"Now for the end."

Koen folded back the door of the big pantry, letting the dry, cool smells out to mingle with the wet, hot air of the kitchen. He stepped inside, grinning.

He'd been in charge of the Embassy's kitchen long enough that all the staple ingredients were here, waiting for him. Bags of glutinous rice flour, jars of honey, and tubs of sugar. When Koen left this all behind, how long would it take before the stores were reduced again to ramen and booze? He ran his finger over plastic and glass surfaces, and didn't think about that.

Think instead about the problem of the missing ingredient! Osmanthus cakes were usually made with dried osmanthus flowers, which Koen hadn't had time to order. But he did have that case of confusingly-named cassia wine, which was made with the same flowers.

Ingredients cradled in his arms, Koen pressed the pantry door closed with his back. The box of little wine jugs lay open on the counter-top next to Laura's bottom. With a shared look, a frown, and a shrug, the two of them shared a thought: we do what we have to do.

"Koen," came Mark's voice in the appearance of curiosity, "have you thought about what you're going to do back on Earth?"

Koen clicked the wine jar down. "No."

He had not been shocked by Mark's question, but his answer brought Mark up short. Mark had expected a "No?" followed by one of Koen's looks of wide-eyed helplessness. He'd want Mark to square away these confusing feelings and difficult choices. Make everything easy.

But Koen was in his kitchen. He recognized a territorial violation, even if his conscious mind labeled it as merely a distraction.

"What do you mean?" Mark asked, re-calibrating.

Cassia wine glugged into a saucepan. "Mark, I'm trying to concentrate on this work."

"Of course," said Mark. "I understand, and I'm glad you're doing that."

Laura sniffed. "That smells amazing."

Koen smiled over his shoulder. "You can try it. I'll make a test batch to see if the alcohol screwed anything up."

Laura smiled at that. Screw up.

Mark did not squint at her. He rested his gaze on nothing while he wondered what Laura wanted. Ah.

"I wanted to thank you, Koen," he said, softly.

It was a dangerous thing to say, since it implied that Mark had done something wrong and Koen was covering for him. But it did make Koen turn from his cooking, defenses lowered.

Mark mustered his counter-narrative. "You could have made this all much harder. You could have torn the heart out of this embassy."

You are the heart of the Embassy, thought Laura, but she wasn't yet drunk enough to say so.

"You could have hurt me." Mark pressed his hand to his heart. "And Laura." There, he had the cook's attention. "You could have shut the door on all of us." And look at that twitch! Interesting. "But you're acting like a real professional, Koen. The sort of person I know I'll want to work with in the future."

And now to pass on this hot potato. "Right, Laura?"

The gears of Laura's brain slipped in sweet wine. "That's sure to be impossible," she said. "When I return to Earth, I'll be working in China."

Her intention, or rather her groundswell of passion, was to tell Koen that he had one last chance. Take me now!

Laura didn't know it, but if Koen actually received that message, it would come as a hammer-blow to his breast-bone. If he knew that this was his last chance, he would break.

So, Koen didn't know it. He didn't know anything. His consciousness closed its eyes and turned away as the rest of his mind buried the dangerous knowledge. What was Laura telling him? Nothing he didn't already know. Koen knew he would have to pick up everything again and become a different person. He'd done it before.

Koen sniffed, and smelled boiling wine.

"Oh!" he spun away from Mark and Laura, turned the heat down, and took control of the rock sugar and honey. The flour went in. "Not too much stirring," he muttered, "and that's it! Into the refrigerator it goes."

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"Shouldn't put hot things into the refrigerator," mumbled Laura, "it's bad for the machine." She had no ulterior motive for saying so. It was just something her grandmother always told her.

"Aha. Watch." How wonderful to have an easy problem to solve! Koen grabbed a shallow soup bowl and poured the contents of the pot into it. "It'll cool even faster this way."

Laura kicked her legs, heels thumping against the cabinets. "The best of both worlds."

"We can have our cake and eat it too," said Mark. It was just something for his mouth to say while he thought. What lay beyond that door in Koen's mind? What prizes could Mark place there? "You know," he tried. "There's always demand for personal chefs in D.C."

