Memory Transcription Subject: Chiri, Gojid Refugee

Date [standardized human time]: November 1, 2136

“Stiplets?” I repeated, incredulously. “You think we ate stiplets?!”

David tilted his head in confusion. “...yes?” he said, hesitantly.

I tried to envision myself on my stubby little Gojid legs chasing down a tiny stiplet as it skittered away, and then pouncing on it with my claws. It was laughable. “That’s ridiculous. I’d never catch one.”

David shrugged. “Humans hunt by throwing things. Real easy to chuck a rock at something small and grab it while it's stunned.”

I grabbed the least dangerous piece of silverware on the table, the little scoop thingy, and threw it at David’s head as hard as I could. It didn’t even make it over the kitchen island. “Real easy for you!” I said.

“I'm stunned,” David said, laughing. “But sure, I suppose I'm over focusing again. Uhhh…” he stared at the sizzling meat and not-meat patties on the stove for a moment, considering. “Right! Snares. Set a trap. Doesn't take more than some sticks and a bit of string to snare small game, like--” David abruptly stopped talking and looked at me with concern. “Alright, Chiri, I love you, and I can tell you're upset about something, but I don't quite understand what yet.”

We scavenged, said the critical voice. Shameful, but surely we never actively killed.

Nonsense. Proactive scavenging is a natural progression and makes perfect sense, the odd voice pointed out. The issue is hunting something that small just feels pathetic. Gojids are big, with strong claws. We could wrestle and rend a great forest stag if only we could catch it! Why something so small like a stiplet?

I lowered my head, pouting. “I thought my people would have hunted something bigger. You know? Something more impressive.”

David shrugged. “Food is food, meat is meat. One of the reasons modern humans outcompeted our most recent evolutionary cousins, the neanderthals, was because we could adapt to small game better than they could. Especially since omnivores like you and I can forage while we hunt. Root vegetable stew with mushrooms and a little meat to round it out makes for a balanced, filling meal.” David flipped the burger patties, carefully using two different spatulas to avoid cross-contamination. “We're not Arxur. Even in the wild, we aren't going to starve if we can't take down a buffalo with our teeth.”

I nodded glumly. His argument held water, but I still wasn't thrilled about it.

With the main ingredient half-cooked, it seemed like the burgers wouldn't be too much longer. I settled into watching David work in the kitchen in one eye, while the other paid more attention to his library nook. “I wonder if my holopad can read those books aloud to me.”

“Probably,” said David. He put a hunk of one of the soft French cheeses on top of each meat puck. Brie or Camembert. They looked so similar. “Like I said, I'm going to be focusing on recipe R&D for the next few days. I can chat and hang out while I work, but it's not a bad idea for you to find something to entertain yourself with.”

I nodded. “I’ve got a lot to learn,” I said. “I'll probably read, maybe check out some educational videos. Tinker around with cocktails, if that's alright.”

“Sounds good,” said David. “Just don't get too drunk during the day. Oh, did you want anything to drink with dinner?”

I thought about it. “Eh, just a beer.”

David nodded, and set a can and a glass over near me before turning back to his craft. “Classic choice, beer and a burger. Good palate cleanser. Burgers can get a bit greasy if you make ‘em right. Something to cut through that helps.”

I tilted my head. “Like a margarita?” I asked. Pouring beer was one thing, but I'd need to learn cocktail pairings, too, if I wanted to tend bar well.

“Yup!” David started toasting the insides of the fluffy buns on a fourth pan with butter. “Any of the sours would work. Bonus points if it's cut with carbonated water like a Tom Collins or a Mojito.”

A Tom Collins was how we'd gotten onto the subject of cocktails in the first place, some eighteen hours prior.

Good gods, it's only been eighteen hours!? the critical voice said incredulously.

I glanced at my holopad and counted it off quickly to be sure. Yeah, I hadn't owned a time piece yet when I first walked in David’s door, sopping wet and shivering, but the numbers added up. Our time together had been something like 2am to 8pm. Slept a bit in the middle, but still. What a long fucking day.

“What's in a mojito?” I asked.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

David grimaced, peculiarly enough. “White rum, lime, sugar, fresh mint leaves, and about a solid minute of muddling it with a blunt instrument, like you're pretending the glass is a mortar and pestle. Top it up with ice and seltzer. It's delicious and refreshing, but it's a bitch and a half to make when you're getting slammed.”

I nodded, and began to wonder if I had enough time to throw one together. “How much time until the burgers are ready?”

“Four minutes, fifteen seconds,” David said immediately.

My jaw dropped. “That precise?”

David nodded. “That's what haute cuisine looks like,” he said, a wry smile blooming on his lips. “As Chef de Cuisine, I have to know it all, exactly. Twenty seats on the ground level, twelve at the bar, and another eighteen on the mezzanine, total of fifty even. We do a la carte dinners and tasting menus, average of two and a half turns per seat per night. You'll learn what all those words mean in due time. For now, at least, take solace in the fact that a basic lunch service is easier. Nevertheless…” He nodded with conviction. “Every single person gets every dish the moment it's ready, right when they need it, right after they finish enjoying the previous course. Nobody sits around wondering where their food or their server is, ever.”

