Kenta
Why do people taste delicious?
Why was everything difficult for him? What a pointless question.
It was breakfast time, the morning after they’d escaped the Nephilim mages’ pursuit. They could finally get back on the road after that painful sidetrack. The others needed something light yet nutritious to stimulate their minds and bodies. Eggs.
Kenta prepared the kitchen, pulling tools and ingredients from his Pwyll’s Pouch. Strands of his sensilla held his body aloft and assembled his workstation in a circle around him. He tasted the metal of the pans and silverware, the dirt of the ground, the wood he fed the fires, the ceramic of the plates, the cooking oil, and the raw ingredients.
Sensilla cracked eggshells, poured water, lit the fire, whisked the eggs, washed the rice, greased the pans, and measured cooking temperatures to a tenth of a degree.
Kenta didn’t have to divide his mind a thousand ways to control the threads. Each sensillum filament had a primitive intelligence. Each subservient to his will, obedient. Each reported a wealth of information: mechanical pressure, temperature, humidity, electric potential, magnetic fields, magical auras, light, smell, and taste.
Leanan: soft-boiled eggs, 62.8°C for forty-five minutes. Runny yolk, whites barely set. No electricity for sous vide. Used a nest of hot white rice to apply heat. Served with three drops of soy sauce, five drops of rice vinegar, and a sprinkle of sesame seeds.
She was a true lady. Refined and dignified. Self-controlled. Beautiful. Delicious.
Strike those last two. Being around her had become difficult since yesterday. Lea knew not to let Kenta touch her… hadn’t she slept on her caramboles when they were on the run from Tesem in his ‘Hair Tank?’
Why did he have to pull her out of the way of the mage’s Ball Lightning? One touch and he’d sensed the electrical impulses of the nerves in her body, the flow of magic through her chakra and nadi, the heat of the blood in her veins. Her magic enhanced her unique flavor to an immense degree. Tasting her made the Hunger worse. Harder to control.
No. A gentleman would never blame a lady for being tempting. It is the gentleman’s responsibility to restrain his ardor and channel it through proper solicitation. A box of chocolates, a bouquet of flowers… Kenta couldn’t permit those feelings either. Not with that lingering Voice.
Aren’t you Hungry?
Under its influence, he might confuse Hunger and desire. That would be unforgivable. Better to die than fall that way.
Aren’t you Hungry?
Shut up. Kenta was always Hungry. A gentleman doesn’t indulge such baser instincts.
It’s disgusting.
Cassandra: soft-boiled eggs, 65.6°C for forty minutes. Tender yolk, opaque yet buttery whites. Split into halves over a cup of rice, seasoned with an extra splash of soy sauce, and served with two pickled plums.
Kenta was immensely proud of how far Cass had come. His soft spot for the bat girl had long since kept him from commenting on the impropriety of her eating with leg hands. After she’d mastered her basic Therianthropic shifts, she could finally dine with her arm-hands like a proper lady. Besides that, she’d gotten over the habit of hiding her face behind hair bangs. The girl deserved to show off her pretty dark eyes.
She was braver than she knew. Cleverer than most saw. He had to focus on those things and not her flavor when she brushed against his sensilla hairs.
Wendigo: scrambled eggs, 68.3°C internal temperature. Soft and fluffy. Sprinkle with crushed bacon bits and finely diced chives.
Rather, ‘Wendi,’ as they’d taken to calling the red one since Eastwood. It seemed Daniel’s influence had taken permanent hold after all. He should get to know her better If this Wendi were really here to stay. Kenta grated a light dusting of rich, full-bodied cheese over her portion.
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The untrained eye wouldn’t perceive any change in Wendi’s behavior.
Kenta’s sensilla antennae observed a slight hesitation after the first bite as Wendi registered the deviation from her normal scrambled eggs. Then she ate nine-tenths of the meal a few fractions of a second faster than average, reserving the last few bites for a full minute over conversation with Daniel before savoring them. Kenta mentally cataloged her responses and calculated the next tweaks he would try depending on the girl’s mood.
No one told Kenta how they liked their food prepared. A gentleman took notice of these things and adjusted accordingly.