Koen didn't know whether that was true. He knew he had zero official certification as a chef. Bury that, too. "Have your cake and eat it." He opened the refrigerator. "I've always thought that was a strange expression."

"Yeah," said Laura. "Of course you have cake, and then you eat it." She grabbed her wine, and then drank it.

"It's just what you say," said Mark, but Koen, relieved to find a safe topic of conversation, allowed himself to work on the problem. His breath shifted from his chest to his belly.

"It would make more sense if it was reversed," he said. "I want to eat my cake, but still have it."

"Well, yeah," said Mark, "but that's impossible. You can't." He was willing to see the subtext and take a red pen to it. Here is what you have to think. "You have to make choices. Good choices." Not a bad segue. "Look, Koen. I can't go into details, but there will be something for you in the US. Okay?"

This time, Koen wasn't listening because he was defending the integrity of his consciousness, he wasn't listening because he had an idea. He stood in front of the open refrigerator, eyes widening. His brain, full of oxygen and allowed to chew on the problem for the past two days, had just offered up a solution.

Good choices. The best of both worlds. How satisfied are you with your current employer?

Koen stared down at his bowl of solidifying goop. It was a wild plan. Wild and terrifying, because it would probably work.

***

Mark knew.

At this point, with the skills he'd developed, Mark wasn't aware of the straightening of Koen's spine or the flush of his skin. Mark could just see, as if light had begun to shine from Koen's heart. So, the cook had a plan. A reason for optimism.

Koen wouldn't glow like that at the prospect of going back to Earth and working as a personal chef in D.C. He'd found a way to stay here. Mark's first try had failed.

Put a spike in him.

"Koen, close the refrigerator," Laura said.

Mark's attention jumped to her. How drunk was she? How much had she blunted her perceptions? Enough, Mark decided. He still had a chance.

It had been fun to follow Koen along his emotion journey, intuiting his feeling as he felt them. That wasn't real work, though. The hard, necessary thing was to figure out what Koen was most afraid of and tell him it would happen.

"Oh. Right." Koen straightened and turned, mouth opening.

Think, Mark! Was Koen afraid of being sent home, of never seeing Laura again? No, he'd accepted those prices already. In return for what?

Belonging. Mark had pulled that lever early and often, and not just with the cook. All the Embassy staff were lonely, because they were the only human beings on the planet.

Koen, though. Koen had been lonely since before he got here. For him, the Zogreion was no different from anywhere else. Brasilia. Rotterdam. The boy had no home.

"Koen," Mark asked, "do you really have no idea what you'll do back on Earth?"

The glow dimmed.

"Do you even have a place to stay?"

"I'll fly somewhere," Koen said vaguely. "Live off savings while I look for work. I've done it before. Although…"

The light was coming back. Koen had remembered his new plan.

Mark didn't care what it was. He just needed to kill it before Koen could tell Laura. One quick strike. Crush the cockroach before it can multiply.

"That's what you did before, right?" he said. "After your father died, you mean?"

Koen stopped breathing.

Laura frowned. She'd been about to suggest that Koen come to Beijing, but the conversation had suddenly slipped out from under her. She leaned forward and looked past her shoes at the floor, suddenly dizzy.

Mark leaned forward as well, pressing his advantage.

Mark didn't worry about whether he might be a bad person. He wasn't hurting for hurting's sake. He fought for a good cause. That meant that whoever he fought, that person must be against a good cause. Not just an enemy. A villain.

Koen's weak spot was right there, glowing, as if on the chest of the final boss in a video game. Mark took expert aim.

"Was he alone?" Mark asked voice appropriately grave. "Was he separated from your mother, when he died?"

Koen's face went white.

Mark did not need to actually say, "You'll die alone, too." Koen was already thinking it. He was always thinking it. It was the thing that Koen was most afraid might be true.

Yes. Yes!

And now, as his enemy fell, now, Mark would catch him.

"Don't just fly anywhere," he told the cook. "Fly to D.C. I'll have someone there waiting for you." A woman, perhaps? Slim and brunette? A good idea.

Koen straightened like a newly-wound toy soldier and nodded to Mark.

Mark smiled back. There. He'd brought down the boot. The traitor would need therapy for years, if he didn't actually work himself into a heart attack. In either case, that wouldn't be Mark's problem.