Page 10 of Oh No, I Shot A Spaceship And Kissed An Alien Cyberchef

“All this time I thought you were working because you felt you had to,” I explain. “Not because it was something you wanted to do. I just… I didn’t realize you wanted to be here. I will do my best to make the kitchen more suitable for you in the future.”

It goes against every instinct to suggest that, but still… I want her here with me. If this is where she wants to be, I’m not going to deny her that. Even if it means my kitchen will never know peace again.

Laura licks her lips as she studies me. I can almost imagine her mind working overtime to determine my true motives. It makes me wonder what she’s been through to distrust others, especially men, so easily. It hasn’t escaped my notice that she shies away from most. It was one of the only reasons I initially welcomed her into my kitchens, so that she would have a safe retreat. Only she never left.

“Why don’t you show me some of those royal chef skills then?” she proposes, giving me a timid smile. “You can chop the rest of these vegetables for me.”

I grin at her. It’s not an outright acceptance of my apology, of how I’ve been so blunt with her in the past… but it’s a start. I will make it up to her. Even if I have to chop every vegetable in the galaxy.

“And what exactly do you propose we do with these... vegetables once they’re mutilated?” I ask, forcing myself to inject some humor into the situation. Anything but laugh at myself for my foolish hopes.

I take the knife in hand and flex my metal fingers, the servos whirring softly. For a moment, I’m back in that dungeon, the phantom pain of my lost limb screaming through me-

“Ha!” Laura exclaims, catching my full attention. She rolls her eyes, but I catch the smile on her lips before she hides it. Her softness binds me in place, unable to escape. I can’t run, not anymore, because that would be leaving her behind. For this little female, I’d face an entire army; and I’m not a skilled fighter. Not unless dicing fruit counts. Though I do make a mean fruit salad – it’s to die for. Literally, if you’re allergic to citrus.

“Mutilated,” she giggles, reminding me of the joke I just made. Around her, my thoughts are permanently scattered. A kaleidoscope of emotions.

“Very well,” I say with more bravado than I feel. It’s been years since I’ve cooked anything like this. “Prepare to be amazed.”

I position myself at the cutting board, acutely aware of Laura’s eyes on me. The knife feels strange in my grasp – familiar, yet foreign. For a moment, I’m tempted to fumble deliberately, to play up my rusty skills for Laura’s amusement. It wouldn’t take much, not with my hand the way it is.

But as I make the first cut, muscle memory takes over. The rhythmic thunk of the blade against the board becomes almost meditative. I fall into the familiar patterns – slice, turn, chop – my cybernetic hand working in perfect sync with my flesh one. The very sensation takes meback. Ever since I’ve gotten my arm, it’s felt just as foreign as this knife. Yet in this moment… The rhythmic thunk of the knife against the board becomes almost... soothing. Who knew vegetable mutilation could be so therapeutic?

“Nelan?” Laura’s voice snaps me back to the present. She’s looking at me with concern, and I realize I’ve been standing there, frozen, for who knows how long. “You okay?”

I clear my throat, pushing away the memories. “Fine. Just... recalibrating.” Ah yes, because nothing says “I’m okay” like comparing yourself to a malfunctioning computer.

She doesn’t look convinced, but mercifully doesn’t press the issue. She’s one of the few people that never brings up the topic of my arm, and the painful memories, in conversation.

“You’re doing a great job,” she tells me with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm. “You’re a pro!”

I stand a little taller at her praise, simultaneously feeling foolish acting like a youngling. Such simple compliments should not affect me. Not like this. Of course, she doesn’t notice as she wraps the cut produce in dough and places them into a pan. I’m half expecting them to burst into flames at any moment, given her track record.

“I am a pro,” I tell her. I was, after all, head chef at the palace. Once. Even that thought brings back bitter memories. “I suppose even primitive techniques can be mastered with sufficient skill.”

Laura elbows me gently. “Oh please. You’re enjoying this and you know it.”

Before I can formulate a suitably cutting response, the kitchen door swings open. We both turn to see Prince Rist strolling in, his usual air of casual authority somewhatintensified by the crease between his brows. He runs a hand over one of his horns, the one sign of his stress.

“How long until the food is ready?” he asks, his eyes darting between Laura and me. “The guests will need to be served, sooner rather than later.”

“We’re not far off serving, I think,” I report, straightening to attention out of habit. While I’ve been making conversation, Laura’s been throwing things into the fry pan. Surprisingly, the smell is good. Not at all like the disaster I was preparing myself for. Perhaps miracles do happen.

Thankfully Laura nods in agreement.

“Though I still maintain that this entire endeavor is ill-advised,” I remark, nerves still gripping me.

Rist nods absently, his gaze fixed on the produce scattered before us.

“Has Sutek told you that those slime cubes love fresh meat?” he asks, shifting slightly from foot to foot. I scowl at him and his odd behavior. “He said that if they don’t eat soon, they might approach the staff to find their own meals.”

“Isn’t that how most people order food?” Laura asks. She tilts her head as she studies the prince, confusion written across her brow. It still boggles my mind how the human females address him so casually, not even using his title.

“They will eat the staff,” I tell her bluntly, explaining the situation.

Her expression of horror matches that of Rist’s.

“It’s true?” Rist asks, utterly aghast.

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