The new Wendi was lighthearted. The others might think her childlike, and that may have been true six months ago. Now, her eyes held intelligence. Intent. Her cheer wasn’t a veneer but a chosen demeanor. The Hunger acknowledged her strength, and the sensilla avoided her. Though the memory of her taste lingered…
He made three extra portions of scrambled eggs to be cooked with Wendigo’s and left them in the pan after removing hers. Kenta removed his serving after another quarter minute. He pretended to eat, putting each spoonful in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, and not receiving any nutrition.
Though he considered seasoning it to his preference, he couldn’t muster the will this morning. It was all he could do to maintain the façade today.
You haven’t eaten in ten years.
Not true.
Not a real meal. Not with your real mouth.
He wouldn’t argue that point. His human mouth could taste, but that was it. A sensillum filament speared through the thorax of a gnat. The Hunger was unbearable, and always put him in an irritable mood.
Yet, Kenta got by.
A strand of sensilla strangled a gecko no longer than a pinkie fingernail. The Hunger had to be fed tidbits from time to time. The most difficult part was concealing his feeding from Cass. Nothing large enough for her to notice. A gentleman was discreet.
He couldn’t completely suppress the Hunger, no matter what he did. Not with the Voice complicating things. Ever since…
Don’t you miss her?
Shut up. Kenta always missed his sister.
Yet, Kenta got by.
They’d be back on the road today. As long as they were getting closer, he could suppress the Voice. As long as he was a gentleman, he could suppress the Hunger. The Kaminoke are a proud, disciplined race. Control. Restraint. Pride—in himself and his heritage.
Paul: scrambled eggs, chewy consistency to stimulate his sense of texture. No flavoring necessary. Except, Paul hadn’t eaten since the transformation. Kenta threw out Paul’s portion, frustrated.
What was under the helmet? A gentleman didn’t pry. Paul’s business was his own. He’d become so strong. Dependable. Responsible. Paul deserved the benefit of the doubt. Kenta’s trust, and confidence. Paul knew about his sensilla, but not the Hunger.
Daniel: doesn’t eat. Not his fault.
He’d judged the boy harshly, at first. Kenta knew that now. Daniel had a good head on his shoulders. It was his shame the boy had to take the mantle of leadership. As the eldest, Kenta should’ve accepted that responsibility instead of Lea, and again after her fall. Then and now, it was all Kenta could do to restrain his impulses. Channel the anger into work. Cleaning, cooking, defending.
He couldn’t lead while his body and mind rebelled.
Thankfully, Daniel and Paul either had a repulsive taste or lacked a discernable flavor. Two fewer temptations wearing on his willpower.
Rana… eats whatever is put in front of her.
He balled his fists. The pan sizzled.
What is wrong with her?
The yellow scramble was beyond chewy. Rana had never once betrayed a preference through her body language. She ate everything the same way. He pulled the pan from the fire right before they started to burn.
Maybe if he brought her something revolting, she’d make a scene and force him to do it the way she likes. He ‘accidentally’ spilled salt on her portion. Kenta finished serving.
You hate salt. You have to. You’re a frog.
Rana shoveled her plate down in three seconds without a word.
Damn it. What is wrong with her?
All the girl had to do was refuse a plate. Admit you don’t like it. Tell me what you want. I’ll give you what you ask for with a damn smile. He hated making bad food.
Why did no one else see it? She was fake. Fake. Fake! What was she thinking? What was going on in her head? The others pretended everything was fine this morning, despite having held her down the night before until the red light faded from her eyes.
Whatever was happening, Rana was losing control.
The slime hid her flavor from his sensilla. Intentional? No matter. He didn’t want to know how she tasted. If the slime kept her safe from him, that meant one less thing to worry about.
“If everyone’s finished with breakfast, I have something to say,” Daniel announced as Kenta cleaned the dishes and put away the kitchen.
“What’s up?” Wendi said.
“It’s an understatement to say yesterday was rough. In fact, it was an intense week. A lot of things happened, and I get it if you need time to process. We should take a break. Maybe a couple of days—”
“—A couple of days?” Kenta said through clenched teeth, sensilla writhing. “Didn’t we just finish resting for months?”
“Of course,” Daniel retook the helm, and the Kaminoke quelled his rising frustration. “Kenta is right. We shouldn’t linger. Today we relax, but please use your time efficiently. Let’s plan to reconvene tonight at dinner for a powwow.”
Yes, dinner. That was something for Kenta to put his mind on. Never mind their limited supplies. They had left Radio World in a hurry.