Page 51 of Alien Warrior Chef… With Benefits
When the head judge steps forward to taste, my heart thumps in time with the dramatic music swell. I watch her fork dip into the molten core, watch her pause, watch the crease widen between her brows, and then?—
She smiles.
Lights flash. The Holonet cameras zoom in.
I exhale.
But I see him first.
And in that moment, I know something more than victory or acclaim.
It’s home.
And it’s always been him.
The challenge pod glitters under harsh domed lights, each work station a hothouse of focused energy and raw ambition. I inhale slowly, tasting copper-tinged air thick with spices andpressure. Across from me, the smug Alzhon chocolatier—a sleek humanoid with obsidian cuticle and polished posture—smirks as she lines up tiered truffles. To my right, a Vortaxian gourmet with four brachiolike arms swings back and forth, plating three dishes at once like a whirlwind of intent. They’re casting sideways glances at me, sizing up Earth Bites’ human baker like I’m a novelty—or a threat.
My heart thumps oceanic rhythm behind my ribs, every beat a reminder of how far I’ve come. This isn’t just a contest. It’smymoment. For every orphaned night I baked to outrun silence; every jar of Earth berries I preserved because they smelled like home; every glance I cast at Rekkgar from behind the counter knowing he’d never step in unless he belonged.
But today… hebelongs.
He stands beside me at the sleek metal prep station, arms folded as he surveys my mise en place. I catch his eye. He nods once—small, minimal, but enough. Enough to anchor me.
We’re making my signature: an Earth-style peach cobbler soufflé fused with Kiphian sea spice and vacuum-pressed into molecular cylinders. It’s soulful and strange, a combination of warm childhood nostalgia and rolled-tide culinary daring.
“Start with peach reduction,” I murmur, knees tapping a beat beneath the counter.
Rekkgar leans in, voice low. “Reduction? Acid first?”
I grin. “You remember.”
He folds fine slices of dried coral-pepper spirals into the peach syrup, stirring with solemn precision. Steam curls upward, tasting of briny sting and summer sweetness. I flick in vacuum-pressed cinnamon pearls; they pop like distant raindrops on my tongue. The smell—earthy and oceanic together—makes me want to hum.
He passes me a test tube of the spiced syrup. I sniff it. It smells like my soul in a glass—faithful, a little wild, hopeful. Inod again, tentatively. He slides it into the soufflé base; the mix ripples like calm seas under sunlight.
We move in tandem now, swoop and release, no longer just teacher and student, but partners. I whisk, he steady-torts. I ladle, he angle-trims. It's a silent, sweet ballet built on trust and unyielding focus.
The chocolatier gloats aloud: “Human baker takes sea spice route? Bold—or desperate.”
The Vortaxian sniffs. “I’d rather trust tentacles than terra fragrances.”
I swallow down the urge to retort. I don’t need to. My determination needs to speak louder than their insults.
“Plate them on cold-slate discs,” I say. “Then quick sear for crisp-pearl cap.”
Rekkgar’s huge hands delicately position the soufflés. He whispers, “Don’t let the air get in.”
My breath catches. I nod. He’s not just helping me cook—he’s protecting me. Like the warrior I never knew I needed.
I sprinkle micro-herb blossoms atop each cylinder. The scent is bright—peppermint-petal, spring-sky. A contrast to the oceanic depth below. I imagine childhood Summers in Earth Bites, red clay cobblers cooling on Aunt May’s porch, cicadas singing in the night air. Then I remember the war. The silence after bombers overhead. My vow to preserve joy in sugar.
And now… this.
“Five minutes to torch time,” Rekkgar announces. “I got the cart.”
He wheels the flame-jet cart quietly behind me. My fingers play across the coals—I lean forward, breath synchronized to his, and say, “Let’s do it.”
He flicks the igniter. A low hiss. Then the blue flame arcs forth, singeing the glaze into glimmering crusts. I taste singed caramel and salted cherry blossom—a promise of perfection.
