouth, and the spice level is just the right amount of tongue-searing hot. For this price and taste, it’s well worth my arteries clogging up forever.

Lysander’s stuff hasn’t gotten to us yet. He’s sitting across from me, looking more out of place than a sore thumb on a foot. He’s got a soup spoon in his fist, and I swear if he gripped it any harder his knuckles would go whiter than the whites of his eyes.

He points at my chopsticks. “What are those… rods… for? Where are your eating-picks?”

What’s an eating-pick? “You mean a fork?” I hold one up for him. “There’s one right here. Want it?”

“Ah, yes, please.” Lysander accepts the fork, turning it around in his slender hands. “Why the extra prongs? They seem rather unnecessary…”

“Makes it harder for food to slip off, I guess.”

“For sturdiness…”

A waiter brings over another bowl of noodles. “Braised beef noodles, no spicy?”

“Yep, that’s us.” 

Setting the bowl on the table, he returns to the comfort of the kitchen. I watch Lysander poke at the bowl’s contents with the newly-acquired fork. Beads of sweat gather on his forehead.

He’s not moving. I think he’s nervous. Does this guy seriously not know how to use a fork? He better finish his food at least. I’m not letting him waste my hard-earned paycheck.

Man, this is getting hard to watch. “Hold still, I’ll show you how to use it.” 

Lysander fidgets as I go to grab his hand. “I… I don’t…”

Too late. I’ve got his wrist in my hand, and I’m already moving it the right way for him. The fork stabs into the noodles, into the broth, and I raise it so that it emerges from the soup with a plenty enough heap of carbohydrate goodness.

“There, like that.” I take my hand away and admire my handiwork. “If you’re still finding it too hard to use, you can twirl the noodles around a couple times.”

“Thank you…” he mumbles.

After a painfully long moment, Lysander finally manages to maneuver the fork to his mouth. Soup drips down his chin and over his chestplate. I cringe at the sight of it.

“Mm… it’s very nice.” He nods in approval. “My people would certainly enjoy this…”

I hand him a fistful of tissues. “You got something on your armor.”

“My arm… ah!” In a panic, he snatches the tissues from me and hurriedly wipes away the oily liquid from his gleaming breastplate. “How embarrassing…”

It’s in this manner that Lysander goes through the rest of his food, eating slowly and taking great pains to keep himself clean. If it weren’t for me watching the wall-clock behind the counter I would have thought that another day had passed. My eyelids feel so heavy. Man, I need some sleep…

The clink of ceramic on ceramic brings me back to my senses. Lysander has set down his spoon, and his bowl seems empty save for a tiny amount of soup at its base.

“All done?” I ask him.

He nods.

“Okay, let’s head out.”

I lead the way over to the counter, making sure my credit-card is still in the handy pocket attachment at the back of my phone. Even though we don’t get cell signal when we’re out on expeditions, it’s always handy to take a mobile phone; it’s just force of habit for me to bring it, anyways. I don’t bother taking the card out, anyways, you never know when you might need to pay for something…

“25 credits,” says the cashier behind the counter.

I tap my card on the payment reception unit. It scans my biometrics and confirms everything checks out. What a shame, 25 credits gone… good thing I’ve still got 200 credits left, enough to get all the beer or coffee I might need next week. Payday won’t be ‘til next month, and the only reason I don’t go flat broke between paydays is because the boss subsidizes rent for everyone that works under him.

“Thank you,” I call out as we leave. I don’t think any of them heard it, but I might as well try to set a good example for Lysander.

We descend the flights of stairs with ease. Once we’re outside, I take a moment to soak in the atmosphere. The neon lights, the starry sky; the smells of alcohol, meat, and frying aromatics mixing together; the sound of people chattering as the top pop hits of the week play on the radio… 

Oh, uh, and Lysander too, I guess. 

I give him a gentle nudge in the ribs (at least, where the ribs would be if he wasn’t wearing a full suit of armor) with my elbow. “So? What’d you think about your first night on the town?”

He smiles. “I certainly wouldn’t mind another one.”