Chapter 12: Culinary Art
Fighter's face was wet, tears of pure, overwhelming joy streaming down his dirt-streaked cheeks. At first, it had been the magnitude of the station, and now it was the Air Train itself. With its architectural beauty and sheer, majestic size, it could awaken awe in anyone. Every person harbored a wish to travel in such a magnificent machine, and Fighter was brimming with excitement.
The Air Train began to depressurize, a slow process that took fifteen minutes.
When the massive gates opened, a few people exited, but fortunately, the carriage Fighter was standing by was mostly empty, and no one came out of his section.
Fighter took his seat. He had only been able to afford a Common Class ticket; the price for a cabin ticket was far beyond his remaining Sevan.
The Air Train offered three ticket classes: Local, Common, and Cabin. The Local carriages held the most people, followed by Common, and finally the exclusive Cabin class.
The Common Class seating was designed as an individual, customizable box. Swiping his laminated ticket card, a transparent shell slid forward, enveloping Fighter in a private compartment. Inside, there was only a chair. As he sat, a modification panel appeared, but due to his poor standing—his lack of funds—he did not have the credits to modify his box. It defaulted to the Basic Dark Mode, which provided total privacy and, crucially for Fighter, no window. Despite the limitations, the experience was incredibly relaxing. There was no shaking, no noise, nothing like the cheap, cramped train travels of his past life.
The Air Train pressurized and began its journey, but Fighter couldn't feel the movement from his sound-dampened box. He only knew they were moving because the modification panel registered the change in status.
Fighter: "Finally, I can eat my food."
He brought out the small paper package and retrieved the protein paste. He opened the tube and squeezed out the contents; it looked exactly like thick, pale toothpaste. He took a bite. At first, the paste tasted strongly of chemicals—spunk, disgusting—followed by a fleeting, mild sweetness.
He ate the protein paste slowly, washing it down with water from the bottle. The amount of paste was small enough to be consumed in one go, but to do so would be foolish.
Fighter: "It is so bland. Well, that's why I bought the bread. I am a great culinary artist."
Fighter was not a culinary artist; he simply mashed random ingredients together and called the resulting creation a masterpiece.
Rechel: [You are not a culinary artist. Ok]
Fighter: "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say."
He ignored Rechel's remark and began his work to create a culinary dish. He squeezed the remaining protein paste between the two slices of bread, crafting a protein paste sandwich.
Fighter ate his sandwich with genuine happiness, finishing it and the bottle of water.
Fighter: "It was one of the best sandwiches in the world. As expected for a culinary artist."
Rechel: [I am sharing your body. For that reason, I can taste what you are eating. The protein paste sandwich you are eating is very bad, and you are not a culinary artist. Ok]
Fighter: "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say," Fighter reported in a monotonic voice, dismissing Rechel's opinion with total indifference to her criticism of his "world-best sandwich."