I tilted my head. “You weren't like this last night. You were more…” What was the phrase he'd used? “Loosey-goosey.”

David's smile turned intense. “Longest I've gone without a full drink since the bombs fell.”

…he didn't finish that margarita you made him earlier, the critical voice noted, shocked.

He's got someone to live for now, said the odd voice. Who was he trying to impress, otherwise? The dog?

I glanced up at the stout little beast napping on the loft. Hadn't really seen much of him. He was probably more active when the sun was up. We’d been keeping very strange hours.

I glanced back down and noticed that David had only put one beer out.

Let's keep the spirits in the bottle tonight, said the critical voice.

I sat down and poured for myself as I watched David wrap up putting dinner together. The beer fizzed as the pans sizzled. The buns came off onto plates. The onions, now a dark brown paste, went on the buns first, then the little round pucks of meat. The cheese had already melted and gone goopy. Atop that, more caramelized onions, then the white fluffy toum, a few slices of pickled vegetables, a razor-thin slice of tomato, and a single perfectly bun-sized leaf before the top of the bun capped it off. Like clockwork, a device behind David dinged, and he pulled out an air fryer basket full of golden brown root vegetables that he must have sliced into thin straws earlier. Onto a plate to share with a little cup full of more toum for dipping.

David half-sat, half-collapsed, exhausted, into the seat across from me, sweat on his brow, and smiled a touch blearily. Long day for him, too. “Here you go. Classic American dish: cheeseburger and French fries.” He chuckled to himself. “In classic American style, we stole the main course from Germany, and the side dish from Belgium.”

“Not France?” I said, asking the obvious question.

“They speak French in Belgium,” David said, shrugging. “Moules Frites, or mussels and fries, is practically their national dish.”

I didn't know what mussels were, but I'd ask later. The scent of the burger was drawing in my whole attention. Rich, savory oils wafted up to me from the meat and cheese, punctuated by sharp notes of garlic and onion and even lemon from the tangy condiments. But the best part by far was that the two dishes looked exactly the same. David's burger, a forbidden concoction of animal flesh and grain, which, due to a hereditary judgment passed upon my people, was deadly poison for me to taste… and my burger, a perfect facsimile crafted of plants and love.

If you eat that, said the critical voice, you'll never--

Shut the fuck up. You did that one already. You're boring me now. What, am I passing the point of no return again? The point of no return was nearly yesterday. If you're serious, if you really want to keep me alive, and not just torment me? Then get over it. Find something that's actually dangerous to worry about. This is who I am now. This planet is home, and this vegetarian cheeseburger that my human boyfriend made for me is dinner.

The critical voice seemed to slink back into the corner of my mind to brood, at least for a little while.

I gripped the burger in both paws--American Excess had been another phrase I'd heard David use--and tore into it like fangs into a stiplet’s underbelly. Warm juices flowed into my mouth, dripping like fresh blood. The faux meat had been seared black, almost burnt and sticky-sweet, on the outside, but it was soft and tender within. The concentrated salty savoriness was overwhelming, and the cheese--what even was that gloopy, chewy texture when it got hot?--added a counterpoint of its fatty funk to the mix. The toum was rich, the light crunch of the buttery toasted bread was otherworldly, and just when it felt like it was more than I could handle, the sharp tangy acidity from all the little condiments cut through it. The sour brine of the pickles, the watery crunch of the lettuce and tomato, the lemon and garlic from the toum burning bright… even the caramelized onion added a deeply sulfurous earthy sweetness to round it all out.

“Issho fuckih gooh,” I moaned, still chewing.

David was staring at me with a huge grin on his face. I finished chewing and reached for a napkin. Gods, I probably had juices dripping down my snout fur. “Sorry if I went feral there for a moment,” I said, with a touch of embarrassment.

David laughed. “Don't be. It's kinda hot.” My eyes went wide, and he clarified. “Not the eating part, specifically. It's just… I dunno. Passion is sexy. Never be afraid to enjoy things.”

I reached for a fry, and dipped it in the toum. “Order acknowledged, Commander,” I joked.

“It's still just ‘Heard, Chef’,” David said, chuckling, as he more delicately bit into his own burger.

“By your will, I serve, my liege,” I joked. The fries were crispy salty potatoes, crunchy on the outside yet pillowy on the inside, and the toum complimented them nicely. Tangy, creamy, garlicky, delicious. I washed it down with a swig of beer, bubbly and dry, dissolving the flavors away, leaving my mouth refreshed to enjoy the food all over again. It was perfect. It was everything I'd never known I'd wanted.

We feasted to our satisfaction together, and wrapped up the evening by watching some television--old episodes of David competing in a cooking competition show, at my request--while snuggling on the couch. When my eyes began to droop, David helped me scale the accursed staircase to the loft. We climbed into his bed together and fell asleep in each other's arms.

And, at least for a little while, as I drifted off, the voices were blessedly silent.